Page 3 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
As soon as the butler was out of the way, Wynters crossed to the writing desk and seized Lord Morsley’s letter. He didn’t bother to open it; he knew well enough what it said.
He threw it straight into the fire.
He then scrawled a quick note of his own, which he positioned on the desk at the precise angle of Lord Morsley’s missive.
By the time Yarwood returned with his drink, Wynters was back in his seat, arm draped across the back of the sofa, looking for all the world as if he had never moved.
Chapter 1
London
July 1802
Four Years Later
* * *
Anne Northcote, the Countess of Wynters, crept into the foyer of the Falmouth mansion, naked but for a sheet of black lace net.
At least, she mused grimly, that was how she appeared.
In truth, the black net was fully lined with beige muslin. But the muslin matched Anne’s skin tone so closely, at first glance it gave the illusion that... that...
That she wasn’t wearing anything beneath the net.
Oh, this dress was a terrible idea. Her little sister Caroline’s terrible idea, to be specific. Anne’s husband, Lord Wynters, had died in his sleep precisely one year ago, and tonight was her reentry into polite society. Anne never had time to keep up with the latest styles, and after a year spent in mourning, her wardrobe was badly out of fashion. Asking her stylish little sister to commission a few gowns for her had seemed like the perfect solution.
This scandal of a dress was apparently Caro’s notion of half mourning. Anne felt her cheeks flush beneath the rouge her maid had applied.
Rouge! She never wore rouge, but she was wearing it tonight, and lip pomade, too. Along with a crimson hothouse rose tucked behind her ear, and a black lace mask to match her gown.
Halfway across the foyer, Anne decided she couldn’t go through with it.
Really, considering the day she’d had, who could blame her?
Her shoulders slumped as she thought of the messenger who had called upon her earlier, bringing tidings of her impending humiliation. No, pasting on a false smile and pretending to enjoy herself, knowing that everyone here would be laughing at her tomorrow morning, would only make things worse. She would make an excuse to Lady Falmouth and—
“Just where do you think you’re going?”
Anne steeled herself before she turned. “I’m feeling unwell, Mama.”
“Are you?” Georgiana Astley, the Countess of Cheltenham, circled Anne like a shark, eyeing her from behind her peacock-feathered lorgnette mask.
Anne wrung her hands. “It’s nothing, just a headache—”
Lady Cheltenham snapped her mask down. “Stop slouching. We both know your discomfort has nothing to do with your head and everything to do with that dress.”
“It’s not the dress.”
Her mother cocked a skeptical eyebrow.
Anne sighed. How like her mother to see right through her. “At least, not entirely. I do feel a bit ridiculous. But I—I received some bad news.”
“What happened, dear?”
Anne closed her eyes. “I am to be the subject of a cartoon.”
The countess frowned. “A cartoon? What do you mean, a cartoon?”
