Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,78

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