Page 81 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
Anne rubbed her temple. “Is it urgent? Mr. Branton has brought news of a serious setback in our investigation.”
Mrs. Godfrey’s knuckles were white as she twisted her apron into knots. “It could not be more urgent, nor more serious.”
Anne blinked up at her. She was in genuine distress, her mouth drawn, her shoulders quivering. “Are… are Nick and Johnny all right?”
“Johnny is fine. He’s up in his rooms with Mrs. Briggs. But Nick—” Mrs. Godfrey dabbed at a tear with her apron. “Nick was snatched off the street just before dawn this morning.”
It was late afternoon when Michael mounted the steps to Anne’s town house. He wore a bottle green jacket which he’d just been fitted for, paired with a grey waistcoat and buff trousers. He wasn’t usually the sort to peacock about, but he’d been enjoying Anne’s reactions to his new clothes, and he hoped she’d find his new kit handsome as well.
As he raised his hand to knock, the door swung open. Anne stood there looking harried; Michael rather had the impression she’d just slid to a stop in front of the door.
“Good afternoon, Anne—”
“Thank God you’re finally here,” she said, cutting him off as she grabbed his arm and hauled him inside. “Hugh, have the carriage brought ’round,” she called as she began towing him toward the front parlor.
“I’m glad to see you, too,” he said, amused that she seemed to think it was possible for her to manhandle him.
“Where have you been? I sent you a note hours ago.”
“I’ve been at the tailor,” he said, gesturing to his new jacket.
“Oh. That explains it.”
“What’s your hurry? Surely supper’s not waiting.”
“No. We’ll eat something in my rooms later.”
Now that sounded promising. “I look forward to it, especially if we will be dining au naturel.”
“What?” Anne looked up at him and rolled her eyes at his lascivious expression. “Not like that, Michael.”
“It’s a perfectly good suggestion,” he grumbled.
“There will be plenty of time for that later. Right now we have things to discuss.”
Things to discuss—words that struck terror into the heart of any man. He sought to delay the inevitable. “I see you haven’t noticed my new jacket.”
“Your jacket? Who cares about your jacket? You look absurdly handsome in it. As usual!”
“Um. Thank you?”
They entered the parlor. Michael saw that Mr. Branton was there. He sat slumped on the yellow-striped couch, legs splayed out in front of him. He looked weary to the bone.
“He’s here,” Anne said.
“Thank God,” Mr. Branton replied, running a hand over his face.
Michael frowned. “Anne, what’s going on?”
“Lord Gladstone paid someone off, is what’s going on, and now Bow Street has quashed the investigation.”
“Quashed it?” Michael frowned. “But how can they quash it? A man has been murdered, for God’s sake!”
“Yes, well, it gets worse—this morning, Nick was kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?” Michael all but shouted. “How was he kidnapped? He wasn’t supposed to leave the building.”
Anne stalked over to her desk. “It was a trap, is what it was. Joseph was performing bodyguard duty, but Johnny—the little one—forgot he needed to wait and went running down to breakfast while Joseph was performing his, er, morning toilette.”
