“Sophie.” He made no move to touch her. She fell silent and sank to her knees on the rug and blankets.
“They’ll think the worst,” she said. “I don’t want them to think ill of me, Vim. Mr. Charpentier, oh—bother. What do I call you?”
He stopped short in the process of turning Kit loose among his blankets. “If I’m to call you Lady Sophia, you might consider calling me Lord Sindal.”
Her brows flew up, then down. “You’re titled?”
“A courtesy title, much like your own, but humbler. I’m heir to the Rothgreb viscountcy. Baron Sindal.”
“Oh. My goodness.” She did meet his gaze then, and he saw understanding and relief in her eyes. “You did not tell me because you thought I was just a what… a lady’s companion? A housekeeper?”
“Something like that. Mostly I thought you were lovely.” He still did. “What do we tell your brothers, Sophie? They’ve left us these few moments out of respect for you, but they’ll be in here any minute, crockery be damned.”
“I suppose we tell them as little as possible.”
It wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear, though the constraints of honor allowed him one further attempt to secure his heart’s desire. “I will offer for you, if that’s what you want.” Offer for her again. He kept the hope from his voice only with effort.
Though from the severe frown Sophie displayed, a renewed offer wasn’t what she sought from him. “I won’t ask it of you.”
He was marshalling his arguments mentally when Lord Valentine came to the door, a tray in his hands. “You will pardon me for not knocking.” He lifted the tray a few inches and shot Vim a challenging look. “Scoot over, Soph. Westhaven is counting his candies, and St. Just is fetching some libation. What’s the little blighter’s name?”
“Kit. Christopher Elijah Handel.”
Valentine lowered himself to the sofa, which had the agreeable result that Sophie shifted closer to Vim on the carpet. “Any relation to the composer?”
“I doubt it.”
“Relax, Sophie.” Lord Val nudged her with his toe. “The elders will take their cue from you, or I’ll make them wish they had. May I offer you a sandwich, Charpentier? Even a condemned prisoner is entitled to a last meal.”
The smile accompanying this gracious offer would have suited one of the large feline denizens of the Royal Menagerie.
“My thanks. Sophie, would you care for a bite?”
“That’s Lady Sophia, to you, Charpentier.” Lord Valentine’s reminder was quite, quite casually offered.
Sophie reached for the sandwich while she shot her brother a glare. “Thank you, Lord Sindal.”
She took a ladylike nibble then passed the sandwich back to Vim as Lord Valentine placidly demolished his own portion.
“You might have waited for us,” St. Just said. He, too, had arrived carrying a tray, but this one had a decanter and several glasses on it. Westhaven brought up the rear, closing the parlor door behind him.
One lowly servants’ parlor had probably never held quite so many titles at one time nor so much tension. Sophie’s expression would have suited a woman facing excommunication, but her brothers were apparently satisfied to put off her trial until they’d eaten.
“Another bite, Lady Sophia?” Vim held out the second half of his sandwich, mostly to aggravate her brothers.
“Thank you, no. I’ve had quite enough to eat today.”
“Is he teething?” Westhaven asked the question as he took a place in the wing chair near the fire. His brothers—just the two of them—took up the entire sofa, leaving Vim, Sophie, and the baby on the floor.
“I don’t know,” Sophie said, passing out the remaining sandwiches.
“He drools a great deal,” Westhaven observed. “If he hasn’t sprouted fangs yet, he will soon, and you can forget forever after whatever pretenses you had to peace of mind. Where were you thinking of fostering him?”
Lord Val started to pour drinks. “The Foundling Hospital ought to take him. His namesake set the place up with a fine organ, and Kit probably fits their criteria.”
St. Just looked preoccupied, and the sandwich Sophie had passed him only a moment ago was nowhere in sight. “What criteria are those?”
“He’s a firstborn,” Lord Val said. “His mother is in difficulties though otherwise of good character, and his papa is nowhere to be found.” He passed Vim a drink as he spoke.
