Mistletoe and Mayhem: A Regency Holiday Romance Anthology, page 25
“You broke into my locked drawer?”
George held Fitz’s glare with one of his own. “Needs must, Lord Loughton. What did you expect would happen?”
Fitz walked to the sideboard. “Nothing but sherry?” he growled. “What the devil have you been doing whilst I was away?”
“I might ask the same of you, except I’ve already discovered the answer. You’ve been dodging your duties. You’ve been neglecting mother and the children, including your wards. Sit down, Fitz.”
“You impertinent…I ought to flatten you, George.”
“And I’d love the chance to knock sense into you. Later. After Sophie has had a piece of you.”
Fitz sneered. “Sophie, is it?”
The ass.
“It appears she’ll be in perpetual debt to you. I saw the documents. How could you loan so much money to Glanford? Father told you expressly—”
“It was my fault.” Fitz filled a glass. “The Matilda Rose.” He drained his drink in one long gulp. “Yes, George. I received your warning to get out, after I’d told Glanford all about the golden investment recommended by my wizardly younger brother. I pulled out in time, but I forgot…” He plopped down in the desk chair and rubbed his temples. “I forgot about telling Glanford. Well, and I didn’t actually know he’d invested at all, much less put all of his money in. The bloody fool.”
The night he’d arrived, Sophie had brought up the Matilda Rose. One loses in one fell swoop.
He’d recommended the investment to Fitz, and Fitz had passed on the tip to Glanford.
“I see.” Perhaps Fitz wasn’t the only Lovelace Sophie blamed for her troubles.
“The bloody, bloody fool. Always a gambler. When all of his money was gone, including the money Sophie brought to the marriage, he ran through her dower and Ben’s trust.”
“You should have talked to Father.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Rupert then. Or Selwyn. Or me.”
“So you would tell father his eldest is an idiot? Rupert and Selwyn were in London, and you were there as well when you weren’t running about the country looking for ore.”
Only Mother had known something was wrong, but she’d attributed it to Fitz’s personal woes.
Fitz heaved a heavy sigh. “The best solution for Sophie is to marry a wealthy man.”
That was the logical solution. The one he would have recommended…before. “Any wealthy man with a head on his shoulder will look into her circumstances.”
He certainly would have. Before.
“Not if he’s wealthy and head over ears in love. Cartwright couldn’t take his eyes off her.”
Sophie would marry Cartwright over George’s dead body.
“Why don’t you marry Miss Parker? Your fiancée will bring a sizeable dowry. You can forgive your ward’s debts and carry on. Why not just proceed to the altar with her?”
“Her father is shrewd, and the contracts haven’t been signed.” Fitz’s fingers drummed the desktop. “I suppose the railway scheme will turn a profit one day. How is it progressing? Cartwright was bending my ear about it.”
“We’ve hit a stumbling block.” His talk with Arthur at dinner had been informative. He still had a problem to solve there. The boy had proudly described all the Glanford holdings, and the land in question wasn’t one of them. “I’ll need to leave for Lancashire after Boxing Day and see to an issue.”
“Always on the go.”
“I’ll also need your support in Lords.”
“Do tell.”
The door creaked, drawing their attention and Mother stepped in, clutching a bundle of letters. Sophie entered behind her.
Chapter Eleven
“George,” Mother said, “bring a chair for Sophie, and all of you be seated please. I must return to Mr. Cartwright. He’s been whispering in my ear all day about matrimonial schemes.”
Sophie’s gaze—normally so cool under duress—met his, and she appeared troubled.
Had Cartwright pressed his suit on her already?
“Nor do I want Mr. Cartwright to interrupt your discussions tonight. Fitz,” Mother dropped the letters onto the desk, “I’ve read all of Sophie’s correspondence to you. I suggest you do the same. And here are the others regarding your ward’s estate business.”
George reached for the second batch. “May I see those?”
She glanced at Sophie, who nodded her permission.
