Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish (20 page)

“Gads.” Westhaven ran a hand through his hair. “I hadn't known.”

“She didn't tell anybody. She was off visiting friends, supposedly, so you see there's precedent for her little detours from the agreed-upon itinerary. She stayed two weeks, and when she judged I was sober enough to listen to her, she pointed out that I had five sisters who were all in want of decent mounts. I owned a stud farm, and did I think my business would prosper if my own sisters could not find decent horses in my stables?”

Westhaven looked intrigued. “She lectured you?”

“She bludgeoned me with common sense, and when I told her to have His Grace pick out something from Tatt's she… she cried. Sophie hates to cry, but I made her cry. I was so ashamed I started selecting my training prospects that very afternoon.”

“You made her cry.” Westhaven smiled ruefully. “Rather like my shouting at our sisters.”

“Or hollering at His Grace over my music,” Lord Val observed. “I wanted to make beautiful sounds… and there I was, carrying on like a hung over fishwife.”

“And Sophie put you all to rights?” Vim had siblings, he'd had parents and a loving stepfather, a grandfather and several grandmothers, cousins, and an aunt and uncle. Family interactions were seldom quite this dramatically simple, but clearly, in the minds of Sophie's brothers, the situation was not complicated at all.

“Sophie put us to rights,” Westhaven said, “and my guess is we've never thanked her. We've gone off and gotten married, started our families, and neglected to thank someone who contributed so generously to our happiness. We're thanking Sophie now by not calling you out. If she wants you, Charpentier, then we'll truss you up with a Christmas ribbon and leave you staked out under the nearest kissing bough.”

“And if she doesn't want me?”

“She wanted you for something,” Lord Val said dryly. “I'd hazard it isn't just because you're a dab hand at a dirty nappy, either.”

Vim didn't want to lie to these men, but neither was he about to admit he suspected Sophie Windham, for reasons he could not fathom, had gifted him with her virginity then sent him on his way.

“She lent you that great hulking beast of hers,” St. Just pointed out. “She's very protective of those she cares for, and yet she let you go larking off with her darling precious—never to be seen again? I would not be so sure.”

Vim had wondered about the same thing, except if a woman as practical as Sophie were determined to be shut of a man, she might just lend the sorry bastard a horse, mightn't she?

“I proposed to my wife, what was it, six times?” Westhaven said.

“At least seven,” Lord Val supplied.

St. Just sent Westhaven a wry smile. “I lost count after the second hangover, but Westhaven is the determined sort. He proposed a lot. It was pathetic.”

“Quite.” Westhaven's ears might have turned just a bit red. “I had to say some magic words, cry on Papa's shoulder, come bearing gifts, and I don't know what all before Anna took pity on me, but I do know this: Sophie has been out for almost ten years, and she has never, not once, given a man a second look. You come along with that dratted baby, and she looks at you like a woman smitten.”

“He's a wonderful baby.”

“He's a baby,” Westhaven said, loading three words with worlds of meaning. “Sophie is attached to the infant, but it's you she's smitten with.”

All three of Sophie's brothers speared him with a look, a look that expected him to do something.

“If you gentleman will excuse me, I'm going to offer to take the baby tonight for Sophie. She's been the one to get up and down with him all night for better than a week, and that is wearing on a woman.”

He left the room at as dignified a pace as he could muster and considered it a mercy Lord Val hadn't barked anything at him about leaving Sophie's damned door open.

***

“That is just famous.” Westhaven scowled at the empty basket of rolls, wanting nothing so much as to summon Sindal back into the room—but for what?

“Yes,” Valentine said, though his expression was more puzzled than thunderous. “If Sophie and Sindal were in separate bedrooms several doors apart, how does he know she was getting up and down all night with the child? I slept in one of those bedrooms for years and never heard Sophie stirring around at night.”

St. Just smiled a little crookedly. “Because you sleep like the dead and snore accordingly. One wonders if Sindal has told Sophie about the debacle in his past. I don't think the man's forgotten it.”