“He won’t be going to the Foundling Hospital,” Vim said. The relief on Sophie’s face was hard to look on. “Soph—Lady Sophia will find him a family to foster with in the country.”
St. Just sat forward to accept a drink from Lord Val. “Is that what you want, Sophie?”
Vim did not answer for her, though he saw the indecision in her eyes.
“I think that would be best for Kit. A fellow needs brothers and sisters, and fresh air, and a family.” To a man, Sophie’s brothers found somewhere else to look besides their sister’s face.
“We have larger concerns to occupy us,” Westhaven said, dusting his hands. “I’m sure Their Graces will assist in finding a situation for the child, but your circumstances here, Sophie, leave much to be explained.”
He took a sip of his drink, letting the silence stretch with the cunning and calculation of a barrister. Vim wanted to put a staying hand on Sophie’s arm, or even cover her mouth with his hand, but the sodding buggers were right: they needed to get their story organized if Sophie’s reputation wasn’t to be tarnished beyond all repair.
“The storm helps you,” Lord Val said, lifting his sister’s hand and putting a drink in it. “Nobody was out and about, nobody was socializing.”
“Hardly anybody,” St. Just said. “We called at the Chattell’s, and a tipsy footman told us the family had departed for Surrey, and you were headed for Kent with your brothers.”
“It’s accurate,” Westhaven said, “provided nobody inquires too closely about the timing.”
Lord Val sat back, his drink cradled in his lap. “How do we explain him? If he’s Sindal, that makes him old Rothgreb’s heir, though a grown-up version compared to the one I recall from years ago.”
“You’re on your way to Kent?” St. Just asked.
“I am.”
“Then to Kent you shall go, traveling in company with us.” St. Just glanced over at Westhaven, suggesting Westhaven occupied a place of authority regarding family matters.
“That will serve,” Westhaven said. “But confirm for us, first, Charpentier, or Sindal, that you are half brother to Benjamin Hazlit.”
Benjamin, who according to Sophie had handled some administrative matters for Their Graces—which could mean anything. That these men would know of the connection between brothers was… curious.
“Hazlit is my half brother,” Vim said. “He is not in Town at present, to my knowledge.” There was no telling with Ben. The man never outright lied, but he raised discretion to a high, arcane art.
Lord Valentine cocked his head and regarded his sister. “Does this complicate matters, that he’s related to Hazlit?”
“Watch him!” Westhaven was half out of his chair as all eyes turned to Kit. Sophie was calmly prying the dangling end of an embroidered table runner from the child’s grasp, while the men in the room collectively sat back and took a sip of their drinks.
“He nearly brought the entire platter down on his head,” Westhaven said. “It’s a dangerous age, infancy.”
“He’s a wonderful baby,” Sophie said, tucking the table runner out of reach. “He’s just starting to crawl.”
St. Just snorted. “Not in earnest, or that table runner would be nowhere in sight. Emmie and I have boxes of things, pretty, breakable, ornamental things that had to disappear from sight when my younger daughter started crawling.”
Lord Valentine frowned at the baby. “I believe we were discussing Sindal’s connection with Hazlit before Disaster Incarnate here upstaged the topic.”
“My Lord Baby will do,” Sophie said, s
ending Lord Valentine a reproving look.
“It’s like this. Charpentier, Sindal, or whoever you are.” Westhaven also regarded the child as he spoke, or perhaps he regarded Sophie and the baby both. “The Windham family owes your brother a debt of… consideration. Both Lord Valentine and myself would find ourselves removed from our wives’ charity did we not extend Hazlit’s relation some courtesy.”
Vim passed Sophie a serviette to wipe the drool from Kit’s little maw. For as much upheaval as the child had endured, he seemed to be enjoying a room full of Sophie’s siblings.
“Your wives frown on dueling?” Vim asked.
“Her Grace frowns on dueling,” Lord Valentine supplied. “Rather ruins a young man’s reputation, when his fellows know his mama won’t allow him to duel.”
“But as we’re no longer young,” St. Just added, “we might be persuaded to make an exception for you, Sindal.”
