Page 43 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
“Here you are, my lady,” he said, holding out a glass of punch.
Anne swallowed. This was it. If she wanted to see his signet ring, it was now or never.
“Thank you.” As soon as the cup was in her hand, she made a show of fumbling it, and managed to spill half its contents onto his left glove.
“Oh, my gracious, I’m so terribly sorry!” She began digging in her reticule for a handkerchief, but kept her eyes fixed on his hand.
Lord Gladstone grunted, and, just as Anne had hoped, peeled off his sodden glove.
She held her breath as his wrist came into view, then the back of his hand, then his knuckles, then—
A gold signet ring, set with a red stone that looked to be carnelian. From this close, she could just make out the etching: the head of a wild boar, just like the crest on his carriage.
The truth swept over her. However mundane he appeared, this man—this monster—had been selling four-year-old children into working conditions that would kill nine out of ten of them before their twelfth birthday.
Lord Gladstone grunted again as he took the handkerchief Anne hadn’t realized she was proffering. The movement jerked her back to the present. Oh, God, she needed to stay calm, to pretend nothing was wrong. But how could she smile and make small talk with the man who was… the man who…
“Lady Wynters, is everything all right?”
“Oh!” Anne jumped as she looked up and found Samuel peering at her in concern. “Mr. Branton—just the person with whom I need a word.” She hastily drank what little punch she hadn’t spilled, set the glass down, and snatched up Samuel’s arm. “Thank you so much, Lord Gladstone, for the dance, and the punch, and the—er—conversation. A fascinating conversation, I learned so much about the R.M.A., so much indeed.” She knew she was babbling but couldn’t seem to stop. “I apologize again, about your glove and the… the punch.”
“Lady Wynters, wait,” Lord Gladstone said. “Your handkerchief—”
She had already dropped a curtsey and was leading Samuel across the ballroom.
Samuel leaned down to murmur in her ear. “I take that as a no, everything is not all right.”
“No indeed. There have been developments in our investigation. Several of them.” Anne swallowed and glanced about the room. The ball was an absolute crush, but the balcony didn’t look to be crowded. She led him toward the French doors. “Let’s go out here, where we won’t be overheard.”
“Very well,” Samuel said, and they stepped out into the night.
Across the ballroom, Michael was on the verge of losing his mind.
It was bad enough that he’d had to watch Augustus Mapplethorpe kiss Anne’s hand seven times during their set (Michael knew it was seven. He had counted). Then it was Gladstone giving her what he no doubt thought were seductive glances (which really made him look like a constipated tortoise).
Now he had to watch her repair to the balcony with another man.
Michael made an incoherent sound of anguish to Fauconbridge, Harrington, and Ceci, who had given up on dancing in favor of trying to help him get through the evening without murdering one of Anne’s partners.
“Relax, Morsley,” Fauconbridge said. “That’s Samuel Branton. He works with Anne on a number of charitable initiatives. They’re only friends.”
“Friends,” Michael huffed. He had difficulty believing any man could look at Anne and want to be just friends with her.
“No, really,” Fauconbridge said. “Harrington and I ran into him yesterday morning. He seemed genuinely pleased when he learned that you were back. He wants what’s best for Anne, and that includes her marrying a man who worships the ground she walks on.”
“Oh. Well, then.” Michael paused, then cut his eyes to Fauconbridge. “And how exactly does this man I’ve never met know that I worship the ground she walks on?”
Fauconbridge ducked his chin, rubbing the back of his head. “Oh, uh—”
“We told him, naturally,” Harrington said. He laughed at Michael’s expression. “As Anne’s friend, Mr. Branton is naturally concerned that she find a husband who will treat her with the respect she deserves. You should be grateful we told him you were her best prospect.”
“I hope you’re not expecting a letter of thanks,” Michael grumbled.
He watched Lord Scudamore approach the balcony doors, pause, then slip outside. “Huh, why is Scudamore going out there alone?” Harrington asked.
“He has the next set with her,” Michael said. “I expect he’s going to claim his dance.”
“Speaking of dancing,” Fauconbridge said, “why don’t you go and look for a partner? You don’t look so well. I can watch Anne, and the time will pass more quickly if you have some occupation other than standing around brooding.”
