Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,66

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.

Inside, the taproom was teeming with men, all escaping the day’s icy blast.

His brother sat in the corner, waistcoat unbuttoned and tawny hair straggling over a carelessly tied neck cloth. He looked bleary-eyed and bloated.

George scanned the mostly familiar faces and exchanged greetings, making his way over to the boisterous table near the great yawning fireplace.

“Brother.” Fitz’s big paw pounded his back.

The tavern maid arrived with a fresh glass, a full bottle, and a tankard of foaming ale.

“A toast.” Fitz snatched the bottle and topped off drinks. “To my little brother George, the wizard who keeps Loughton afloat.”

He’d forgotten to mention their other brothers, Rupert and Selwyn, who both helped manage the family’s wealth.

George raised his own glass. “And here’s to the new Lord Loughton.”

Fitz’s smile faltered. “And to Father.”

After another round and George’s report on the weather, the crowd thinned, departing to see to their livestock and their suppers.

“And how goes the railway scheme, brother?” Fitz asked.

The railway scheme. He signaled the tavern maid and lifted his tankard, stalling for time. The railway scheme, as Fitz called it, had been taking his full attention since father’s autumn funeral. While he’d been off to Northumberland to look into steam locomotives, other members of the corporation were wrangling members of Parliament or meeting with landowners on the planned route.

His help was urgently needed with the last task.

“Coming along,” he said. “A few challenges, here or there.”

Fitz braced himself on his elbows and breathed brandy his way. “Georgie, I’m fuddled and foxed again.”

George sipped his ale, waiting.

Of all the Lovelace men, Fitz was the most affable, the most garrulous, and the least business-minded. Father had moaned more than once to George, wishing sons two, three, or four had been his first-born.

Not that George envied Fitz. The title’s obligations curbed a man’s freedom. Once Fitz stopped grieving and accepted his fate, he’d do well. He could don his robes and attend Parliament, and leave managing most of the family business to his brothers.

Fitz studied his drink. “Mother wants me home. I’m glad you’ve come. The others won’t be there. Not Rupert, nor Selwyn, nor their wives, nor our married sisters.” He grimaced. “And still, Loughton Manor is swarming with females.”

“As it always is.” Besides their mother, Loughton Manor housed their younger sisters, Cassandra and Nancy, who were not yet out and Fitz’s young daughter, Mary.

“There are guests, George. Female ones.”

Fitz’s gaze glinted with humor.

“Your fiancée?”

Fitz frowned. “No. Miss Parker is at home in Hampshire.” He swirled his brandy with a faraway look.

It had been a little over a year since Fitz lost his wife and newborn son. In September, he’d met Miss Parker at a house party, and become engaged within the week. Father’s death had delayed the nuptials.

The sudden engagement to a girl Fitz had only just met, so soon after his wife’s death, had seemed rash. “Having second thoughts?”

Fitz shrugged. “Rupert and Selwyn are abiding in London for the Yuletide, like sensible sods. Both Mrs. Lovelaces are increasing again. One of them is bound to have a boy.” He topped off George’s glass. “You know, George, you are the only one of us without a Mrs. Lovelace or an intended Mrs. Lovelace.”

He laughed. At the moment, he didn’t even have a mistress. He’d broken off with the last one a year ago when he’d headed to Scotland with his friend the new Duke of Kinmarty. “You’re forgetting James and Edward.”

“I won’t count them until their voices change.” His eyes glinted. “Mother is plotting.”

George called for another tankard. He’d marry when he’d made his own fortune and not before. “May as well spit it out.”

“There’s an heiress afoot. Bound to be mistletoe and kissing boughs everywhere, knowing our sisters. You’ll need capital for your railway, won’t you?”

He swallowed a groan. “So much for the quiet family Christmas while we’re still in mourning.”

“Name’s Charlotte Cartwright. Mother had planned to bring her out with the girls this season, before Father’s death delayed their come-out. They were schoolfriends