They made the short drive back to Anne’s house mostly in silence. Anne did find the arm Michael wrapped around her shoulders comforting. She was still struggling to process everything he’d told her. It was probably a sin to think it, but a part of her was glad Wynters was dead. She could not imagine how she would have gone on with him as her husband had she found out about his deception while they had still been married. He had tricked her. He had taken her choices away. That blackguard.
Then there was the fact that Michael loved her! Anne peered up at him. He gave her a rueful half smile. She was starting to accept the truth of his feelings. It still felt unreal, but she knew Michael Cranfield almost as well as she knew her own self, and she could tell he was sincere.
What Anne was having a more difficult time processing were her own feelings. Did… did she love Michael, too? Of course she did, he was her best friend. But did she—
The carriage drew to a halt, and Anne shook her head to clear it. She could not dwell on these things right now.
She informed her two other footmen, Hugh and John, of the death of Nick and Johnny’s former master, then led Michael to the front parlor. She immediately pulled out paper and ink. She needed to write to a few of her contacts, ask if they’d heard anything…
Her train of thought was interrupted by the clearing of a throat. She glanced up to find Michael looming before her writing desk. “So. Anne.” He drew in a deep breath. “Now that I’ve explained myself better, I will go ahead and obtain a special license so we can marry with all possible haste.”
Anne sighed, laying down her pen. “I hope we can, Michael. But there are still things we need to discuss.”
“Such as?”
She steeled herself. “Such as where we would live. Now that you’ve seen the Ladies’ Society, surely you understand how critical my work is. That there are women and children depending on me.”
“I understand.”
Anne’s eyes flew to his. She felt hope bubbling up inside of her. “Then… does this mean you’re not planning to go back? To Canada?”
He set his jaw. “I do plan for us to go back to Canada.”
She blew out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and turned back to her letter. “Then we remain at an impasse.”
“Look, Anne,” he said, coming around the desk and taking her hand, “I know how important your charity work is. But my work in Canada is important, too. I’m going to be—”
“Lady Wynters.” Hugh appeared in the door bearing a letter on a silver tray. “This arrived for you while you were out.”
Anne unfolded the note.
I’ve heard you’re asking questions about the R.M.A. The rot goes deeper than you realize. If you want to learn more, meet me tonight at midnight in the alley behind the Red Lion Inn. I won’t speak to nobody but Lady Wynters, and don’t do nothing that will draw any notice, or I won’t come out.
“An informant has come forward.” Anne showed the note to Hugh. “Who brought this?”
“It was a boy,” Hugh said. “Not in livery. Just your standard delivery boy. I’m sorry, I didn’t question him, m’lady. I didn’t think nothing of it.”
“That’s all right, Hugh. Would you please go and fetch Sarah?”
Hugh bowed. “At once, m’lady.”
Michael wandered over to her desk and picked up the note. Anne rose and began pacing the library as plans started to form in her mind. “I’ll need something very plain to wear. Sarah can find me something.”
“Wait,” Michael said, “tell me you’re not even considering it.”
She reached one end of the room and spun on her heel. “They say they have information regarding the ‘rot’ at the R.M.A. Of course I’m considering it.”
“Anne,” Michael fumed, “they just pulled someone’s body out of the Thames! It could be a trap.”
“Obviously. But it could also be legitimate. Besides, why would they want to harm me?”
“Because you’re investigating them.”
“Bow Street are the ones investigating them, and they already have every piece of information I do. I can see the value of eliminating a witness. It’s why they killed Mr. Smithers, and why Nick and Johnny are in so much danger. But what impact would harming me have, other than bringing all of Bow Street down upon their heads?”
“Yes, well, where is this… Red Lion Inn?” Michael asked, consulting the note.
“Holborn,” Anne said as she paced past him. “Not far from Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Let’s see, I should probably go by hackney carriage…”
“Holborn?” Michael said. “That alone should be enough to dissuade you. You have no business being in Holborn at midnight.”
“It’s not far from my lodging house,” Anne countered, “and in a very similar neighborhood.”
“Which brings me to my next point. Your lodging house is in an unsuitable district.”
Anne narrowed her eyes. “It will come as a great shock, but charity lodging houses are not generally found on Grosvenor Square.”
“Your lodging house is in St Giles,” he snapped. “St Giles is a rookery!”
“This from the man with whom I used to have all of my best adventures.” Anne looked him up and down. “When did you turn into such a stick?”
His mouth fell open. “Did you just call me a stick?”
She cocked up her chin. “I believe I just did. And what right do you have to criticize? Aren’t you the one who’s been squaring off with angry bears in Canada?”
