Page 16 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
“I wish Michael were here,” she grumbled.
“Believe me, so does Michael,” Harrington returned. “Although it wouldn’t help you get out of my exercise, because he would agree with me.”
“You think so, do you?”
“I do. If Morsley didn’t know that being able to make a shot under pressure can mean the difference between life and death before, he certainly found out after getting charged by that bear.” Harrington gave a low whistle. “I’m almost jealous it wasn’t me. What a chance to test yourself!”
Anne snapped the ramrod back into place, even more annoyed because her brothers had heard this story while she had not. For all that Michael was supposed to be her best friend, it was Edward and Harrington who’d gotten to spend half the night catching up with him, while she was stuck dancing with Augustus Mapplethorpe, whose breath smelled of pickled cod.
“Go on, then,” Harrington said.
Deep down she knew her brother had the right of it. Harrington was by far the best shot in the family. Truth be told, Harrington was one of the finest shots in all of England, and Anne was grateful that he took the time to help her.
Usually.
“Fine,” she said with a sigh, taking up her position before the target.
She settled into her shooting stance, and Harrington came to stand just behind her. “Close your eyes,” he said. “Now, picture it—you’re at your lodging house. And that new family, the one you were telling us about—where the husband used to beat his wife, and she only left him after he started hitting her daughter?”
“The Hoves,” Anne said.
“The Hoves,” Harrington said. “Imagine yourself there in the dining hall for the midday meal when who should show up but Mr. Hove. He’s discovered where his wife and children have gone, and he’s not the least bit happy about it.”
Anne swallowed. The scenario was all too plausible.
“He has a knife,” Harrington continued, “and he grabs his wife by the hair and jerks her to her feet. He presses the knife to her throat. You are just across the room with your pistol. You have a clean shot. You’re the only one who can save her.”
“My footmen—” Anne began.
“He would slit her throat before they could take two steps. You are the only one who can save her.”
Anne’s heart raced, and her hands were shaking.
“Picture her standing there, the knife at her throat,” Harrington said relentlessly. “Picture the fear in her eyes, the desperation. Picture her looking at her children for what she believes will be the last time. Picture it. And take the shot!”
Anne opened her eyes. She checked her stance. She focused on the target...
... and she watched her shot fly a good foot and a half outside, and too high to boot.
She had missed.
As she always did.
Her shoulders sagged.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Edward said.
“Be hard on yourself,” Harrington said. “You do hard work, in hard neighborhoods, amongst hard men. You cannot afford to do otherwise.”
Anne sighed. “I understand. “
“I would not hold you to such a high standard,” Harrington continued, “if I wasn’t confident you could do it. Your form is perfect, Anne. You’ve always been an excellent shot. But something’s happened in the last few years. You don’t believe in yourself. If you can just—”
“What time is it?” Anne asked.
Edward consulted his pocket watch. “Half eleven.”
“I must get back,” Anne said.
