“He offered marriage only when he realized he’d been trifling with Lady Sophia Windham. I don’t want my husband served up on a platter of duty and obligation, Mags.”
“You might have to take him that way.” Maggie rose from the chaise and started pacing. “You could be carrying, Soph. All bets are off, then. I won’t let my niece or nephew bear the stigma St. Just and I have put with our entire lives. I’ll march Sindal up the aisle at gunpoint, and St. Just will load the thing for me. I’ll see his—”
“Hush.” Sophie brought Vim’s handkerchief to her nose, finding his scent an odd comfort. “It shouldn’t come to that, and even if it did, Vim is not going to tarry in Kent any longer than necessary. He’d be one of those husbands gone for years at a time—he hates Kent—and I am bound to stay here as long as Kit is here for me to love.
“And then twenty years from now, I can see how marriage to Vim would work: we’d pass each other on the street in Paris, and he’d exchange the most civil and considerate pleasantries with me. I couldn’t bear that. Then too, something is amiss at Sidling, and now is not when Vim ought to be thinking of marriage to inconvenient ducal daughters who practice subterfuge for the worst reasons.”
Maggie stopped abruptly midpace. “Loneliness seldom inspires us to our most rational choices. Is Sindal’s allergy to the family seat related to that to-do all those years ago?”
“I think so. I could ask St. Just. He’d tell me.”
“Or he might not. Men have the oddest sense of loyalty to each other.”
They shared a look, a look such as only adult women could exchange regarding adult men, or the facsimiles thereof strutting about the livelong day in boots and breeches.
“You should call at the curate’s,” Maggie said. “It will distract you from your other problems and assure you the little creature is thriving.”
“What if he isn’t?” Awful, awful thought.
“Do we dote on our brothers?”
“Shamelessly.”
“His foster sisters will be doting on him.”
“I’ll think about it.” The idea tantalized, and Sophie would have been halfway to the stables, except the notion of having to once again part with the child stopped her.
“Come down to dinner while you think about it. The last thing you need is His Grace getting wind you’ve got trouble involving a man. Sindal will leave the shire once and for all, if that’s the case.”
Sophie stuffed Vim’s handkerchief in her pocket, rose, and accompanied her sister to dinner.
* * *
“For God’s sake, Uncle, what can you be about?”
Vim did not raise his voice, for the old man was at the top of a rickety ladder that was held in place by two equally rickety footmen, while the positively ancient butler hovered nearby.
“Hanging the damned kissing bough,” Rothgreb barked. “Your aunt will have it, and until somebody else sees fit to take over the running of this household, I will see that she gets it.”
Guilt, thick and miserable, descended like a cold, wet blanket on Vim’s shoulders as Rothgreb teetered down the ladder.
“I might have done that for you. You had only to ask.” Vim glanced up to see half a bush worth of mistletoe dangling over Sidling’s entrance hall.
“Ask? Bah. I’ve been asking you to come home now for years. What has it gotten me? You lot.” Rothgreb glared at his servants. “You’ll be dusting in here until this thing comes down.” He waved a hand toward the mistletoe. “Only the homely maids and the married ladies will be tarrying in here as long as that’s up there. I’ll not have my house looking neglected when company’s about to descend.”
“Company?” The cold sensation slithered down to Vim’s innards. “I wasn’t aware you and Aunt were entertaining much these days.”
“For a man who’s been my heir for more than ten years, you’re not aware of much when it comes to this place, except the ledgers, my boy.” Rothgreb stepped back so the ladder could be removed. This entailed the combined efforts off all three underlings, who departed at an almost comically deliberate pace.
“They’re deaf as posts when I’m calling for my coat but can hear gossip at fifty paces without missing a word.”
“What company, Uncle? Your letters never mentioned you’d be entertaining over the holidays.” Vim crossed his arms and widened his stance, aware the gestures were defensive even as he made them.
“Not company, then.” Rothgreb rested a hand on the newel post. “Family. Your cousins, all three girls and their delightful offspring. And then we’ve invited a few of the local families over tomorrow afternoon so the girls will have some fellows to catch here in the entrance hall. I’ll make my special punch; her ladyship will hold forth over more cookies and crumpets than His Majesty’s regiments could consume in a week. You’ll attend.”
