Page 21 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
“For a few weeks, anyways,” Michael said. He nodded his thanks to the waiter as he set a trio of plates before him.
“A few weeks?” Harrington frowned. “We were all hoping you were here to stay.”
“No,” Michael said, sawing into his first beefsteak, “my future is in Canada, for many years to come. It’s what Lord Hobart wanted to discuss with me this morning. He wants me to start training to take over for Sir Robert Milnes.” He speared a hunk of meat and shoveled it into his mouth.
“Sir Robert Milnes?” Fauconbridge said. “Am I to understand that you’re to be the next Governor General of Canada?”
Michael swallowed. “It won’t be for some years. I’m sure I wouldn’t even be a candidate were it a position anyone else wanted. But the Crown wants a peer for that type of post, and most peers are unenthusiastic about life on the frontier. That I have a title and that I’m willing to do it are my only qualifications.”
“Not so,” Fauconbridge said. “Such a position requires a man of unimpeachable character and sound judgment. Both of which you have in spades. To say nothing of your”—he tapped the side of his glass, searching for precisely the right words—“decisive, authoritative disposition.”
Harrington leaned forward. “What he means is that you’re bullheaded and overbearing.”
Michael laughed. “I fear I can’t deny it. Well, I’m fairly certain that ‘bullheaded’ and ‘overbearing’ are both requirements of the position. I grow more qualified by the minute.”
“So, if you’re only staying for a few weeks, why did you bother to come back?” Harrington asked.
Michael swapped his now-empty plate for one that held a beefsteak. “I may as well tell you. Not that I need either of your permission. But I’m going to marry your sister.”
“We know,” the brothers replied in unison.
Michael sighed. “I had a feeling you probably did.”
“Everyone knows.” Harrington paused, then added brightly, “Except for Anne, of course.”
“Superb,” Michael grumbled, sawing into his beefsteak.
“So,” Harrington continued, “when are you going to propose?”
Michael pointed his fork at Harrington. “It happens that I was attempting to propose last night. But someone interrupted me.”
“Aw, bad luck, Morsley,” Harrington said, his voice annoyingly chipper.
“I’m starting to think you don’t want me for a brother-in-law,” Michael said.
“Of course we do,” Fauconbridge said. “We want Anne to finally be happy, after all.”
Michael gave him a sharp look. “And was she not happy? With Wynters? If he mistreated her—” Michael wasn’t sure what he was going to do, given that the man was already dead.
But if his suspicions about what happened four years ago proved to be correct, he would require only the slightest pretext to go out and desecrate his grave. If that two-faced lying snake had laid a finger on Anne…
“Nothing like that,” Fauconbridge said. “Come, Morsley, I would have met him at dawn.”
“We both would have,” Harrington said.
Michael sighed. He knew they would have. The Astleys looked after their own. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.”
“What I meant was...” Fauconbridge trailed off, considering his words. “It’s not that Anne was unhappy with Wynters, from what I could tell. He was nice enough to her, allowed her to do her charity work, that sort of thing. But it also wasn’t the case that he made her... particularly happy. If that makes any sense.”
“I will make her happy,” Michael vowed, raising his glass to his lips.
“At least you’ll be able to get some children on her,” Harrington said cheerfully, causing Michael to come alarmingly close to spewing port across the table.
Michael won his fight with his drink and came up coughing. “Harrington,” Fauconbridge said in a tired voice as he began pounding Michael on the back.
“That is,” Harrington continued, ignoring his brother, “I presume you’ll be able to. Everything’s in working order and what not, isn’t it, Morsley?”
“Dear God,” Fauconbridge muttered, taking a fortifying sip from his own glass.
