Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,3
though the evidence presented to Vim’s nose was unassailable. A child subsisting exclusively on mother’s milk wasn’t half as odoriferous as Kit had just been.
Vim flicked the reins, and the chestnut behemoth in the traces moved off. “Where are we heading?”
She rattled off an address on one of the great squares of Mayfair, prompting Vim to wonder just whom he was escorting.
Sophie Windham was well spoken, but she was also driving herself around London in the dead of winter. Her clothing was well made but not fancy enough to suggest wealth. She had the brisk competence of a housekeeper, and a position in service would explain her lack of familiarity with child care, as domestics seldom married.
“You were traveling today, Mr. Charpentier?” She’d relented and was holding the child against her body, despite the baby-stink emanating from the bundle in her arms.
“Heading to the family seat for the much-vaunted holidays.” The family seat, such as it was, for the holidays, such as they were. His tone of voice must have given him away, for she shot him a look. He could feel her scrutinizing his profile and see her female brain choosing the most delicate way to frame an awkward question.
But she said nothing.
“What about you?” He glanced over at her. “Is London home, or should you be traveling somewhere to join your family for Christmas?”
“My brothers are coming through Town later in the week. We’ll journey to Kent together, assuming they all arrive safe and sound.”
“How many brothers do you have?”
“I had five. Thanks to consumption and the Corsican, I now have three.” Her voice hadn’t wavered, hadn’t revealed any particular sentiment, but she cradled the child closer.
“I am sorry for your losses.”
She was quiet for a moment, while around them, the flurries were becoming a light, regular snow. She spoke just when he’d thought the topic closed. “My brother Victor died this time of year. I don’t think my parents will spend another Christmas in Town for some time. We’re still trying to find our balance with it.”
He had no idea what to say to that. The lady fell silent, as well, suggesting the admission wasn’t comfortable for her either. “This is a fairly recent loss?”
She nodded. “You can turn up that alley there; it will lead to our mews two blocks up.”
Not surprisingly, the alley was relatively free of snow. The neighborhood was such that droves of servants would be available to move snow, to dig out the stables, to shovel off and then sweep the walks and garden pathways.
“My father died at Christmas, as well,” he said as the horse trotted along. “He was not a well man in my lifetime. I think my mother was relieved to see him at peace.” The baby fussed, which provided a distraction. “Try patting his back.”
She did, gently and awkwardly.
“You aren’t accustomed to children, are you?”
She paused in her attention to the child. “I am an aunt, but it’s hardly a role that prepares one for…” She wrinkled her nose tellingly.
“Dealing with a baby is usually a matter of trial by fire. Is that your mews?”
The stable doors bore an emblazoned crest, something with a unicorn and a lot of vinery, which again tickled the back of Vim’s memory. A groom came out amid the thickening snow to slide the stable door back so Goliath and the gig could be parked right in the barn aisle.
Vim brought the horse to a halt and alighted, turning to take the baby from Miss Windham’s arms. “You’ll want to be seeing to his nappy.”
She opened her mouth as if to say something, then drew her brows down. “His nappy?”
The wizened little gnome of a groom looked up from where he was coiling the reins then quickly went back to work.
Vim brushed a finger down his own nose. “His nappy. I can show you if you would like.”
The offer was made before his brain had a chance to truss up his idiot mouth. The baby made another fussy noise, blinking up at Vim owlishly. So little, and the boy’s mama had just abandoned him. A clean nappy wasn’t too much of an imposition, really.
Miss Windham’s expression had cleared. “Higgins, Goliath stood for a bit in the cold. Perhaps he should have a bran mash?”
Higgins paused in the unbuckling of the harness straps to pat the horse. “Of course, Miss Sophie. Nothing’s too good for our lamb.”
“Precisely.” The smile she sent the groom would have felled a brace of sober stevedores. Holding the baby