Page 67 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
Anne crossed her arms. “Name any three facts about Holborn.”
Michael plumbed the depths of his brain. Nothing much rose to the surface. “It is in London. It is a bad neighborhood. And… you are not going there.”
“It happens that I was there four days ago. It also happens that I know a thousand times more about Holborn, and whether or not it is a dangerous neighborhood, than you do. And yet you stand there, lecturing me!”
Michael tilted his head to the side and shook it, in hopes that a useful retort would fall out. Sadly, one did not. “It is a husband’s duty to keep his wife safe.”
“Well, you aren’t my husband. And you aren’t going to be, if this is how little respect you have for my judgment. But do you know who does respect me?” Anne drew herself up to her full height. “Archibald Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy.”
Michael had no idea what she had just said. “God bless you?” he hazarded.
Anne narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean, God bless you? I didn’t sneeze, Michael.”
“Did you not? Who in God’s name, then, is Archiwhat Kettlecorp Overtree?”
“Archibald Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy,” she said haughtily, “is one of the most brilliant inventors of our age, famous for making precision machine tools—”
“Oh, Nettlethorpe. Of Nettlethorpe Iron, I take it. That’d be the grandson. Yes, I read something about him.”
“Indeed. He thinks my charity work is important. Not only that, but he wants to work with me, on a number of initiatives.” She lifted her chin. “You would think that my supposed best friend, the man who claims he wants to marry me, would offer a similar level of support.”
“Well, I don’t care what Archibald Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy thinks. If you think I’m going to permit you to go traipsing through Holborn at midnight—”
Hugh reappeared in the doorway. He caught Michael’s eye, and began shaking his head, waving his hands in front of him, and mouthing the word, No.
Apparently Hugh’s analysis was sound, because Anne snapped, “Permit! No, Michael, you will not permit me to do anything, because I do not require your permission. You are not my husband and I do not answer to you.”
Michael started to blanch but recovered quickly. “Well, let’s see what your brothers have to say about it.”
Anne leaned forward, uncowed. “Unlike some people, my brothers do not try to limit me. Harrington’s response to my doing hard work in hard neighborhoods amongst hard men, as he put it the other day, is to teach me how to shoot.”
“That’s Harrington, but I know Fauconbridge would never condone you putting yourself in danger.”
Anne huffed. “If you had read my letters, you would know that I never would have been able to found the Ladies’ Society without Edward’s help.” At Michael’s blank look, she continued, “Do you recall the translation he completed during his final year at Cambridge? Of Aeschylus’s Prometheus Unbound?”
“Of course.”
“He published it and donated the proceeds to the Ladies’ Society. That’s how I was able to make my start. My brothers know exactly what I do, and they support me. But even if they didn’t, they have no authority over me. As a widow, I make my own decisions, and if I want to go into Holborn tonight, there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop me.”
Michael blinked at Anne, horrified to realize that she was right.
Anne, his precious Anne, could march straight into the worst rookeries in London, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop her. And if something were to happen to her…
The possibility was so horrible, his brain recoiled from even considering it. He had lost her once, to Lord Wynters.
He could not lose her again. He couldn’t bear it.
He would rather die.
“Michael?” Anne had laid a hand upon his forearm. Her anger seemed to have melted away, and there was nothing but concern in her eyes.
Without thinking, he raised his hand to caress her cheek. “I cannot bear for anything to happen to you,” he said, his voice guttural.
From the doorway, Hugh cleared his throat. “And that’s why we need a good plan, we do.”
Anne, who’d had her back facing the door, startled as Hugh entered the room, followed by a maid. She took a hasty step back from Michael.
“I grew up in Holborn,” Hugh continued, “and the thing to know is it’s uneven. There’ll be a street I wouldn’t walk down in broad daylight that dead-ends into a respectable shopping district. The Red Lion’s a prosperous establishment. The owners aren’t going to let that area go to seed.”