“It is a different matter entirely for me to do something risky—”
Anne felt her eyebrow give a violent twitch, and Michael froze midsentence, studying her face. He seemed to (correctly) sense that he needed to abandon that particular argument.
“Anne,” he started again, “I just care about you, and I don’t want to see you get hurt. Surely that’s not so hard to understand.”
She waved this off. “Your concern is misplaced. The neighborhood is not so bad as you suppose, and I never go there without at least two of my footmen.”
“Which is better than nothing, especially if all of your footmen resemble the brute squad who threw me out this morning. Good God, Anne, where do you find such men?”
Anne decided to consider this a rhetorical question, on account of the fact that Michael would not like the answer. The types of men who made the worst criminals in St Giles hesitate didn’t come with unblemished records. “I’ve gone there every day for the last four years, and nothing bad has ever happened.”
“Well, that’s going to change once we’re married.”
Anne rounded on him, hands on her hips. “If we’re married.”.
“When we’re married,” Michael insisted, looming over her and giving her his full Obstinate Face. “If you think I’m going to let you go traipsing about St Giles—”
“And if you think I’m going to tolerate you barking orders at me, treating me like a child—”
“Christ, woman! I’m just trying to protect you!”
Anne felt something snap inside of her. “Well, I don’t want your protection! What I want is your respect!”
Michael felt as though he had just been slapped. They’d been shouting seconds ago, but his voice when it emerged was quiet. “How can you even say that, Anne? I respect you. I respect you more than any other person on the face of this earth.”
Her voice shook. “You have a funny way of showing it. I expect my future husband to support me in my charity work, not limit me. If you are unwilling to do that, then there is no possibility of us marrying.”
These words caused a familiar red haze to settle over Michael’s brain, obscuring any attempt at rational thought. He knew this was the exact opposite of what he needed right now. He took a slow breath before replying. “I intend to support you in your charity work by helping you stay alive to do it. And that means preventing you from going to Holborn at midnight, into what is almost certainly a trap.”
Anne crossed her arms. “Name any three facts about Holborn.”
Michael plumbed the depths of his brain. Nothing much rose to the surface. “It is in London. It is a bad neighborhood. And… you are not going there.”
“It happens that I was there four days ago. It also happens that I know a thousand times more about Holborn, and whether or not it is a dangerous neighborhood, than you do. And yet you stand there, lecturing me!”
Michael tilted his head to the side and shook it, in hopes that a useful retort would fall out. Sadly, one did not. “It is a husband’s duty to keep his wife safe.”
“Well, you aren’t my husband. And you aren’t going to be, if this is how little respect you have for my judgment. But do you know who does respect me?” Anne drew herself up to her full height. “Archibald Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy.”
Michael had no idea what she had just said. “God bless you?” he hazarded.
Anne narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean, God bless you? I didn’t sneeze, Michael.”
“Did you not? Who in God’s name, then, is Archiwhat Kettlecorp Overtree?”
“Archibald Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy,” she said haughtily, “is one of the most brilliant inventors of our age, famous for making precision machine tools—”
“Oh, Nettlethorpe. Of Nettlethorpe Iron, I take it. That’d be the grandson. Yes, I read something about him.”
“Indeed. He thinks my charity work is important. Not only that, but he wants to work with me, on a number of initiatives.” She lifted her chin. “You would think that my supposed best friend, the man who claims he wants to marry me, would offer a similar level of support.”
“Well, I don’t care what Archibald Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy thinks. If you think I’m going to permit you to go traipsing through Holborn at midnight—”
Hugh reappeared in the doorway. He caught Michael’s eye, and began shaking his head, waving his hands in front of him, and mouthing the word, No.
Apparently Hugh’s analysis was sound, because Anne snapped, “Permit! No, Michael, you will not permit me to do anything, because I do not require your permission. You are not my husband and I do not answer to you.”
Michael started to blanch but recovered quickly. “Well, let’s see what your brothers have to say about it.”
Anne leaned forward, uncowed. “Unlike some people, my brothers do not try to limit me. Harrington’s response to my doing hard work in hard neighborhoods amongst hard men, as he put it the other day, is to teach me how to shoot.”
“That’s Harrington, but I know Fauconbridge would never condone you putting yourself in danger.”
Anne huffed. “If you had read my letters, you would know that I never would have been able to found the Ladies’ Society without Edward’s help.” At Michael’s blank look, she continued, “Do you recall the translation he completed during his final year at Cambridge? Of Aeschylus’s Prometheus Unbound?”
“Of course.”