He would. His uncle wasn’t issuing an order, he was stating a fact. Familial obligations were not something Vim would ever shirk with impunity.
“What time?”
“We usually start after luncheon, so everybody can get home before dark. I expect old Moreland might put in an appearance. He’s grown more sociable with his neighbors in recent years, or perhaps the maids here have grown prettier.”
And that last was offered with cheerful glee, as if Rothgreb knew damned good and well Vim was dying for even a glimpse of Sophie. “I’m going for a ride, Uncle. Don’t wait tea on me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Rothgreb started up the stairs, moving not exactly quickly, but with some purpose. Going off to plot treason with Aunt Essie or make pronouncements to the old hound, no doubt.
As Vim ambled down to the stables, he considered that for all Sidling wasn’t where he wanted to be, his aunt and uncle seemed abundantly happy with their circumstances. The house was in fine shape, the estate books were in fine shape, and Vim was sure when he rode the land, he’d see it was being carefully tended, as well.
He did not need to appoint a new steward, not yet.
“Aunt?”
She sat on a tack trunk, wrapped in an old horse blanket, a carrot in her hands.
“Merciful Powers!” She hopped off the trunk, the blanket falling from her shoulders. “Wilhelm. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“You came down here in just your shawl? Need I remind you, Esmerelda Charpentier, it’s the dead of winter?” Though the stable was protected from the wind, and the horses themselves, particularly the enormous draft teams and the sturdy coach horses, kept the place well above freezing.
“I know what season it is, young man.”
“Then perhaps you’ll allow me to escort you to the house?” He peered at her, unable to read her expression. It might have been some sort of veiled exasperation; it might have been embarrassment at having been caught out wandering.
“I can find my own way up to the house, thank you very much.” She bustled off, only to come to a halt when Vim laid a hand on her arm.
“Humor me, Aunt.” He draped his riding coat over her shoulders and winged his arm at her. She’d either been waiting for her husband to come fetch her back to the house, or she’d been waiting for somebody—anybody—to show her the way home.
* * *
“What is that particularly irritating little air you’re determined to vex our ears with?”
Valentine stopped whistling to smirk at Westhaven’s question and started singing instead. “All we like sheep, have gone astraaaaaay.”
“More Handel.” Sophie interrupted her brother’s little concert. “Seasonally appropriate. You two did not have to accompany me, you know.”
“Nonsense.” Westhaven shot some sort of look at Valentine, who’d lapsed into humming. “I needed to call on the vicar since I’m in the area, and Valentine must tune the piano before the Christmas service.”
“I’m getting very good at tuning pianos,” Valentine said. “A skill to fall back on if my wife ever casts me to the gutter.”
“She won’t,” Sophie replied, patting h
er mare. “She’ll send you visiting your siblings and get her revenge on the whole family.”
“Now, children,” Westhaven started, only to provoke Valentine back into a full-throated baritone recital.
“All we like sheep, have gone astraaaaaaaaaaaaay.”
Westhaven rolled his eyes. “To think my tiny son is all that stands between this braying ass and the Moreland dukedom.”
“I made Sophie smile,” Val said, abruptly ceasing his braying. “My Christmas holiday is a success because I made Sophie smile.” He smiled at her too, a particularly sweet and understanding smile. “Go visit the Demon Seed, Sophie. You’ll feel much better when you’ve changed a nappy and My Lord Baby has cast his accounts upon your dress.”
“Don’t stay too long,” Westhaven said as he helped her off her horse. Sophie went still before her brother’s arms had dropped from her waist.
“That’s Kit.” She listened for a moment more. “That’s his hungry cry. Let me go, now.”
“Sophie.” Westhaven’s grip shifted to her shoulders. “He’s not your baby, and they aren’t going to starve him. There? You see? Already somebody must be stuffing porridge into the bottomless pit located where his stomach ought to be. Calm yourself. You’re Percival and Esther Windham’s sensible daughter, and you’re merely calling as a courtesy.”