“She wouldn't hold it against him,” Val said, frowning. “We don't hold it against him, do we?”

“His Grace thundered about it for weeks,” St. Just said. “You two were more concerned with getting back to school, but Sindal is only a couple years older than I am. It isn't something a man would quickly forget.”

Westhaven got up and crossed the room to hunker near the fire. “Like we can't forget he took liberties with our sister. His Grace will be calling for his dueling pistols if the truth should reach him.”

“I don't think so.” Val kept to his seat and rearranged the cutlery on his empty plate. “I've come to realize His Grace picks up a lot more than we thought he did, and he chooses to overlook it.”

“Perhaps.” St. Just shifted in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankle. “That leaves us only with Her Grace to worry about.”

Westhaven rose from poking up the fire and regarded his brothers' unhappy expressions. “'Tis the season, you lot. Cheer up. At least the man can change a dirty nappy. If he and Sophie have anticipated their vows, he'll need to be handy in the nursery. Now, shall I beat you at cribbage seriatim or both at the same time?”

“And what if there are to be no vows?” St. Just asked.

Valentine answered as he crossed his knife and fork very precisely across his plate. “Then he'll need to learn how to disappear from Sophie's life and never show his miserable face in the shire again. We won't have him trifling with her.”

Westhaven resumed his place at the table.

“But his family seat is in Kent,” St. Just said. “He can't very well avoid that for the rest of his life, particularly not after he inherits.”

Westhaven smiled, not a particularly pleasant smile. “Exactly so. Valentine, fetch the cards; St. Just, we'll need decent libation. As I see it, we really don't have very many options.”

A quiet knock sounded on Sophie's door, no doubt one of her infernal, well-meaning brothers come to check on her.

Come to make sure she hadn't knotted her sheets and eloped with a stable hand to dance on café tables in Paris.

She opened the door and stepped back.

“I wasn't sure you'd still be awake.” Vim didn't come into the room, just looked her up and down from where he stood in the drafty corridor.

“Come in, please. We're letting in the cold.”

He advanced exactly three steps inside the door and still made no move to touch her. “I've come to spell you with Kit. I can take him tonight, and you can get some rest.”

And wasn't that just fine? Vim would come for the baby but not to see how she fared or to speak with her privately.

“I'll let you take him. I must accustom myself to being without him, mustn't I?”

“Not necessarily.” He shifted half a step as Sophie closed the door behind him. “You can raise that child, Sophie. You're a duke's daughter, and your reputation has no doubt been spotless until now. Your family is of sufficient consequence you could take in a half-dozen children and nobody would take it amiss.”

“You're wrong.” She rummaged in her traveling bag for some clean nappies and a rag. “They would say: Like father, like daughter. They would say: Like brother, like sister.”

“What does that mean?”

“Anna and Westhaven anticipated their vows, as did St. Just and Emmie. The proof is in their nurseries. I expect Val and Ellen did, as well, but time will tell. His Grace raised two bastards in the Moreland Miscellany, though I love my brother and sister dearly. I'm even named for the royal princess whom all believe to have whelped a bastard, though nobody will say it in public.”

“Sophie, what's wrong?”

Now, he'd moved. He'd crossed the room silently to stand at her elbow. The bergamot scent of him, the Vim scent of him, tickled her nose.

“I'm tired,” she said, shifting away to sink onto the raised hearth of her small fireplace. “Seeing my brothers is wonderful, but under the circumstances…”

He lowered himself to sit beside her. “Under the circumstances, I've ruined your holiday.”

“Christmas is not my favorite time of year.”

“Mine either, and hasn't been since a certain holiday gathering almost half my lifetime ago. I expect your parents will acquaint you with the details if your brothers haven't already.”

This
was
news
. She lifted her head to peer at him. “Is this why you dread coming to Kent? There is some scandal in your past?”

“My sisters were the victims of scandal, though I started the tradition well before they did, and I was not exactly a victim. I was a fool.”