“He published it and donated the proceeds to the Ladies’ Society. That’s how I was able to make my start. My brothers know exactly what I do, and they support me. But even if they didn’t, they have no authority over me. As a widow, I make my own decisions, and if I want to go into Holborn tonight, there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop me.”
Michael blinked at Anne, horrified to realize that she was right.
Anne, his precious Anne, could march straight into the worst rookeries in London, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop her. And if something were to happen to her…
The possibility was so horrible, his brain recoiled from even considering it. He had lost her once, to Lord Wynters.
He could not lose her again. He couldn’t bear it.
He would rather die.
“Michael?” Anne had laid a hand upon his forearm. Her anger seemed to have melted away, and there was nothing but concern in her eyes.
Without thinking, he raised his hand to caress her cheek. “I cannot bear for anything to happen to you,” he said, his voice guttural.
From the doorway, Hugh cleared his throat. “And that’s why we need a good plan, we do.”
Anne, who’d had her back facing the door, startled as Hugh entered the room, followed by a maid. She took a hasty step back from Michael.
“I grew up in Holborn,” Hugh continued, “and the thing to know is it’s uneven. There’ll be a street I wouldn’t walk down in broad daylight that dead-ends into a respectable shopping district. The Red Lion’s a prosperous establishment. The owners aren’t going to let that area go to seed.”
Michael caught Anne’s eye and found that she was giving him a very I-told-you-so look. “Nonetheless,” Michael said, “I doubt there is any plan that would satisfy me.”
“You should go with her, m’lord,” Hugh said.
“Me?” Michael tore his gaze from Anne to look at Hugh. “But the note says she has to go alone.”
“The writer says he’ll only speak to Lady Wynters,” Hugh countered, “and that she can’t draw any notice. Well, you can stand a few feet back and keep watch if he insists upon it. And a man and woman walking together at that time of night won’t draw no notice at all, especially if you act a bit, er, friendly.”
“That’s a good idea, that is,” the maid said. “Too many people will recognize her ladyship, but nobody knows you, m’lord. If things don’t look right, you can just back her up against a wall and block her face from view. It’s a good thing you’re already betrothed, because you’ll have to make it look like you’re about to—”
“Thank you, Sarah,” Anne interjected. “We have the general idea.”
“I’ll find something for you to wear, m’lady,” Sarah said. She turned to inspect Michael’s coat, which was one of his new ones. “You won’t want to dress quite so sharp, m’lord. Stands out too much. You’ll want to look a bit shabby.”
“I believe I have just the thing,” Michael muttered.
“Good.” Sarah beamed. “I’ll go start preparing, m’lady.”
After Hugh and Sarah had taken their leave, Anne returned to her desk and began drafting a letter, paying Michael no attention. He eyed her the way one eyed a tiger, then cleared his throat. “So. Anne. Are you still mad at me?”
She heaved a great sigh, then looked up. “Exasperated might be a better word. The way you’ve treated me this morning has been atrocious—”
“It has,” he hastily agreed. “And I am extremely sorry.”
“—but I’m not going to stay mad at you forever.”
“You… you’re not?” Hope flared in his chest.
“Of course I’m not,” she said, turning back to her letter. “You’re my best friend, after all.”
“Good.” He came around the desk in three quick steps and took both of her hands in his. “Because I cannot bear for you to be mad at me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “In that case, I suggest you do better going forward. Because I have a right to be upset with you, Michael. ‘Knit scarves for the poor’ indeed!”
“I wish you would stop making arguments that are so difficult to refute,” he grumbled.
“Not a chance.”
He sighed. “So, what are we doing this afternoon?”
“I will be occupied writing letters to my various contacts, as well as preparing for this evening. I suggest you do the same.”
“I was afraid that would be your answer,” he muttered.
“You may return at half eleven.”
“Half eleven,” Michael agreed. He leaned in to kiss Anne, and she very pointedly offered him her hand. He settled for pressing a lingering kiss to her palm and took his leave.
An hour after Michael departed, Hugh appeared in the doorway to Anne’s office. “Lord Scudamore,” he announced.
Anne scrambled to her feet. “Lord Scudamore. What an… an unexpected pleasure.”
This, of course, was a lie. Considering Mr. Smithers’ dead body had just come floating down the Thames, it appeared that someone had tipped Lord Gladstone off, and all the evidence pointed to Lord Scudamore.
“Lady Wynters,” he said, bowing over her hand, “I wanted to let you know of a development since our conversation last night. An unfortunate development, I’m afraid.”
