Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,74

here.”

That was Fitz. Who was with him?

“Sophie, is it?”

Lovelace was here, and his tone held contempt.

“It’s not like that, George.”

“Hmm. She’s grown even comelier with age.”

She pressed a hand to her hammering heart. She’d felt his attraction, both when he’d ogled her during dinner, and later, with that kiss. Now, all she heard was disdain.

Were all men false when they were out of earshot?

“Are you interested, George? I should protest, perhaps challenge you. I’m the nearest thing to a protector…Not that sort of protector. I’m sole guardian of her boys.”

“Sole?”

“The other died. Glanford, with his usual attention to his responsibilities, never amended his arrangements before he cocked up his heels.”

“I see.”

She drew nearer, holding her breath for whatever else Fitz might reveal.

“Mother told me she simply appeared a week ago,” Lovelace said.

Heat rose in her cheeks. While she’d been overseeing the girls, George Lovelace and Lady Loughton had been gossiping about her.

“A countess traveling alone with her boys—your wards—by public coach.”

Still a vulgar upstart, that Sophie Clark. She held her breath through another long pause and finally Fitz spoke.

“You are interested. She hasn’t a farthing, and you need money for your railway scheme. The heiress is a better bet.”

“Miss Cartwright is a child.”

“A child with a sizeable dowry. Sophie’s is gone. She’d bring nothing to a marriage but two extra mouths, and for you to keep her might subject my wards to scandal. And deplete your purse, and I know how prudent you are about money. Though I suppose, whatever might happen here between the two of you under the mistletoe…” Fitz laughed. “No, there are too many small ears and eyes about, besides Mother’s. Don’t even try it.”

Angry tears sprang to her eyes, and she beat them back. She was a widow, and to the men of the ton, widows were fair game. Fitz and his brother were still thoughtless and just as calculating as every other nobleman.

Head pounding, she hurried past the door. Her conversation with Fitz would keep.

She found her way to the narrow servants’ stairs, where the upstart Sophie Clark belonged.

Moments earlier

“Still awake?”

Fitz looked up and grunted, holding out an empty glass. “Pour me one, will you, George?”

“As if we haven’t had enough for one day.” He took the glass.

Unable to sleep, George had rummaged through an old wardrobe for a dressing gown and then headed down to the library. As he’d expected, he found Fitz by the fire, boots propped on the fender, still fully dressed.

Good, because he had questions.

He filled two glasses and took the opposite wingchair.

“Here’s to Father,” Fitz said.

George raised his tumbler and drank, deciding how to begin. Fitz was his older brother, and the head of the family now. He owed him some deference. On the other hand, they were brothers and Fitz was conducting himself like an ass. Plus, he needed to finish here and attend to his own business.

So, the direct approach. “What the devil is going on with you, Fitz? Mother wrote me that you’ve been in a funk.”

Fitz’s feet plopped to the floor.

“Don’t leave,” George said. “I’ve hardly had a chance to speak to you.”

“We had all afternoon at the Swan.”

“Which we spent mostly discussing horses. Tell me, what is Glanford’s widow doing here?”

Fitz’s eyes focused. “You don’t wish to ask about the heiress?”

He was deflecting. The late Earl of Glanford was a sore subject to Fitz.

“I’m as surprised as you are to find Sophie here,” Fitz said.

“Sophie, is it?”

Fitz waved a hand. “It’s not like that.”

“Hmm. She’s grown comelier with age.”

Fitz eyed him over his glass and smiled slyly. “Are you interested, George? I should protest, perhaps challenge you. I’m the nearest thing to a protector—” He held up a hand. “Not that sort of protector. I’m sole guardian of her two boys.”

“Sole?”

“The other died. Glanford, with his usual attention to his responsibilities, never amended his arrangements before he cocked up his heels.”

“I see.”

Fitz harrumphed and fell deep into frowning.

“Mother said she simply appeared a week ago.” George swirled the brandy, watching his brother out of the corner of his eye. “A countess traveling alone with her boys—your wards—by public coach.”

Of course, Mother wouldn’t—couldn’t, by all that was honorable—turn her or her boys away.

Fitz lounged back, his gaze hooded. “You are interested. She hasn’t a farthing, and you need money for your railway scheme. The heiress is a better bet.”

“Miss Cartwright is a child.” He stood and fetched a bottle from the sideboard.

“A child with a sizeable dowry. Sophie’s is gone. She’d bring nothing to a