Westhaven had the knack of conveying calm with just his voice, but still, Sophie had to rest her forehead on his shoulder for a moment.
“Your package?” Valentine stood beside them, holding out a parcel wrapped in paper. “I’ll be most of the day, wrestling with that old curmudgeon in the church vestibule, but my guess is Westhaven will limit himself to one plate of cookies and two cups of tea.”
A warning. She wasn’t to linger, or her brothers would forcibly remove her from the curate’s little house.
“Come along.” Westhaven put her hand on his arm while Valentine led the horses over to the livery. “Thirty minutes, no more.”
She nodded. They meant well, and right now, Sophie could not trust her own judgment when it came to Kit.
When it came to much of anything.
Westhaven knocked on the door, which was opened by a girl of about six. She grinned, revealing two missing front teeth to go with her two untidy blond braids. “Mama! There’s a man here and a lady!”
Sophie smiled down at the child, who opened the door wide enough to let them pass into the house. “I’m Lady Sophia, and this is Lord Westhaven.”
“I’m Lizabeth! We got a new baby for Christmas, Papa said. His name is Christian, but he’s not really my brother. Mama! The lady’s name is Sophie!” She peered up at Westhaven. “I forget your name.”
Christian? His name was Kit, or even Christopher. Westhaven did not meet Sophie’s eyes.
“You may call me Lord Westhaven.”
“Mama! The man’s name—”
“Elizabeth Ann Harrad. What have I told you about bellowing in the house?” Mrs. Harrad arrived to the foyer, hands on hips. “I beg your pardon, my lady, my lord. Elizabeth, make your curtsy.”
The child flung her upper half forward and down in a bow.
“Very nice,” Sophie said, retuning the gesture in more recognizable form. “Mrs. Harrad, I don’t mean to impose, but my brothers were going this way, and I thought I’d drop a little something off for—Baron Sindal?”
Vim sauntered up behind Mrs. Harrad, Kit perched on his shoulder.
“Sindal.” Westhaven’s greeting was cool. “Mrs. Harrad, felicitations of the season. I’ll be collecting Lady Sophia when I’ve called upon the vicar, if you’ll excuse me?”
He was out the door before Sophie could stop him.
“Lady Sophia.” Vim nodded at her, his smile genial. “We were just having a bit of early luncheon in the kitchen, weren’t we, Mrs. Harrad?”
“If your lordship says so. I’ll fetch Mr. Harrad to make his bow to you, Lady Sophia.” She bustled off as an argument started up elsewhere in the house between two girl children.
Sophie stood there in her cloak, the argument fading, the various smells of the house fading—baking bread, a faint odor of tomcat, coal smoke, and unwashed baby linen. All she perceived was Vim, standing there with his shirtsleeves turned back to the elbows, his eyes the exact shade of blue as Kit’s.
“His dress is dirty.” Sophie glanced around, hoping Mrs. Harrad wasn’t close at hand to overhear her.
“These things will happen when man flings his porridge in all directions,” Vim said. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck with him?”
“Mary and Louise are arguing again,” Elizabeth reported, her gaze going from Sophie to Vim. “That’s why Papa must keep the door to his study closed all the time. Because they always argue, and Mama yells at them, but they never stop.”
Vim smiled at the child. “Tell them Lady Sophia complimented your curtsy. Then you can argue with them too.” He winked at the child, and she scampered off.
And thus, for a moment, Sophie was alone with Vim and Kit, her gaze devouring the sight of them.
“How are you?”
“It’s good to see you.”
They spoke at the same time, and as each took one step toward the other, Mr. Harrad came bustling up the hallway, followed by his wife.
“Lady Sophia, my apologies. I wasn’t aware we had more company. Do come in. My dear, can you take Lady’s Sophia’s wrap?”
He spoke pleasantly, but a hint of rebuke laced his tone. An instant’s hesitation on Mrs. Harrad’s part could have become awkward, but Kit chose that moment to start waving his arms in Sophie’s direction and babbling.
“Here.” Sophie shrugged out of her cloak. “May I hold him?”