Mother beamed a smile all around. “Fitz will address your concerns, Sophie, and I trust George will offer wise counsel. We shall have a very merry Christmas tomorrow. I will see you in the morning.”
As the door closed on her, George sifted through the letters. The steward had written, and tradesmen. But two were postmarked from London, and he recognized the name of the sender. Hands shaking, he unfolded the most recent of the two.
“I am sorry, Sophie,” Fitz began, as well he should.
“And I am sorry for your loss, Fitz, and all that has gone before. Now I need you to tell me the state of my son’s holdings, and your plans for his future.”
Half listening, George began reading.
My dear Lord Loughton,
As mentioned in our letter of 15th November our inquiries have proceeded apace and have uncovered an informal transfer of title for the property in question. As we have been receiving inquiries from a group of investors wishing to secure a right of way for this land, we beg your hasty response so we may properly settle this matter. Be so good as to advise how you would like us to respond to the inquiries we are receiving.
While he read on, Sophie and Fitz spoke of the IOUs, of other debts, of assets, and income, and plans to send Arthur to school.
The words barely registered.
His heart pounded, excitement growing. The land in question, the owner he was supposed to unearth, the person who could approve the right of way, was under the same roof at Loughton Manor.
Or rather…the persons: Arthur owned the land, and Fitz managed it.
And Sophie…
He looked up. Color had risen in her cheeks and her mouth had hardened into a thin line.
What had Fitz said?
Whatever it was, he deserved her anger, and so did Glanford. Her husband had used her, as had Fitz, leaving her struggling to care for the boys while he swanned about with his juggle-headed friends.
Sophie was clear-minded, and honorable, and brave, and she deserved a man who loved her, a business-minded man who would appreciate her intelligence.
Him. He wanted her by his side, forever.
His stomach churned. When she knew about this property, she’d think he was using her as well.
Fitz swiped a hand through his hair. “Very well. You are right. I’ve bungled everything. I shall empower George to manage Artie’s affairs and his education.”
“No.” George jumped up.
Sophie’s eyes widened and her color drained.
He turned away, unable to speak.
If he were empowered, if he used that power to impose the lease…he would be using her. She needed to make the choice.
He cleared his throat and sat down again. “Sophie must have authority to manage Arthur’s affairs. She’s…clear-minded, honorable, wise. Hand me paper and pen.”
Head spinning, Sophie stood and began to pace. Shocked and elated, she was also…disappointed. George was fobbing off the responsibility for Arthur. George wanted nothing to do with her.
Oh, what had she expected?
Mr. Cartwright’s matrimony scheme must involve George and Charlotte. Perhaps it was the price of his investment in the railway, and George was too honorable to continue leading Sophie on. She wouldn’t need to see him again.
That would be fine. That would be better. The kissing, the temptation to touch him, had all been a temporary madness. An unnecessary distraction. She could do this. She didn’t need a partner, and it was madness to think a husband would ever be a true partner. And, good heavens, where had that thought come from? Her destination with George had never been the altar.
She took in a breath. Nor would a lover ever be a true partner.
“We’ll draw something up right now for the bank, the solicitor and the steward,” George said.
His matter-of-fact practicality helped restore her good sense. “I doubt the steward will accept it,” she said.
“Then Fitz will extend himself enough to sack him.”
“Agreed,” Fitz said. “You’re traveling that way, George. You’ll deliver my letter in person and enforce it. I’ll write informing the bank and your solicitor.”
The bank and solicitor would speak to her? It was almost too much to hope. “Will this assignment of power be legal?”
George’s mouth firmed. “We’ll make it so.”
Her eyes misted and she turned away. George had seen the extent of her debt. He wanted her out of his hands. He was a sensible businessman, and she and her sons were a financial liability to the entire Lovelace family. George’s trip to bring Fitz home had more to do with family honor then any feelings for her. He wouldn’t entangle himself with a woman like her.
