“As is her father, and he won’t be happy when he learns of this. That was Clark’s carriage she climbed into. She’ll be going home to Papa.”
“Older brother or not, Fitz, if you ever treat a lady that way, you’ll have my boot up your arse. Give my thanks to our hostess.”
Fitz returned to the party, and George wandered toward the stable.
“I knew Clark,” a groom said. “A fair man, he was.”
“Aye. An’ what sort of puttock would send his wife off on her own after such news?”
“What’s happened?” George asked.
They exchanged grim glances. “Mr. Clark’s died.”
Hell. He raked a hand through his hair. “Does Lady Glanford know?”
“Aye. Her maid brought her the news.”
Hell and damnation. They should have escorted her. He shouldn’t have held Fitz back. She shouldn’t be alone through this.
And yet…what could he have done for her?
“Hold my horse. I’ll be back directly.”
He found his brother on the terrace and pulled him aside. Fitz could deliver Lady Glanford’s news to his fool of a friend.
Chapter Two
Leicestershire, December 1822
Sophie Halverton, neé Clark, widowed Countess of Glanford, had sworn she was finished playing the dutiful waiting lady.
And yet, here she was, waiting for Lord Loughton’s arrival, watching his mother, Lady Loughton, make the rounds of her drawing room where the family had gathered before the evening’s planned dinner.
The waiting would end tonight, Lady Loughton had promised. Fitz—Lord Loughton—wasn’t a bad sort, nor was his family. She’d bully him into a resolution, with his mother’s help, if needed.
She sipped her sherry and pondered her achievements. She’d convinced Burford, the Glanford steward, he must visit his ailing aunt if he wished to be mentioned in the good woman’s will. The moment he’d cleared Glanford land, she’d helped herself to the estate’s ready cash and organized a paltry bit of Yuletide cheer for the tenants, to be carried out by the vicar and his wife. Then she’d bundled the boys and her maid, traveled to Loughton by stagecoach, and walked the short distance from the Royal Swan to Loughton Manor to meet with Lord Loughton in person.
It had all been rather calculated and mercenary—either that or pitiful—and she hated the vulgarity of obsessing about filthy lucre. But she must confront her boys’ guardian.
Unfortunately, Fitz was dodging her.
Fortunately, his mother had insisted she and her party move from their room at the Royal Swan to Loughton Manor, thus easing the considerable strain on her pocketbook.
For the millionth time, her gaze slid to the drawing room door and then to the knot of children grouped in the corner. Washed, combed, and carefully dressed, the three boys were twitchy with hunger and incipient mischief.
As one of the older children, her Artie, her little Earl of Glanford, was in attendance. Ben had remained in the nursery tonight.
Since their arrival here, Artie hadn’t stopped smiling. Ben was just as delighted, though he’d prefer that the playmate his age—five—was a boy, not Fitz’s young daughter Mary. They would both have a Christmas like the merry ones of her childhood. If she could but continue to swallow her pride and be grateful, she would have a happy Christmas as well, and perhaps, the means of visiting London at no expense but her time.
“You are here.” Lady Loughton joined her on the ivory sofa and sent the children a fond smile. Petite and graceful in her lavender half-mourning, the lady’s blue eyes glowed and strands of white sparkled in the fair locks peeking from under her turban. Her loving nature hadn’t been cowed by the recent loss of her husband. Even Sophie felt wrapped up in the nurturing.
She set aside her glass. She must keep her purpose in mind. “When do you expect your son to arrive, ma’am?”
Lady Loughton beamed a smile and patted Sophie’s hand. “Soon. We will wait a bit longer. Be patient with us, dear Sophie.”
“Oh, ma’am, no, it’s you who must be patient with me. I’ve imposed a full week on your warm hospitality.”
“Imposed? Don’t be silly. You’re no trouble. Neither you nor your dear boys. There are always beds in the Loughton nursery, and with so many of my older children not joining us for Christmas, well, you see we have plenty of room. And of course, there’s the matter of you taking charge of Miss Cartwright’s launch. Such a godsend.”
Charlotte Cartwright was another Loughton Manor guest, a wealthy tradesman’s daughter, and schoolfriend to two of the Lovelace girls.
“Has Mr. Cartwright agreed to the scheme?”
“He will write any day now. And I’ve told him there must be a generous consideration for your troubles. New gowns at the very least. As for lodging, my second son and his wife will open their home to you and Charlotte.”
“And my boys.”
“Yes, of course. Unless—well, Arthur is of an age to begin his schooling. Or if you wish to delay, he and his brother might remain here. Fitz is their guardian, after all.”
“Their father’s death was a blow to them. I should like them to accompany me.” Sophie straightened her spine and secretly crossed her fingers. “And I shall need more, er, consideration from Mr. Cartwright than just new gowns. Even with your son offering shelter, I shall have expenses.”
The dowager patted her hand. “You leave it to me, my dear.”
She managed a smile. The urge to trust Lady Loughton—daughter of an earl, widow of a baron, and warm-hearted mother of ten—warred with Sophie’s well-earned distrust. The journey from wealthy mushroom to destitute countess had begun with one naive stumble into the arms of an earl. She had little faith left in any member of the aristocracy, not least herself. After all, she was more or less one of them now.
Earlier that afternoon…
As George Lovelace’s traveling chaise pulled into the yard of the Royal Swan, a groom in Loughton livery popped out of the stables.
“Afternoon, Mr. Lovelace.” Marty’s gap-toothed smile never failed. “Cold enough for you?”
He shook his stiff legs and pulled the capes of his greatcoat tighter. “Damnable weather, Marty.”
Marty laughed and fetched his trunk. “’Twill be snowin’ here any day, my bones say. I’ll just transfer your things to our cart and send this rig back. His Lordship ordered horses for the both of you. Just arrived back from Enderby a bit ago. Ain’t even been home as yet. Don’t know if he knows how the cold’s come in. Been awaitin’ you all afternoon snug by the fire in the taproom.”
Marty plopped the trunk into the cart.
“Marty.”
“Aye, sir?”
“He’s been here all afternoon?” No wonder Mother had begged him to hie himself home and see to Fitz.
Marty cracked another smile, the glazed look confirming he’d been in the taproom as well. “Aye, Master George. And it being dark in an hour or so, I’d best get your things home.” He tugged at his cap and turned away.
George shoved down his irritation. He could do with a warm fire and a brandy, but he’d have preferred them in his old room at home.