Mistletoe and Mayhem: A Regency Holiday Romance Anthology, page 20
“Do not you worry, Sophie. You fed half the hungry mouths of Lancashire and saw the sick were tended. All know what you endured.”
She squeezed her eyes and took in a breath. “I have no need for pity.”
Willa took the brush from her hand. “Is Loughton ignoring you?”
“He’s only just arrived home.”
“Best he sober up I s’pose. Spent all afternoon in the taproom, I hear. That’s a guilty conscience. And the brother just as sopped.” Willa harrumphed. “And now off we go to London, saddled with Miss Cartwright.”
Sophie bit back the urge to scold and reached for her face cream. Frown lines were forming, just as Willa had warned since she was Ben’s age. “Chaperoning Miss Cartwright is a great opportunity.” Given her lowly roots, her late husband’s character, and her insignificant social ties, she’d been surprised by the request. “We’ll have shelter with Mr. and Mrs. Lovelace, food on the table, and coal in the grate. And I know you appreciate a warm fire.”
And in London, she could find time to conduct some private business of her own.
She reached for her dressing gown. “I’ll read for a while. Take yourself off to bed, Willa.”
When the door to the dressing room closed, she paced to the bedside table, picked up the novel she’d borrowed from the Loughton library, and set it back down.
Christmas was three days away and as delighted as she was to be able to celebrate a proper Yuletide, Willa’s wages were due. Paying her loyal maid would bide for now, but what was she to do about gifts for the children, Boxing Day presents, vails for the Loughton staff?
Her stomach churned again. Dinner had been a travesty of picking at food, barely tasting it. Fitz had been too bosky for a serious conversation, and his brother…
He was handsome, and he knew it. And he raised feelings in her. Little use was her set-down over the Matilda Rose—Lovelace had retaliated with his lips. That kiss on the hand had been disturbingly…intimate.
With a tremendous rumble, her stomach informed her she shouldn’t have picked at the good dinner.
The cook here was a generous sort who’d joked with the boys about their nighttime raids. Perhaps she could find a biscuit and warm some milk.
She slipped into her shoes, and made her way down the corridor to the stairs.
Chapter Five
At the next landing, she spotted the door to the library ajar and heard a male voice.
If Fitz was still awake, perhaps she might approach him now. She edged closer.
“I’m as surprised as you are to find Sophie here.”
That was Fitz. Who was with him?
“Sophie, is it?”
Lovelace was here, and his tone held contempt.
“It’s not like that, George.”
“Hmm. She’s grown even comelier with age.”
She pressed a hand to her hammering heart. She’d felt his attraction, both when he’d ogled her during dinner, and later, with that kiss. Now, all she heard was disdain.
Were all men false when they were out of earshot?
“Are you interested, George? I should protest, perhaps challenge you. I’m the nearest thing to a protector…Not that sort of protector. I’m sole guardian of her boys.”
“Sole?”
“The other died. Glanford, with his usual attention to his responsibilities, never amended his arrangements before he cocked up his heels.”
“I see.”
She drew nearer, holding her breath for whatever else Fitz might reveal.
“Mother told me she simply appeared a week ago,” Lovelace said.
Heat rose in her cheeks. While she’d been overseeing the girls, George Lovelace and Lady Loughton had been gossiping about her.
“A countess traveling alone with her boys—your wards—by public coach.”
Still a vulgar upstart, that Sophie Clark. She held her breath through another long pause and finally Fitz spoke.
“You are interested. She hasn’t a farthing, and you need money for your railway scheme. The heiress is a better bet.”
“Miss Cartwright is a child.”
“A child with a sizeable dowry. Sophie’s is gone. She’d bring nothing to a marriage but two extra mouths, and for you to keep her might subject my wards to scandal. And deplete your purse, and I know how prudent you are about money. Though I suppose, whatever might happen here between the two of you under the mistletoe…” Fitz laughed. “No, there are too many small ears and eyes about, besides Mother’s. Don’t even try it.”
