Page 100 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
Except now he was flanked by four men.
One of those men was Mr. Hewitt from Bow Street. Another, Michael realized with a start, was the man they had encountered last night, the tall, skinny cretin who had grabbed Anne. He was now sporting an impressive black eye.
Something clicked into place. This isn’t Pottery Lane. No wonder the row of tenement houses had felt familiar.
Warily, Michael dragged his eyes back to Scudamore. The viscount smiled at him, but it wasn’t a nice sort of smile.
And he was pointing Anne’s pistol at Michael’s heart.
Anne wasted no time in dispatching notes—to Samuel, to the men guarding her lodging house, to everyone she could think of who might be able to assist. She sent them the address Lord Scudamore had indicated in Notting Hill, and requested they go reinforce Michael with all possible speed.
She had just sent the last one off when the sound of someone clearing his throat made her start.
It proved to be Lord Gladstone, standing in the doorway.
Anne’s heart started racing. How… how could he be here? He was supposed to be over by Pottery Lane, and—
Anne swallowed. The carriage bearing all of her footmen had just departed. There were a couple of maids in the house, but…
But she was alone. Unprotected.
And face-to-face with a murderer.
“Pardon the late hour,” Lord Gladstone said, wandering into the room. “I could see you at your writing desk through the front window, so I knew you were up.”
“What… what are you doing here?” Anne asked, struggling to tamp down her rising panic.
“I never gave back your handkerchief.” At Anne’s blank look, he elaborated. “You handed it to me after the punch spilled on my glove. I thought, since I was riding by, I might as well return it.” He dropped a freshly laundered square of white linen on Anne’s desk, then pointed to the decanter. “Do you mind if I help myself?”
“N-not at all.” Anne squinted at Lord Gladstone, trying to parse his bizarre behavior. He was certainly a good actor; he gave every appearance of being completely at ease. She cleared her throat. “Lord Scudamore mentioned you’ve been away. Where have you been these past few days?”
“Wait, do you mean Scudy’s in town?” he said, pouring himself four fingers of brandy. “He was supposed to meet me at this house party in Somerset. He was so excited about it—he insisted we leave the Sunderland ball right after our dance to go pack, and then he loaded me onto the mail coach at the crack of dawn. Said he would join me in a day or two. We got set upon by a pair of highwaymen a half hour outside of London. They both came after me—I guess my clothing marked me as a gentleman—but one of them missed, and the other’s gun jammed. It was quite the adventure, let me tell you!”
He paused to take a swig of his drink. “And do you know what? When I got to Somerset, I couldn’t even find the house party! Everyone told me they’d never heard of a Lord Warklesworth, and the place I was supposed to be, Dumbtree Manor, didn’t exist.” He shook his head. “I must’ve gotten it mixed up. It’s not like Scudy to make that sort of mistake. He’s the organized one.”
Anne peered at the baron. Her heart was still racing, but now she was feeling a mixture of terror and befuddlement. It seemed that Scudamore had been trying to protect his friend after all, taking steps to get him out of town before he could be arrested. Did Gladstone truly not realize the net was closing in around him?
Something occurred to Anne. “Wait, you took the mail coach? Why not take your carriage?”
“Oh… uh…” Lord Gladstone trailed off, his ears reddening. “Mail coach is faster.”
“Faster, and significantly less comfortable.” Anne took a step forward. “And tonight you said you were riding by. Did you have another use for your carriage this evening?”
“No! Uh, that is—”
Anne cornered him next to the decanter. “What are you doing with your carriage? What? I demand you tell me!”
“I… I had to pawn it!” he confessed, his eyes wide with alarm and confusion.
Anne recoiled. “Pawn it? What do you mean, you had to pawn it?”
He ducked his head. “It’s not the sort of thing a man likes to admit, but—well—it’s no secret that I’m not exactly plump in the pocket. I had to pawn my carriage.”
Anne’s heartbeat had kicked up again, for a different reason. “To whom did you pawn your carriage?”
“To Scudamore.” Gladstone laughed. “It’s the perfect arrangement, you see. The cost of storing it alone is crippling here in London. Had to get it off my hands. And Scudy will let me buy it back someday. Assuming I can raise the funds, that is.”
“So, Lord Scudamore has possession of your carriage.” Anne huffed. “I don’t suppose you also pawned him your signet ring?”
