“We won. We beat you, Mama.” Ben grinned as Sophie mopped his wet head.
“Four against two,” James said. “We were bound to win.”
George caught the twinkle in Sophie’s eye.
Like the others, she’d shed her wet cape and boots at the kitchen entrance. Her damp skirts clung enticingly, and locks of hair tumbled around her shoulders.
“We shall have a rematch,” George said. “But not today. It’s time for your dinner, and Lady Glanford is soaked to the bone.”
“I’m only a little damp,” she said. “As are you. Please go on up, Mr. Lovelace.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
She pulled a face at him. “A rematch is a fine idea, boys. We’ll ask your sisters and Charlotte and Mary to join in.”
That launched a debate about uneven teams, interrupted by the appearance of two nursery maids, who escorted the boys in a noisy cavalcade up the backstairs.
Sophie would have gone with them, but he pulled her aside. “We didn’t finish our conversation before the battle.”
Her cheeks flamed. “Best that we say no more on the subject, Mr. Lovelace.”
He glanced toward the servants’ hall. They were quite out of view. “George. And it’s not a conversation requiring words.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You are speaking of criminal conversation?”
“Of course not. Neither of us is married.”
A long moment ensued while she drew herself up and cloaked herself with icy composure. As the moment stretched, his spirits rose.
Her shoulders sagged and she let out a long breath. “No. There must be no distracting entanglements.”
She turned away, and he hurried after her. This wasn’t over. He’d only begun the siege. If she traveled to London, he’d find a way. If she returned to Lancashire, well, even better.
In the entry hall, they met the butler on his way to answer the front door.
“Visitors?” Sophie halted and patted her hair. “I look a fright. I’ll go back and make my way up by the servants’ stairs.”
He drew her aside into an alcove. “Nonsense. You look beautiful. Full of life. A countess lively enough to engage in a snow fight.”
“You’re talking flummery, Mr. Lovelace.”
“Call me ‘George’.”
“I only hope I don’t embarrass your mother with this caller.”
The man Biggs ushered in was a stranger. Of medium height and sturdy build, he handed a footman his caped greatcoat and beaver hat and gave orders about his trunk.
George approached and greeted him.
“Lord Loughton?” His gaze slid over the damp coats and trousers and down to his wet stocking-feet, then shifted to Sophie. He blinked, and frowned.
“No sir, I’m George Lovelace, Lord Loughton’s brother. And you are…?”
“Beg pardon.” He extended his hand. “I’m Cartwright, Charlotte’s father. Lady Loughton offered me hospitality, should I be able to get away for the Yuletide.”
Thus, the fine clothing, face like a prize-fighter’s, and direct manner.
“I see. Well, welcome. And, may I introduce another guest, Lady Glanford?”
Sophie executed a dignified curtsy.
“Lady Glanford.” He frowned. “Lady Loughton wrote to me about you.”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. And now, I fear I must go up directly. Mr. Lovelace and I were caught out in the snow. Good day to you, sir.”
Her words had been smooth, but she stumbled upon the second stair.
George bowed. “I’ll leave you in the capable hands of our butler. It’s almost time to dress for dinner. I hope we may talk more then.”
He caught up with Sophie and they went up together.
At the landing, she glanced up at the kissing bough and stepped out of his reach. Her gaze slid to the stairs. “Well that is that,” she whispered.
“What is what? What are you talking about?”
She grimaced. “He doesn’t remember me. He called on my father once. I shall not be shepherding his daughter about London.”
“I haven’t understood why you would want to.”
“I have business in London.”
“So have your man see to it, or Fitz…”
Her lips firmed in a determined frown. “This business doesn’t involve Fitz.”
George rubbed his jaw. “Who has been no help to you anyway.” He stepped closer and took her hand. “As I said, I will help you. I can see to your business in London if Cartwright spurns you, but I can’t imagine why he would.”
She raised an eyebrow and swept a hand over her person. “Would you put your young daughter in the care of a woman who looks like this?”
She looked beautiful and fresh and alive. He’d put himself into her care in a heartbeat.
But perhaps she had a point. She was far too desirable to serve as a chaperone.
Biggs’s voice floated up the staircase. He’d be escorting Cartwright up soon.
George ushered her down the corridor, closer to her bedchamber. “You’ve been caught out in the weather. He’ll understand.”
“He’s a competent businessman, like my father was. He’ll already have made inquiries about me. He’ll know I’m the daughter of Wardell Clark, not a born lady. He’ll know about Glanford. All strikes against me perhaps. And I’ve made an untidy first impression.”
He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “He’ll think what any man will think. That you’re beautiful.”
A mulish look came over her. “I must go to London. A few weeks of parties and social events seemed a small price to pay. I must help myself, and London has always been part of that scheme. Fitz has been useless.”
“Sophie,” he said, moving close enough to catch her flowery scent. “I’m not useless.”
Her bedchamber door opened. “Begging your pardon, sir,” her maid said, “but my lady needs to get out of these wet clothes before she catches her death.”
George escorted her to the door, promised to speak more with her later, and then found his way to his own room.
What was she seeking in London? Despite her claims, was she after another husband?
He tore off his damp coats, fighting the urge to go pound on her door and ask.
A pile of post caught his eye and he went to it. His brother Selwyn’s letter would offer Christmas greetings and a report on investments. The Duke of Kinmarty would write about his son’s first tooth or some such—he’d taken up fatherhood with a vengeance.
The third letter was from his business partner. He opened it.
Dear Lovelace,
I hope this finds you and your family well. I write from London, where I’ve encountered both progress and setbacks. I shall start with the infelicitous news first.
Regrettably, Lord Stanley’s support for our railway bill is faltering. Your brother’s active sponsorship is essential. Please write to me of his assurances, as I will be pursuing other votes for the bill being presented this session.
Happily, I have confirmed that our mysterious right-of-way property holder may have been found. As we suspected, ownership had indeed changed hands, quietly, and with the deed not properly recorded. All this from the clerk who would not make free with the name yet, only to say that his master had written to the new owner’s guardian and received no reply. He also advised that the steward overseeing the minor’s estate said the family (precisely, the minor’s mother, an obdurate widow) was known to oppose any use of the land that would sully the pristine acres. I shall continue to press the matter, and ask that you travel to Lancashire to investigate and track down the parties involved.