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.