That would be fine. It must be. Artie’s and Ben’s futures were all that mattered. The debt was enormous, but she’d negotiate payments. Some of the letters mentioned a proposed property lease. Perhaps it would bring enough for new farm equipment.
And…she had the diamonds. There was no need to spend a season in London with Charlotte now, yet to London she must go.
“I should like to see Glanford’s London solicitor, as soon as possible. May I borrow your chaise and leave the boys in your care while I’m gone?”
George’s pen ceased scratching and he looked up unsmiling. “I’ll accompany you. We’ll leave after Boxing Day. I have business there as well.”
His transformation almost undid her. Unable to speak, she nodded.
He’d offered to help her, and he had, but not as a friend. Not as a man who cared for her. He’d simply had Fitz dump all of the responsibility on her, and then he would go off and see to his own concerns.
Isn’t that what you wanted?
Feeling jumbled inside, she found her voice, wished them a good night, and left.
“Oh, for a brandy,” Fitz grumbled.
George set down the pen and rubbed his jaw. “In the drawer of the cabinet. Pour me one, as well.”
Fitz scoffed. “You hid the bottle?”
“Mother saw to it.” He’d left Sophie’s letters with his mother while he’d snatched an hour of sleep the night before. When he’d departed before dawn, she’d been awake and quietly furious.
Fitz filled two glasses. “Can Sophie handle the task?”
“A thousand times better than her late husband.” Or you.
“You surprise me, brother. I thought turning over Artie to you might help your pursuit. You are pursuing Sophie, aren’t you?”
The arrogant fool. He fixed his brother with a glare.
Fitz gasped, and then laughed. “Never say you are seeking more than an affair?”
“Shut up, Fitz.”
He tossed back his drink. He would court Sophie when the time was right. She wasn’t interested in marriage, she said, but he’d find a way to convince her.
First things first. He needed to be honest with her. He needed to convince her to let his railway run through Artie’s land.
“Cartwright,” Fitz said. “You’re up late.”
The blasted man had entered again without George even noticing.
“May I join you?”
“Help yourself to a brandy,” Fitz said. “Bring the bottle over.”
“Late night business, eh?” Cartwright poured drinks all around. “I saw Lady Glanford departing.”
“Yes,” Fitz said.
“Your mother told me young Glanford and his brother are your wards, Loughton. Must be difficult, under the, er, circumstances. Troubled estate and all.”
George’s quill broke, and he reached for a penknife.
“It’s always difficult when boys lose their father,” Fitz said evenly.
George eased out a breath, and glanced at Fitz. It was difficult to lose a father at any age, especially after losing a wife and child. The Glanford trusteeship had been one burden too many for Fitz.
Cartwright sipped his drink, blissfully silenced.
Perhaps he wouldn’t need to use the penknife on the man. He dipped his fresh point in the inkwell.
“Yes, well,” Cartwright began again. “Perhaps I can help in that way. And you being the boys’ guardian I thought I might as well let you know. I’ve made up my mind. I intend to offer for Lady Glanford.”
George dropped the pen, splattering ink. “Lady Glanford is already spoken for.”
Cartwright eyed him shrewdly. “I intend to offer marriage.”
Heat fired in him and sent him to his feet, curling his hands into iron fists. Cartwright’s implication was clear: he thought George meant to set her up as his mistress.
“If you were a younger man, Cartwright—”
“George.” Fitz’s sharp reprimand stopped his next words: I’d challenge you. “It’s Christmas Eve, George. Mr. Cartwright isn’t insinuating anything untoward. He’s simply stating his intentions.”
“Quite right,” the oaf said. “My intentions are honest and honorable. When your mother suggested her for Charlotte’s come-out, I had a man look into things. I’ve a notion Lady Glanford has a grasp of my sort of business as well as estate management, but she won’t need to fret about any of it. I can give her a comfortable life. I’m building a new manor in Yorkshire, and have my agent looking for a London home. She can put Glanford behind her. Boys’ll be at school. You’ll oversee her son’s estate, and I’ll lift any other worries from her shoulders.”
