Page 101 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
The baron flinched hard enough that brandy sloshed over the rim of his glass. “How did you know?”
“Do… do you mean to tell me it’s true?”
Gladstone tugged at his cravat. “No one knows about that. No one. I mean,” he pulled off his glove, “this ring has been in my family for more than two hundred years. To have to sell a family heirloom like that… my grandfather probably turned in his grave.”
Anne was staring at his hand. “Your carriage is in Lord Scudamore’s possession. But you still have your ring.”
“Yes. Scudy let me hold onto it. Should he ever ask for it, though, I’d have to give it to him.”
Something occurred to Anne. “And has he ever asked for it?”
“Only once. He said he needed to take it ’round to the appraiser for insurance purposes.” He laughed. “I don’t know what kind of appraiser he used, he came and demanded it at seven o’clock at night and had it back to me by the next morning. But that’s the only time he’s ever asked for it.”
Anne’s heart was in her throat. “When was this?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Four years ago, maybe five.”
Oh God. It fit. It all fit perfectly. Scudamore had possession of Lord Gladstone’s carriage. He had demanded use of his signet ring right around the time he came to collect Nick, the one and only time he knew he would be seen!
A final question occurred to Anne. “Tell me, my lord. You’re the secretary of the R.M.A.” She looked at him, gaze piercing. “Do you handle its correspondence?”
“I’m supposed to. It’s just that I’ve never been much good at that sort of thing.” He shook his head. “I told Scudy I was useless at keeping track of letters and what not, back when he was badgering me to join the R.M.A.’s board. He was insistent, though. Said I needed to make connections if I wanted to improve my fortunes.” He snorted. “Well, that hasn’t happened. But at least Scudy takes care of the correspondence, just like he promised.”
Anne felt like she might be physically ill. Scudamore hadn’t been protecting Gladstone.
He’d been framing him.
Scudamore was the real villain.
And he’d just taken Michael off into the night.
Michael had no idea of the danger he was in. The whole thing had been a trap. Anne would bet anything they weren’t really headed to Pottery Lane.
The problem was, she had no idea where they were heading.
She slumped into the chair behind her desk. “I don’t suppose Lord Scudamore owns any property near a kiln.”
“Do you mean like that row of tenement houses he owns over by the Coade Stone manufactory?”
Anne’s gaze flew to Lord Gladstone’s face. “He owns some houses near the Coade Stone manufactory? Truly?”
“Yes—it was after he bought them that his fortunes really started turning around.” Lord Gladstone shook his head. “I’ve got to buy me some of those tenement houses. Whoa, there—what are you doing?”
Anne had pulled her other gun, her little Queen Anne pistol, out of her desk drawer. She began unscrewing the barrel.
“I need to borrow your horse,” she said as she loaded the gun.
“Borrow my horse? But I—” Lord Gladstone looked even more perplexed than usual. “I didn’t ride here on, you know. A sidesaddle.”
“I had not supposed that you did,” Anne said, rising from her desk and striding from the room.
Lord Gladstone jogged after her as she hurried out the front door. “But—but what’s going on?”
There was no mounting block, but Anne was tall enough that she was able to get her left foot into the stirrup. She managed to pull herself up into the saddle. She had to hike her skirts almost to her knees in order to sit astride in her dress, but considering Michael was about to die, she had far greater concerns than whether someone saw her ankle.
She wheeled Lord Gladstone’s bay gelding around. “It’s a bit complex. I’ll explain everything when I get back.”
Lord Gladstone asked another question, but Anne couldn’t hear it over the horse’s thundering hooves as she galloped south toward Westminster bridge.