Angry tears sprang to her eyes, and she beat them back. She was a widow, and to the men of the ton, widows were fair game. Fitz and his brother were still thoughtless and just as calculating as every other nobleman.
Head pounding, she hurried past the door. Her conversation with Fitz would keep.
She found her way to the narrow servants’ stairs, where the upstart Sophie Clark belonged.
Moments earlier
“Still awake?”
Fitz looked up and grunted, holding out an empty glass. “Pour me one, will you, George?”
“As if we haven’t had enough for one day.” He took the glass.
Unable to sleep, George had rummaged through an old wardrobe for a dressing gown and then headed down to the library. As he’d expected, he found Fitz by the fire, boots propped on the fender, still fully dressed.
Good, because he had questions.
He filled two glasses and took the opposite wingchair.
“Here’s to Father,” Fitz said.
George raised his tumbler and drank, deciding how to begin. Fitz was his older brother, and the head of the family now. He owed him some deference. On the other hand, they were brothers and Fitz was conducting himself like an ass. Plus, he needed to finish here and attend to his own business.
So, the direct approach. “What the devil is going on with you, Fitz? Mother wrote me that you’ve been in a funk.”
Fitz’s feet plopped to the floor.
“Don’t leave,” George said. “I’ve hardly had a chance to speak to you.”
“We had all afternoon at the Swan.”
“Which we spent mostly discussing horses. Tell me, what is Glanford’s widow doing here?”
Fitz’s eyes focused. “You don’t wish to ask about the heiress?”
He was deflecting. The late Earl of Glanford was a sore subject to Fitz.
“I’m as surprised as you are to find Sophie here,” Fitz said.
“Sophie, is it?”
Fitz waved a hand. “It’s not like that.”
“Hmm. She’s grown comelier with age.”
Fitz eyed him over his glass and smiled slyly. “Are you interested, George? I should protest, perhaps challenge you. I’m the nearest thing to a protector—” He held up a hand. “Not that sort of protector. I’m sole guardian of her two boys.”
“Sole?”
“The other died. Glanford, with his usual attention to his responsibilities, never amended his arrangements before he cocked up his heels.”
“I see.”
Fitz harrumphed and fell deep into frowning.
“Mother said she simply appeared a week ago.” George swirled the brandy, watching his brother out of the corner of his eye. “A countess traveling alone with her boys—your wards—by public coach.”
Of course, Mother wouldn’t—couldn’t, by all that was honorable—turn her or her boys away.
Fitz lounged back, his gaze hooded. “You are interested. She hasn’t a farthing, and you need money for your railway scheme. The heiress is a better bet.”
“Miss Cartwright is a child.” He stood and fetched a bottle from the sideboard.
“A child with a sizeable dowry. Sophie’s is gone. She’d bring nothing to a marriage but two extra mouths, and for you to keep her might subject my wards to scandal. And deplete your purse, and I know how prudent you are about money. Though I suppose, whatever might happen here between the two of you under the mistletoe…” Fitz laughed and glanced toward the door. “No, there are too many small ears and eyes about, besides Mother’s. Don’t even try it.”
He beamed him the flim-flamming smile he used to charm his way out of trouble.
A shadow flashed in the corridor, like a ghost scurrying by. Or, since Loughton Manor wasn’t haunted, a Lovelace chit. At this hour, the servants were abed. One of his sisters was roaming the Manor.
“I shall be watching, as well,” Fitz said.
“Good.” He refilled Fitz’s glass and set the bottle on the table beside him. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. I’ve heard from Selwyn about the tax levies. Perhaps we can talk during a morning ride?”
Fitz waved a hand and George left him staring into the fire.
What the devil was Fitz running away from? Tomorrow, he’d get his brother out for a brisk ride, and then sit him down to go over the books.
He stepped into the corridor, listening. The figure had moved toward the servants’ stairs. He headed that way.
Chapter Six
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, George heard voices and paused.
“It’s the artillery for me.”
