Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,85

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.

Please convey my warmest Yuletide greetings to Lady Loughton and Lord Loughton.

With kindest regards, etc.

J. Ellison

He paced to the window. The snowfall had ceased, and the sky had cleared, a bright moon lighting this pristine landscape.

Magical, she’d called it.

The kissing that followed had certainly been magical. The snowball fight as well. The lady had gone from proper, to passionate, to playful in three beats of his heart. If she returned to her home instead of traveling to London, he would escort her. Glanford’s estate was in Lancashire.

He scanned the letter again.

A guardian who didn’t answer letters, a widow, an owner quietly gaining title to land…

In payment of a gambling debt, perhaps?

Could it be? Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the late Lord Glanford had held the losing hand.

The dinner gong sounded, and he hastened to dress, anxious to see her.

He’d promised to help her. He’d spent the morning in the study going over the Loughton accounts. After dinner, he must see what documents Fitz was holding about young Glanford’s estate.

Chapter Nine

Seated down the table from Sophie, George caught only snippets of her conversation with Cartwright.

She’d been the last to appear for dinner, but she’d used the time preparing well. The daring green gown sported beadwork and lace that made up for her lack of jewelry. Tonight, a wide ribbon circled her neck in lieu of the garnet cross. Cartwright, the