hearth. “Though now you’re just prodigiously bothersome. Lord Sindal was coming by to collect Kit for a night among you fellows.”
“We fellows?” Val’s brows crashed down. “We fellows took turns the livelong freezing day, carrying that malodorous, noisy, drooling little bundle of joy inside our very coats. You should be missing him so badly you can’t let him out of your sight for at least a week of nights.”
“Ignore your brother, my lady.” Vim rose off the hearth, and to Sophie’s eyes, looked very tall as he glared at Valentine. “We will be pleased to enjoy My Lord Baby’s company for the night, won’t we, Lord Valentine?”
Valentine was not a stupid man, though he could be as pigheaded as any Windham male. Marriage was apparently having a salubrious effect on his manners, though.
“If Sophie says I’ll be pleased to spend the night with that dratted baby, then pleased I shall be. Coming, Sindal?”
And then, then, Vim kissed her. On the forehead, his eyes open and staring at Valentine the entire lingering moment of the kiss. “Sleep well, Sophie. We’ll take good care of Kit.”
He lifted the cradle and departed. Sophie pushed the nappies at Valentine, ignored her brother’s puzzled, concerned, and curious looks, and pointed at the door without saying one more word.
***
“Westhaven sent us a pigeon.” His Grace waved the tiny scrap of paper at his wife. “Says they’ve retrieved Sophie, and all is well. The four of them are on their way.”
Though it didn’t say precisely that.
“In this miserable weather too,” Her Grace replied. “I don’t worry about the boys so much, but Sophie has never enjoyed winter outings. Come sit and have some tea.”
He sat. He did not want tea, but he did want to share his wife’s company. She was the picture of domestic serenity, plying her needle before the fire in their private sitting room.
“They’re traveling in company with Rothgreb’s nephew,” His Grace said, flipping out his tails. “Is that a new piece?”
“A blanket for your grandson. Anna will be showing him off this spring in Town, and he must be attired to befit his station.”
“Mighty small fellow to be so fashion-minded,” His Grace remarked. “Have we seen the Charpentier boy since that awful scene all those years ago?” He’d tried to keep the question casual, but Her Grace was as shrewd as she was sweet.
And she was very, very sweet.
“We have not.” She looked up to frown at him, the only manifestation of her frown in the corners of her lips. “The viscountess has mentioned him passing through from time to time, but he hasn’t socialized when in the neighborhood. If he’s going to be underfoot this year, we really must invite him to the Christmas party.”
His Grace accepted a perfectly prepared cup of tea from his wife and made a show of putting the teacup to his lips. Insipid stuff, tea. Its saving purpose was to wash down crème cakes, of which there were exactly none in evidence, bless Her Grace’s heart.
“You invite everybody and their granny, Esther. Don’t expect him to come.”
She said nothing while His Grace could hear her female mill wheel grinding facts together with intuition and maternal concern.
“Do you suppose Sophie has come to enjoy Mr. Charpentier’s company?”
He thought his daughter had done a great deal more than that, given the nature of Westhaven’s note. Will explain in person usually meant the news was too bad to be committed to writing.
“Charpentier has the courtesy title now, has had it since his grandfather died all those years back.”
“A title.” Her Grace appeared to consider this. “Sophie has never been much impressed with titles.”
“He’s only a baron.”
They could hope. They could hope he was a handsome, charming, single baron who had a penchant for quiet, spinsterly types given to charitable causes and taking in strays.
Christmas was the season of miracles, after all. His Grace downed his tea in one brave swallow and regarded his wife. “I believe you should invite the boy to the party, after all. It will make for an interesting evening.”
“I will, then. It will be nice to see Essie and Bert, but you are not to get up to any tricks, Percival Windham. More tea?”
His Grace passed over his cup and saucer. “Of course, my love. Nothing would please me more.”
***
“We can stop for lunch at Chester,” Vim said. “I’ll split off a few miles the other side of town, or you can come with me to Sidling.”
Beside him, Westhaven shifted in the saddle. “St. Just? You’re