“Most kind of you.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Don’t encourage them. There’s a child present.”
“And a lady,” Westhaven said. “I propose we simply proceed to Kent, and as far as the world is concerned, we’re traveling with Sindal for the convenience of all parties. The three of us have been resting here for several days in the company of our sister before setting out for the country. Sindal did not join the household until Sophie’s relations were already on the scene.”
Vim watched Sophie carefully, trying to pick up a reaction from her to this planned deception. A ducal family could pull off such a subterfuge, particularly this ducal family, and particularly if there was only one tipsy footman to gainsay them.
“Soph?” Lord Valentine tapped her knee with the toe of his boot. “You want some time to consider your options?”
The baby chose that moment to toddle forth on his hands and knees, squealing with glee when he’d covered the two feet between Sophie’s side and St. Just’s boots.
“A headlong charge into enemy territory can see a fellow taken prisoner.” St. Just lifted the baby under the arms and brought the child up to face level.
Kit grinned, swiped at St. Just’s nose, and emitted such sounds as to establish beyond doubt that a certain fellow’s nappy was thoroughly soiled.
“Gah!”
“Gah, indeed.” St. Just kept the child at arm’s length. “Westhaven, you have a son. I nominate you.”
“Valentine needs the practice.”
Vim took the baby from St. Just’s grasp and headed for the laundry. As he left the parlor, he heard Lord Valentine softly observe, “You know, Soph, most men with any backbone can calmly accept the threat of a duel to preserve a lady’s honor, but it’s a brave man indeed who can deal with a dirty nappy without even being asked.”
“Your timing is deplorable,” Vim told the malodorous, grinning baby. “But I think you’ve given Sophie’s brothers their first reason to pause before they call me out.”
“Bah!”
* * *
“They are up to something.” Sophie kept her voice down as Vim handed her a clean nappy, lest they or someone else in the inn’s common overhear her.
Vim tickled Kit’s cheek. “I don’t think your brothers are waiting to call me out, if that’s what you’re implying.”
Sophie passed him the folded up soiled linen. “They might. Devlin used to kill people for his living. Valentine arranged a very bad fate for one of his wife’s relations, and Westhaven has been known to be ruthless where Anna’s welfare is concerned. You can’t trust them.”
“They trust you, Sophie.” Vim put his finger on the tape Sophie was tying into a bow. “They trust I’m not suicidal enough to make advances to you in their very company.”
She wanted to ask him if that was why he’d kept his distance, but Valentine came sauntering up.
“Our meal will be served in the private dining room. The Imp of Satan smells a good deal better.”
“You were just such an imp not so very long ago,” Sophie reminded him. “Did you check on the horses?”
“Your precious friends are knee-deep in straw and munching contentedly on fresh hay. I watched with my own eyes while St. Just fed them their oats, which oats did not hit the bottom of the bucket but were consumed by a process of inhalation I’ve never seen before. I intend to emulate it if they ever serve dinner here.”
Something passed between the men—a glance, a look, a particular way of breathing at each other.
“I’ll take Kit.” Vim lifted the child from the settle where Sophie had been changing the baby’s nappy. “Does this place have a cradle?”
He addressed the question to Val, who shrugged. “I understand how to bed down a horse; I understand how to keep my wife safe and content. These creatures”—he gestured at Kit—“confound me entirely.”
“But the King’s English does not,” Sophie said before the breathing got out of hand. “Go ask if they have a cradle, and if they do, have it placed in my chamber.” She spun him by his prodigiously broad shoulders and gave the middle of his back a shove.
“St. Just or Westhaven will be along momentarily,” Vim said, rubbing noses with the baby. “They aren’t complete fools.”
“Do they think I’m going to have my wicked way with you right here in the common?” Sophie hated the exasperated note in her voice, hated the way Vim slowly turned his head to assess her, as if he wasn’t quite sure he recognized the shrew standing there, hands on her hips, hems soaked, hair a fright.
“Is it your courses?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My sisters grow… sensitive when their courses approach.” He went back to having his nose-duel with the baby, while Sophie fisted both hands and prayed for patience.