“He seems to like being carried about,” Mrs. Harrad said, hanging Sophie’s cloak on a peg. “My girls weren’t quite as demanding.”
Sophie ignored the word choice, ignored whatever currents were passing between husband and wife, ignored even the pleasure of brushing her hand over Vim’s as they passed the baby between them.
“My Lord Baby,” she said softly, cuddling him close. “You were about to wake the watch with your racket.” She glanced up at Vim. “Was he done eating?”
“Not nearly,” Vim said. “Perhaps we might take our tea in the kitchen? I’m sure Lady Sophia would enjoy spending some time with her young friend.”
Mr. Harrad shrugged; his wife looked resigned. They were both blond, a little on the slight side, and had a tired, harried look to them.
“Has he been running you ragged?” Sophie asked Mrs. Harrad. “Kit, I mean.”
Mrs. Harrad glanced at the baby in Sophie’s arms. “It’s just that he’s a boy. My husband wanted a boy, but they’re not the same as girls, and this one is fussy.”
He wasn’t the least fussy, Sophie wanted to retort. Kit was curled happily in her arms, his little fingers batting at her chin and mouth. “Has he been crawling much?”
Mrs. Harrad looked down, and before she could answer, they’d arrived to a big, warm kitchen redolent with the scent of baking bread. “I can offer you fresh bread with your tea.”
“Don’t go to any bother, please.” Sophie sat so she could put Kit on her lap. “Lord Westhaven will be collecting me before I could do your bread justice.” She picked up an adult-sized teaspoon and frowned at it. Had they been feeding Kit with this?
“It suffices,” Vim said quietly from his seat beside her. “You just have to give him a moment to work at it.”
The sound of his voice had Kit grinning and bouncing on Sophie’s lap.
The next minutes passed in a blur, with Kit slurping down a quantity of plain, cold porridge, Vim making small talk with their host and hostess, and Sophie trying to store up a pleasant memory of spending time with Kit.
It was difficult. The baby’s dress was dirty, which, true enough, could happen in five minutes flat, but his fingernails were also dirty, and the fat little creases of his baby-neck were grimy. There was a red scratch down the length of one arm, and when
all three girls came bellowing and stampeding into the kitchen, Kit began to cry.
He cried more loudly when Mrs. Harrad began to scold, and Sophie herself felt an urge to cry.
“…So we’ll just be going.” Vim held her chair as he spoke, but the last thing Sophie wanted was to abandon Kit in the middle of this pandemonium.
She tried to communicate this to Vim with a look, but he remained standing above her, his gaze steady, while one of the girls pulled the other’s hair and ran from the room. Mrs. Harrad followed in high dudgeon, and Mr. Harrad stood at the door to the hallway looking stoic.
“It isn’t always quite this lively,” he said when they’d reached the foyer. “The children are very excited to have young Christian with us, and then too, I’m a bit preoccupied. Vicar has given me the sermon for Christmas Day, which is quite an honor.”
“I’m sure things will settle down once the girls get used to having a baby brother,” Vim said, holding Sophie’s cloak out to her.
But if she took the cloak, she’d have to give Kit up.
“Is there a reason you’ve changed his name?” she asked while Vim arranged the cloak around her shoulders.
“I’m a curate, Lady Sophia. A son named Christian seemed fitting, if a bit optimistic, given this one’s origins.” He nodded at the baby, his gaze speculative. “Missus says he’s more demanding than the girls, but we’ll be patient with him.”
He smiled at Sophie, a tired, charitable smile that made her want to scream. Vim took the child from her, and she gave him up, feeling as if the heart had been torn from her chest.
“We appreciate all you’re doing for the boy,” Vim said. “My regards to your wife. Lady Sophia?”
He passed the baby to the curate, who looked a little surprised. By the time Vim had Sophie bustled out the door, Kit was beginning to fuss again.
“I can’t bear this.” The words were out of her mouth before Vim had dragged her two steps from the door. “Kit is not thriving there. He’s barely noticed amid all the squabbling and noise. He isn’t bathed, he isn’t clean, they aren’t patient enough with him at feeding, those girls are jealous of him. He’ll never—”
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