That was his brother James.
“And I’m going to build things.”
Edward was here also.
“So am I.”
“You can’t, Artie,” Edward cried. “You’re a lord.”
“So what? I’m going to open a foundry and run it. Mother says we have ore on our land. Isn’t that right, Mama?’
His heart quickened. The figure gliding past the library hadn’t been one of his sisters. Lady Glanford was here.
How much had she heard of his conversation with Fitz? He was destined for more shaming.
“Yes, I believe so,” she said.
“But how can you know?” James asked.
“Grandfather taught her,” Artie said. “My mother wanted to run Grandfather’s business. It was her dream.”
“Ladies don’t run businesses,” James said.
“Why not, James?” she asked. “Even ladies must be allowed to dream, don’t you think? I intend to help Artie with his foundry in any way I can.”
A long pause ensued while his brothers considered the startling notion of a lady dreaming about running a business. The cheerful note in her voice had surprised even him—Glanford apparently hadn’t crushed her spirit. She’d not entirely given up the dream, and she was grooming her son to be more like her father. Or herself.
“May we have another biscuit?” Artie asked.
“Truly, my dear lady, Cook will not mind.” His voice breaking with budding adolescence, James was trying some gentlemanly charm.
George and his older brothers had sneaked out of the nursery on many nights, exploring the Manor, and sometimes the grounds, unsupervised. They often ended with a raid on Cook’s pantry.
“Pleathe, Mama.” That was the lisp of a very young child.
“Oh alright. Just one more each.”
George crept stealthily into the kitchen.
Four boys huddled on benches at the worktable. The lady was nowhere in sight.
“What’s going on here?” he roared.
They shrieked, an arm shot out, and a mug rolled away, flooding the wooden table with milk. When he walked into the candlelight, the cries turned into laughter, and his two brothers attacked him.
Lady Glanford raced from the pantry. The smallest boy flung himself into her free arm and she juggled the boy and the plate like a waiter at White’s steadying some drunken sod.
“Mr. Lovelace.”
Candlelight glowed in her eyes and shimmered in a bronzed cascade of hair that took his breath away.
He tore his gaze away and swatted at Edward. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I couldn’t resist frightening these two nodcocks.”
Artie mopped at a pool of milk with the sleeve of his nightshirt.
“Not your sleeve, Artie.” Lady Glanford set down the plate, and tossed a tea towel, still clutching the smallest boy.
“I didn’t think about frightening your boys,” George said. “I beg your pardon,”
“As you should.” She settled the boy back on the bench.
“George always scares us.” James elbowed the child. “Don’t be afraid, Ben. And don’t worry. We’ll repay him when he least expects it.”
“You’ll do no such thing, Ben and Arthur. We are guests here.” Lady Glanford slid the plate into the center. Four biscuits sat squarely in the middle, one atop the other.
He leaned against the sideboard, watching. A too-short dressing gown revealed trim ankles and shapely limbs. She must have borrowed nightclothes from his shorter sisters. In her dishabille, she looked closer to twenty than…how old was she? Surely past thirty.
The little boy glanced back at him. Like his brother, he had Sophie’s eyes.
“So, you are Ben. I’m pleased to meet you.”
“Tell her George,” Edward said. “Tell her Cook keeps the biscuits in the pantry for us. I want another. Lady Glanford doesn’t believe us.”
She raised her eyebrows at him, making him laugh.
“It’s true, my lady. Cook spoils these Lovelace brats. I’ll fetch them.”
“No, I will. But let Cook’s wrath be on your head, Mr. Lovelace. The nursemaid’s as well, when they all toss and turn with the stomach ache.”
He bowed. She scoffed, picked up a candle, and entered the storeroom.
“We’re glad you’re here,” James said. “We’ve been going mad with boredom.”
“Mother said you’ve been tormenting the girls.”
James shrugged. “I wish she had let us go back to school. And it’s them tormenting us. You can’t imagine the fits Cassandra threw when Mother told her she was delaying her come-out. I wanted to thrash her.”