Bile rose in him. Was that what Sophie wanted? She’d gone pale as death at the notion of handling Artie’s estate. He needed to ask her.
He slid the paper toward Fitz. “If you would please, finish it before you turn in.”
He pounded up the stairs and made his way first to his bedchamber, and then to hers.
After a quick stop at the nursery, Sophie found her way to her bedchamber. The room was toasty, the fire burning brightly.
Willa rubbed her eyes and stood. “What time is it?”
“Late. Thank you for waiting up. And good heavens, it’s hot in here.”
“Cozy, aye. Turn around then. Did all go well?”
“Yes.” And no. Her heart twisted. George was back to being the stuffy aristocrat. “Lord Loughton is granting me power of attorney over Arthur and the estate.”
Willa froze, and then laughed. “I want to be there when Burford hears that. He won’t like taking direction from a woman.”
George would be with her when that news was delivered. He hadn’t totally abandoned her. “And Burford won’t have to. We are sacking him.”
Willa whooped. “Praise the Almighty.”
She stepped out of the crimson gown and draped it over the chair. While Willa unlaced her stays, she yanked out hairpins.
“Stop wiggling,” Willa said. “I never did like the way Burford treated you. He did like your dowry though.”
“And sadly, my dowry is gone.” Sophie lifted the loosened stays over her head and studied them. “Except for the diamonds, of course. It’s time to take them out of hiding. I’m traveling to London this week.” And George would be with her for that journey as well.
“I wish you could wear them.” Willa carried the dress away. “Your da would have liked that.”
Memories rushed her, and she blinked away a surge of shame. She’d been less than gracious accepting the diamonds, astonished at their abundance and size, imagining the whispers about their vulgarity.
Papa had presented them privately, a gift to celebrate the news she’d conceived Glanford’s heir. Perhaps an unspoken atonement for what she’d had to endure since her nuptials.
They’re just for you, my Sophie. Put them away for a rainy day. Glanford had never known of them, else they’d have been lost in a wager, or draped on the bosom of one of his other women.
She dropped the stays on the bed and retrieved her hairbrush. Willa held out her heavy winter nightgown.
“I’m warm enough in my chemise, and I’m sure your dressing room will be warm now. Go on to bed, Willa.”
The maid moved behind her. “Let me just get these pins. There.” The last locks of hair brushed her shoulders.
They heard a tapping, and then the latch moved, and George Lovelace stepped into the room.
A fluttering started in the pit of her stomach and spread, sending tingles to the tips of her fingers and toes.
Unsmiling, he hesitated in the doorway, his gaze hooded, his mouth hard.
He turned and closed the door, and she let out a breath.
“Mr. Lovelace,” she said.
“Lady Glanford.” He stepped closer, and closer still, and swept a hot glance over her body. “Sophie.”
Her heart pounded fiercely, hope soaring in her. If he meant to begin a liaison…
What would she do?
She heard the rustle of Willa’s skirts.
“Stay, Willa.” He drew a small box from under his coat.
He was giving her jewelry?
“Sophie, I wanted to give you my Christmas gift tonight, privately.” He reached for her hand and pressed the box in it. “Open it. Please.”
“I have nothing for you.”
His blue eyes darkened to midnight, sending a shiver through her. Never, never, never had any man unsettled her so.
She summoned her composure. “Very well.” The lid snapped open and Willa crowded in.
“Oh,” Willa gasped.
Moisture thickened her throat. Her grandmother’s cross lay in a bed of white satin between two garnet studded earbobs.
“You b-bought it back.” Willa sniffed.
“Yes,” he said, his expression still unreadable.
Willa sniffed again and wiped her eyes. “The shopkeeper thought I pinched it. Mr. Lovelace came in and vouched for me.”
“And the earrings,” he said, “they matched so well, I…”
