Thankful to be seated further down, Sophie had been placed next to George, the two of them flanked by her boys. Despite the day’s travel, George had turned out impeccably groomed and attired. Her hand itched to touch his freshly shaved jaw.
Across the table, Edward picked a bit of dough from his bread, rubbing it into a ball, a sly smile growing until he glanced George’s way and popped the morsel into his mouth.
“A formal dinner with so many children,” Sophie murmured. “Your mother is very brave.”
“You have no idea,” he said.
Actually, she had a very clear idea of Lady Loughton’s strength of character.
“Thank you for bringing him back,” she said.
She’d hoped to speak to George before dinner, but he’d arrived just in time to escort her in.
“I thought it best I make the journey instead of you. You said you’re not much of a rider.” His gaze swept over her in a trail of heat ending at her bosom. “You look stunning in red.”
“Your mother has been loaning me these magnificent gowns.” She picked up her wineglass and choked on a sip, suspicion kindling.
Could Lady Loughton be matchmaking? And if so, who did she mean as a match for Sophie?
“But you’re wearing a ribbon again. Where is the garnet cross you were wearing the night I arrived?”
Heat raced into her cheeks. The whereabouts of the cross was none of his business. As for the ribbon…
She touched a hand to her neck. “This serves better to cover…a bruise here.”
George had the cheek to smile, the bounder.
She hadn’t come to Loughton Manor for matchmaking, or to celebrate the Yuletide, nor even to seek a position as a chaperone. She’d come to confront Fitz.
“He’s avoiding my eye, I believe,” she murmured again.
“No doubt. We’ll corner him after he lights the Yule log.”
She blinked back sudden moisture. He still proposed to help her.
Under the table, he squeezed her hand and held on, sending her heart soaring.
“If need be, we’ll bring Mother into it. And then you and I must speak. There’s something I would discuss with you.”
“What?”
His smile drained all the joy from her, and she shook her head. “No. I cannot.”
One dark eyebrow shot up. “Would you be like Fitz and not even hear me out?” Dropping her hand, he turned to respond to a comment from Artie.
How was she to sit through a boisterous meal, the parlor festivities, the discussion with Fitz and then an indecent proposal?
George’s elbow brushed hers and he winked.
“Fustian,” she hissed, reminding herself that he was merely a distraction from her true mission.
He squeezed her hand again. “Arthur, tell me about your lands and holdings.”
With one ear tuned to Arthur’s answer—she’d made sure the new Earl of Glanford knew his responsibilities—she helped Ben manage his peas and his pudding and watched the slow advance of the ormolu clock’s minute hand.
“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?