“I… I see.” Anne gestured for him to take the chair before her desk, then turned to Hugh, who was just heading out the door. “Hugh, won’t you stay and pour Lord Scudamore a drink?”
Hugh’s eyes went wide as he nodded, understanding her unspoken plea. He crossed the room to the decanter.
Lord Scudamore gave her a cringing smile. “You are nervous, I assume, because you’ve heard about the master sweep who was murdered overnight.”
Anne blanched. “How do you know about that?”
“I called at Bow Street an hour ago, to see if they had arrested Gladstone and to offer my assistance with any questions regarding the R.M.A.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “The news I received was of a most horrific nature, and I… I fear it is all my fault.” He opened his eyes and held her gaze. “I wanted you to hear it directly from me.”
Anne gripped the edge of her desk. “What is it?”
He squared off his jaw. “Gladstone has fled.”
“Fled? What do you mean, fled?”
“Bow Street has patrolmen watching his house. He didn’t return last night, nor this morning. When they questioned his servants today, they said he came in through the back entrance around two o’clock in the morning, hastily packed a trunk, then left. They’ve no idea where he went.”
Anne tried to hold her voice steady but was unable to conceal its shaking. “So Lord Gladstone has gone to ground, and a key witness has turned up dead. I should like to know how he realized the net was closing around him.”
“You think—naturally, I must own—that I must have told Gladstone of our conversation last night.”
Precisely. “Well? Did you?”
“I swear, I did not.” He stared at the carpet. “I fear it is my fault nevertheless.”
“And why is that?”
Lord Scudamore set his drink upon her desk. “I swear to you, upon my word of honor, that I did not tell Gladstone.” He regarded her steadily. “But I did confide in Lord Aylsham.”
“The Earl of Aylsham?” Anne asked, startled. “Whatever for?”
“I thought he should know. Lord Aylsham is vice president of the R.M.A., after all. And I knew he couldn’t be involved. From what you told me, this has been going on for some time, and, being in the Royal Marines, he only returned to the country six months ago. I thought he might be able to think of some piece of evidence that I had missed. Although, if I am being honest…” He raked a hand through his tawny hair. “Part of me wanted to believe it was all some terrible mistake. That Gladstone was truly innocent, and that Lord Aylsham would point out something that would clear him from blame.”
The viscount rose to pace before the fireplace. “I spoke with Lord Aylsham in an empty sitting room on the ground floor. It overlooked the back gardens. The window was open, and at one point, I heard the sound of branches breaking nearby. I went and shut the window, but I didn’t think much of it. Probably just a pair of lovers meeting in the garden. But given what has transpired since then…”
“You think it was Gladstone.”
Lord Scudamore turned to face Anne. “Surely it must have been. What other explanation could there be for Smithers’s death?”
Anne studied the viscount. He seemed sincere in his distress, and he might very well be telling the truth.
But it was also possible that he had forewarned his friend, then staged a conversation with Lord Aylsham to cover his tracks.
Lord Scudamore cleared his throat. “The most important thing now, and the reason why I’m here, is because if Gladstone is eliminating witnesses, that places your two climbing boys in grave danger. You said one of them caught a glimpse of his face, correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
Lord Scudamore sat down again. “I assume they are staying at your lodging house. You will need additional security. I would be grateful if you would allow me to provide it.” He rubbed at his forehead. “Gladstone’s escape is entirely my fault. I should have been more circumspect, but I… I just wasn’t thinking clearly. My providing those boys with additional guards is the least I can do, given the circumstances.”
“Thank you, but I already have additional men in place.”
Lord Scudamore leaned forward. “Are you certain you have enough of them? What precautions are you taking?”
“I’ve placed one guard with them at all times, another at the front door, and a third to stand watch overnight.”
“Are you certain I can’t send a few more men to help? Through my connections with the R.M.A. I can access a network of former soldiers. Good, upstanding men, who are experienced at standing watch.”
“No, thank you. I am happy with the arrangements that are already in place.”
“Very well,” the viscount said, standing. “Do send the bill for the additional guards to me, though. It would be a weight off my conscience.”
“Very well, my lord.”
Anne accompanied him to the door with Hugh trailing after them at a discreet distance. “I take it Morsley proposed last night?” Lord Scudamore asked as he pulled on his gloves.
Anne felt her cheeks reddening as she considered her answer. “Er… yes. Yes, he did.”
Scudamore sighed. He took Anne’s hand in both of his, but instead of bowing over it, he pressed it. “Morsley is a lucky man,” he said, his expression rueful. “A very lucky man indeed.”
Then he did bow over her hand, his lips grazing the backs of her knuckles. “Good day, my lady.”