Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,90

doubt you’ll be up before I leave.”

“What?”

At the door, she fixed him with a determined gaze. “This won’t continue any longer. I’m going after Fitz, and he will speak to me.”

You will not. “You don’t know where he is.”

“I do, as a matter of fact. Willa has uncovered his location.”

A rebuke froze on his tongue and he watched the door close on her.

The stubborn, headstrong woman. He’d no more let her go off on her own to a gentlemen’s hunting party then…

Dear God. There’d be little or no rest for him tonight.

At the desk, he reviewed the file of Glanford’s unpaid vowels. Sophie had the right of it: it was an ungodly amount. Not impossible, but it would take years and tight purse strings to manage. The loans had begun around the time Father assigned his heir more authority over the Loughton estate.

Fitz had his own small income, but not enough for those loans. Father had handed over the estate management to his eldest, while his second, third, and fourth sons managed investments. Fitz had dipped into the estate funds.

No wonder Fitz was dodging his family. He’d jeopardized Loughton’s financial security. Sophie couldn’t repay him, so he was struggling to pay others.

George swiped a hand through his hair. He or one of his other brothers should have uncovered this.

He reached for the letters and flipped through them. They were all from Sophie to Fitz, the wax on each unbroken. He put them in date order and began cracking the seals one by one.

As the light sputtered, he collected everything and found his way to his mother’s bedchamber. He wouldn’t tell her his plans in a note, even if it meant waking her.

Besides, Mother was never one to hide from the truth. She preferred to know what was going on. She was the strongest woman he knew.

And Sophie was much like her.

Unable to sleep, Sophie rose early and was donning her warmest clothes when someone knocked at her bedchamber door. Willa peeked in from the dressing room.

“You’re up?” the maid asked. “Who’s aknocking at this hour?”

“Shhh. Go back to bed.” She crossed to the door.

Lady Loughton’s abigail curtsied. “Her ladyship wishes you to join her for breakfast in her private parlor.”

“Now?” The delay would set back her plans. She’d hoped to travel to Melton Mowbray and be back by nightfall. She disliked the thought of spending Christmas eve in an inn, away from her boys.

She would do so though, if she must. Now that she’d made up her mind, she wouldn’t turn back.

And she’d be able to ask Lady Loughton in person to keep her boys for the duration of her travels instead of leaving a note. “Let me just finish dressing and I’ll be right along.”

Late the next afternoon…

Once Fitz knew the excuse for George’s late morning rousting, he’d shaken off his hangover, had his horse saddled, and begged a fresh horse for George.

Fitz would be madder than Hades when he discovered the lie, but so be it. Mother would deal with him.

A vigilant groom met them in the drive, and the butler opened the door before their boots touched the first step.

“How is Lady Loughton,” Fitz asked. “Has the doctor been called?”

Biggs blinked.

“Never mind, Biggs.” George tossed his hat and greatcoat, and nudged Fitz toward the stairs. “Seeing her first-born might just be the tonic she needs, despite your two days-worth of beard.”

At the door to Mother’s bedchamber, Fitz turned on him. “How can you make light of this?”

George reached around him, knocked, and turned the latch.

Mother sat at a table near the fire, a little girl on her lap.

“Papa.” Mary jumped off and ran to Fitz.

He swept her up into his arms, his gaze fixed on the older lady. “You are well, Mother?”

“I am now. Or I will be soon.”

“Grandmama and I napped together, and now we are reading a book.”

Fitz frowned and turned a puzzled look on George.

“You must thank George for bringing you home in time for Christmas,” Mother said. “I dare say he’s had a very long day of hard riding. Mary, Uncle George will take you back to the nursery, and your papa will pay you a visit after he has had his dinner.” She pulled over the stack of letters George had given her in the wee hours. “Fitz, you will come and sit down with me.”

“Let me go and change—”

“No. Sit down now, my son. George, have the kitchen send up coffee and a tray.” She called the little girl over for