“I am traveling in the company of my three older brothers and the man with whom I violated every rule of polite society, as well as a baby whom I will have to give up when we reach Morelands, and all you can think is that my—”
He did not kiss her, though she hoped he might be considering it, even here, even with her brothers stomping around nearby. He regarded her gravely then passed her the baby.
“Because if it’s not your courses, then perhaps it’s all that rule violating we did that has you so overset. Or maybe it’s that we got caught violating those rules. I am willing to answer for my part of it, Sophie, duke’s daughter or not. I think your brothers know that.”
He glanced around then leaned in and brushed his nose against hers.
Leaving Sophie not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
* * *
“Lady Sophia sends her regrets. She’ll be taking a tray in her room.” Westhaven settled into a chair as he spoke, then reached across the table and appropriated a drink from his brother’s ale while Vim watched.
Lord Valentine slapped his brother’s wrist. “Which means we don’t have to take turns passing Beelzebub around while we pretend we’re having a civil meal. Is Sophie truly fatigued, or is she being female?”
“Can’t tell,” Westhaven said. “She’s probably worn out, worrying about the child. Valentine, if you value your fingers, you will put that roll back until we’ve said the blessing.”
Lord Valentine took a bite of the roll then set it back in the basket.
“Think of it as playing house,” Devlin St. Just—also the Earl of Rosecroft, though he apparently eschewed use of the title—suggested. “Westhaven gets to be the papa, Val is the baby, and I am the one who refuses to indulge in such inanity. For what we are about to receive, as well as for infants and sisters who travel fairly well, and snowstorms that hold off for one more freezing damned day, we’re grateful. Amen.”
Before the last syllable was out of St. Just’s mouth, Lord Val had retrieved his roll.
They ate in silence for a few moments, food disappearing as if it were indeed being inhaled. Vim figured it was some kind test too, and aimed his question at St. Just.
“To what do we attribute Goliath’s miraculous recovery? He was off when I tried to take him from Town yest
erday, and today he’s dead sound.”
St. Just lifted his mug and peered into the contents. “Higgins explained that Goliath is a horse of particulars. Westhaven, did Valentine spit in my mug?”
Westhaven rolled his eyes as he glanced at first one brother then the other. “For God’s sake, nobody spat in your damned mug. Pass the butter and drop the other shoe. What manner of horse of particulars is Sophie’s great beast?”
“He does not like to travel too far from Sophie. He’ll tool around Town all day with Sophie at the ribbons. He’ll take her to Surrey, he’ll haul her the length and breadth of the Home Counties, but if he’s separated from his lady beyond a few miles, he affects a limp.”
“He affects a limp?” Vim picked up his mug and did not look too closely at the contents. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ve never heard of.” Westhaven shot him a peevish look. “I’ve never heard of my sister, a proper, sensible woman, spending a week holed up with a strange man and allowing that man unspeakable liberties.”
Lord Val paused in the act of troweling butter on another roll. “Kissing isn’t unspeakable. We know the man slept in my bed, else he’d be dead by now.”
And thank God that Sophie hadn’t obliterated the evidence of their separate bedrooms.
“I have offered your sister the protection of my name,” Vim said. “More than once. She has declined that honor.”
“We know.” Lord Val put down his second roll uneaten. “This has us in a quandary. We ought to be taking you quite to task, but with Sophie acting so out of character, it’s hard to know how to go on. I’m for beating you on general principles. Westhaven wants a special license, and St. Just, as usual, is pretending a wise silence.”
“Not a wise silence,” St. Just said, picking up Lord Val’s roll and studying it. “I wonder how many cows you keep employed with this penchant you have for butter. You could write a symphony to the bovine.”
Lord Val snatched his roll back. “Admit it, St. Just, you’ve no more clue what’s to be done here than I do or Westhaven does.”
“Or I do.” The words were out of Vim’s mouth without his intention to speak them. But in for a penny… “I want Sophie to be happy. I do not know how to effect that result.”
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