George swallowed a laugh. “A gentleman doesn’t strike—”
“Yes, I know. But after Charlotte arrived and Lady Glanford took us out to gather greenery, the girls ran about plotting and hanging kissing boughs everywhere.”
Edward scrunched his face into a frown over his milk moustache. “Cassandra says it’s time for you to marry, and that you’re going to marry Charlotte.”
He choked, grabbed Edward’s mug and took a drink, weighing the best time to throttle his sister.
“But Charlotte is too silly for you,” Edward continued. “Cassandra was fretting that you might like Lady Glanford better. I do. I think you should marry her.”
“Exthept, we don’t have a feather to fly with.” Ben broke his silence cheerfully around a mouthful of biscuit.
Artie shot his brother a look. “Don’t speak when you’re chewing.”
“If George marries Lady Glanford, we’ll be brothers,” Edward said, warming to the argument.
James thumped Edward’s head. “You numbskull. George is our brother. He’d be their stepfather. Which would make us their uncles.”
“Don’t hit me,” Edward shouted, and they were off on a noisy dispute.
He snatched up both his brothers and squeezed between them. “Do you want to argue, or do you want to hear about my railway?”
While the conversation continued in the kitchen, Sophie paused to set her candle on a box in the larder and pressed a hand to her chest. Thank God the boys were here. Mr. Lovelace had all but torn off her nightclothes with his hot perusal. Best get everyone fed and back upstairs to the nursery, and perhaps hide there with them until after he’d gone off to bed.
She lifted the lid on the biscuit jar.
“The fits Cassandra threw when Mother told her she was delaying her come-out. I wanted to thrash her.”
Mr. Lovelace murmured something inaudible.
Curiosity pulled her closer to the open door.
“Yes, I know,” James said. “But after Charlotte arrived and Lady Glanford took us out to gather greenery, the girls ran about plotting and hanging kissing boughs everywhere.”
“Cassandra said it’s time for you to marry, and that you’re going to marry Charlotte.”
That plot had been obvious to everyone tonight. Mr. Lovelace remained silent. Perhaps he’d worked that out already. Perhaps he didn’t mind and that’s why he’d goaded her earlier about Charlotte.
“But Charlotte is too silly for you. Cassandra was fretting that you might like Lady Glanford better. I do. I think you should marry her.”
Her heart thumped so loudly she almost missed the next words.
“Exthept, we don’t have a feather to fly with.”
The earthenware lid slipped, and she juggled it, almost dropping it.
Ben had heard the expression from one of their fellow travelers, and so tickled by the poetry of it, he’d searched out the meaning from a maid at the inn.
An argument erupted between the two Lovelace boys drowning out anything Mr. Lovelace might have said.
Clutching the sideboard, she steadied herself, letting the blood flow back to her hands. She really, really must stop eavesdropping.
Ben was only a child, and he wasn’t intentionally trying to embarrass her.
And what did it matter what George Lovelace thought? She didn’t want to marry—not him, or anyone else. Her boys were what mattered, protecting them, seeing to their futures.
She took a deep breath and returned to the biscuits. She’d tried to spare her boys the full truth. They couldn’t have all they wished for, but they’d had all they needed in the way of food, good shoes, and proper clothing. And love. She’d made sure they knew they were loved.
“Do you want to argue, or do you want to hear about my railway?” Mr. Lovelace said, and the quarreling stopped.
Settling the lid on the jar, she hurried out. She would hear more about his railway. Never mind his arrogant leering. The railway might be a sound investment, once she had access to capital.
An embarrassed nursery maid appeared just as the boys finished another round of biscuits.
“Fell asleep, did you, Meg?” Mr. Lovelace teased.
“You know better, Master James and Master Edward,” the middle-aged lady scolded, “sneaking about and bringing along the little one. Why you’re as bad as…” She bit her lip and glanced at Mr. Lovelace, her eyes twinkling.
