Page 99 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
“I will be,” he promised. He caressed her cheek. “And as soon as I get back, we’ve got a wedding to plan.”
“Yes,” Anne said, smiling up at him through the tears that had suddenly welled up. “Yes, we do.”
He climbed up beside Lord Scudamore, and Anne stood for a moment staring after the curricle as it clattered down the street.
Then she gathered her skirts and ran back inside. She had work to do.
Chapter 37
The three men said little to each other during the drive. Michael could hear Hewitt shifting around on the rumble seat behind him. Michael didn’t have much to say to Scudamore. They had never liked each other, truth be told. Michael had always thought Scudamore was a bit of a snake, the type of fellow who would sell his own mother if it would net him twenty pounds.
He shook his head. Apparently the man had turned over a new leaf. He shouldn’t hold old schoolyard grudges against him.
Scudamore reined in the horses then turned to face his companions. “We’ll burst in on them unawares. I’ll go first, then Hewitt, then Morsley.”
“Why don’t I go first, since I’m the one who’s armed?” Michael asked.
Scudamore shook his head. “No. I really feel like it should be me. I’m the one who caused this mess. It’s my responsibility.”
Michael shrugged. “As you like.”
“Here,” Scudamore said, “since I’m going first, let me have the pistol.”
Michael handed it over and they all climbed down from the curricle.
Scudamore led them toward the nearest house. Something about the plain grey brick buildings, the laundry overhead obscuring the moonlight, felt strangely familiar.
Michael dragged his gaze back to the house before him. Those features were probably common to every row of tenement houses in London.
Scudamore grasped the knob with one hand, pistol gripped in the other. “All right, here we go!” He turned the knob and charged through the door with Hewitt and Michael right behind him.
The room was quiet. There was a battered table and a pair of chairs to one side, and a narrow bed along the opposite wall. The dirty plates atop the table were the only signs of habitation. The mantelpiece was bare and save for a few rags hanging from a clothesline above the bed, there were no possessions.
“I’ll check upstairs,” Scudamore said, striding toward a staircase at the back of the room.
Michael was about to follow when he heard a muffled groan coming from a dark corner.
He hurried over and found a willow-thin boy of about eight years of age. He was lying on the wooden floor, bound and gagged.
Michael knelt down and began picking at the knots. He removed the gag first, and the boy took a few gasping breaths.
“What’s your name?” Michael asked, starting to work on the bindings at the boy’s wrists.
“Nick, sir.”
Michael’s eyes flew to his face. “Nick? Are you the same Nick who was kidnapped from Lady Anne’s lodging house?”
Nick nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank God,” Michael said as the knot gave way. “We were afraid Gladstone would have killed you already. I’m Lord Morsley. Lady Anne sent me to rescue you.”
Nick used his newly freed hands to grip two fistfuls of Michael’s coat. “You’re in terrible danger, my lord.”
“Yes,” Michael said, moving to work on the bindings at Nick’s ankles. “We’ve got to get out of here before Gladstone arrives. Are there any other boys here?”
“Yes, six or seven, but—” Nick shook his head. “What do you mean, before he arrives? The man who first took me—the man from the black carriage—he’s already here. He came here with—”
Nick froze at the metallic click of a pistol being cocked. Michael looked over his shoulder and saw Scudamore standing near the stairs.
