Chapter 1
Loughton Manor, Leicestershire
Two carriages sat waiting outside Loughton Manor, the elegant Palladian manor that was home to several members of the very large, very prosperous Lovelace family.
Lord Loughton, his lady, and his mother, resided there as well as his remaining two unmarried siblings when they were not at school.
A large wreathe of evergreens and red ribbons decorated the open front door, and more evergreen boughs coiled around the porch pillars.
While horses shifted in their traces, eager to finally be off on the sunny but very cold morning, Neda Lovelace, the dowager Lady Loughton, stood just inside, staring at a letter handed to her earlier that morning by their butler, Biggs.
Her eldest, Fitz, his wife, and their children had departed days ago for the family’s Yuletide gathering. Neda’s newly married daughter, Nancy and her husband, Simon the Duke of Swillingstone, were hosting the holiday party at their Derbyshire home.
Her two youngest boys were to travel directly from their school in Rugby, along with Arthur, Lord Glanford, the stepson of Neda’s son George. It was something of a daring adventure for three boys alone, but at fourteen, thirteen and twelve, they were old enough.
Another last-minute guest had been added as well. She crumpled the offending letter carrying the bad news, wondering whether she should spend her Christmas at home alone and avoid being plagued, and worse, sorely tempted.
What sort of excuse could she make?
“I have your small case here for the coach, my lady,” her maid, Barnham said. “Patrick has stowed the trunks and packages with the gifts on the baggage coach and—”
A bellow and raised voices from the back of the house had them both turning.
The look crossing Barnham’s face said that man again, but the maid’s thin lips primmed even tighter on the words.
Barnham was a recent hire, and as stuffy a lady’s maid as anyone could ask for.
Perhaps too stuffy for the lively Lovelace household.
Neda hadn’t quite decided whether she wanted to keep her on.
With the slightest of frowns and a bow, Biggs, hovering nearby, excused himself and went to investigate the argument that had grown fiercer.
The voice was that of their new cook. Fitz had taken a notion to hire the histrionic Frenchman when their old cook retired. He’d done so without consulting the lady of the house—either of them, his wife, or his mother.
No delicate souffle was worth the upset among the kitchen staff. The current Lady Loughton hadn’t had the heart to chastise Fitz for dabbling in her domain, and Neda had held off from interfering.
No longer, though. “Barnham, I must see to this. You go on ahead in the baggage carriage, and I’ll follow in the coach presently.”
Biggs might handle the immediate problem in the kitchen, but the new cook needed to be dismissed and replaced. Her daughter-in-law would thank her later for her meddling.
The role of chatelaine had been hard to relinquish when her widowed son Fitz inherited and remarried. Sooner or later Neda must remove herself to the dower house.
She’d just dash off a note to the steward to handle the matter.
“My lady?” Barnham prodded.
Neda took the valise from her and shooed her on, then beckoned the coachman, Martin. An old family retainer, the sturdy fellow had put each of the Lovelace children on his or her first pony and had risen from groom to his current station.
“Squawking again, is he,” Martin muttered.
She ignored his impertinence—he was impervious to corrections anyway. “Send the baggage coach on with my maid. We’ll leave in a few minutes and catch up later.”
He left, grumbling about the horses standing out in the cold too long.
She smoothed out the unwelcome letter from her daughter.
The guest Nancy had added to the Yuletide party could only stay a few days and would leave well before Christmas eve.
Dealing with the cook would not delay her departure long enough to avoid him.
Perhaps she could take a longer route to Derbyshire or stay longer at each stop.
In the library, she took pains with her note for the steward, then returned to the hall, contemplating other ways to delay her travel.
Outside, the coach with the baggage had disappeared, but a rider was approaching at a gallop.
Bad news? Had some one of her children or grandchildren fallen ill? Had her daughter Nancy miscarried?
Alarmed, she stepped out, barely feeling the cold.
Biggs had settled the dispute in the kitchen and hurried past her to accept an express. He passed coins to the rider, who refused hospitality, lifted his hat, and turned back down the lane.
In the courtyard, Martin paced while a groom soothed the restless horses.
The letter Biggs handed her was addressed to Lord Loughton, but a glance at the seal showed that it had been sent a few days earlier from the school her two youngest, James and Edward attended. The letter had been misdirected more than once.
She breathed a silent prayer that neither of her sons was ill or injured, and with shaking fingers, cracked the seal and unfolded the paper.
Fourteen-year-old James had departed the school without permission along with a friend. Under close questioning, Edward had finally revealed the boys were traveling to witness a prize fight at an inn near Kettering.
Dear James. If he was in her clutches right now, she’d be tempted to birch him soundly, something she’d never done.
Perhaps she ought to have. What was she to do with him?
She beckoned Martin, thinking. Kettering wasn’t far, but it was in the opposite direction of Derbyshire.
If she traveled there to fetch James, and then went on to Rugby for Edward, she would certainly delay her arrival at the Yuletide party.
Lindhorst would be gone before Christmas eve.
She could dodge the pesky, flirtatious, too-handsome-for-his-own-good earl.
Too handsome and a full eight years younger than herself.
Well then; she’d gather up James and his unnamed friend, and then they’d fetch Edward at school, and travel on to Derbyshire and with luck arrive after Lindhorst’s departure.
“What do you know about a prizefight near Kettering?” she asked Martin.
He lifted his hat and scratched his head. “Kettering?”
“Don’t play stupid, Martin.”
He had the nerve to chuckle.
Over the years, he’d snatched one Lovelace boy or another out of inns, rescued them from the occasional brawl before too much damage had been done, and covered up other indiscretions. He had his finger on the pulse of all the illicit activities a young gentleman might get into.
“Yes, Kettering,” she said. “On the way there, I’ll consult my copy of Paterson’s Roads. We will ask at the inns along the way.”