“Soph?” Valentine's voice called softly from the corridor. A moment later, a knock sounded on the door, and a moment after that, Val pushed the door open. Slowly—slowly enough she might have hastened to an innocent posture if she'd been, say, kissing the breath out of her guest. “Is the prodigy asleep yet?”

“You were a prodigy,” she said, rising from the 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 the head drover. What do you say?”

“I'm the head nothing,” Lord Valentine interjected, nudging his horse up beside Vim's. “I say we get out of this weather as soon as we can. Sophie's lips are blue, and I don't like the look of that sky.”

St. Just looked up from where he'd been adjusting his greatcoat. “I say we move on and make that decision when Sindal's fork in the road appears. The baby seems fine, though the damned clouds look loaded with more snow.”

“It's my turn to take him.” Vim shifted his horse to pull up beside St. Just.

“The lad's fine where he is.” St. Just spoke mildly, while Vim endured a spike of frustration. He might be seeing the last of the child in the next two hours; the least St. Just could do was let a man have some—

“Unless you'd rather?” St. Just quirked a dark eyebrow. Vim was tempted to refuse on general principles, but something in St. Just's green eyes… not pity. A retired officer wouldn't offer insult like that, but maybe… understanding. “I have a stepdaughter, Sindal. Less than a day in her company, and I would have cheerfully cut out my heart for her. My younger daughter wasn't even born before I was making lists of reasons to reject her potential suitors.”

He spoke quietly enough that his brothers could pretend they hadn't heard him. Vim accepted the child and ensconced the bundle of infant inside his greatcoat.

“Why are we stopping?” Sophie's cheeks were not pink; they were red. As her great beast trudged into their midst, Vim was relieved to see her lips were not truly blue, though they no doubt felt blue.

“Reconnoitering,” Westhaven said. “The baron has offered us shelter before we travel the last few miles to Morelands.”

“Is Kit managing?”

Four men spoke as one: “He's fine.”

“Well, then.” She urged her horse forward. “If we're to beat the next storm, we'd best be moving on.”

She rode past Vim without turning her head. Even mounted on one of her pet mastodons, she looked elegant and composed, for all the cold had to be chilling her to the bone. He regretted mentioning his aversion to holiday gatherings, suspecting she'd spoken of it to her brothers and gleaned the details of his youthful folly.

For years, he'd tried to refer to it that way,
my
youthful
folly
, but completely losing one's dignity before every title and tattle in the shire—and Kent was rife with both—was more than folly. It was enough to send a man traveling around the world for years, enough to cost him his sense of home and connection with the people who'd known him and loved him since birth.

“In my head, I'm composing a new piece of music.”

Vim turned to see Lord Val riding along beside him. “It will be called, ‘Lament for a Promising Young Composer Who Died of a Frozen Bum-Fiddle.' I'll do something creative with the violins and double basses—a bit of humor for my final work. It will be published posthumously, of course, and bring me rave reviews from all my critics. ‘A tragic loss,' they'll all say. It could bring frozen bum-fiddles into fashion.”

“You haven't any critics.” St. Just spoke over his shoulder, having abdicated the lead position to his sister. “Ellen won't allow it, more's the pity.”

“My wife is ever wise—”

“Oh, famous.” Westhaven's muttered imprecation interrupted his idiot younger brother.

Lord Val leaned over toward Vim. “There's another word, a word that alliterates with famous, that his-lordship-my-brother-the-heir has eschewed since becoming a father. Famous is his attempt at compromise.”

“I'll say it, then.” St. Just sighed as another flurry drifted down from the sky. “Fuck. It's going to snow again. Beg sincere pardon for my language, Sophie.”

She did not so much as shrug to acknowledge this exchange.

They got the horses moving at a faster shuffle, but it occurred to Vim as they trudged and struggled and cursed their way toward Sidling, that Sophie's brothers—passing him the baby, making inane small talk with him, and even in their silences—had been offering him some sort of encouragement.

Would that her ladyship might do the same.

Inside Vim's coat, Kit gave a particularly hearty kick, connecting with the rib under Vim's heart.

While the snow started to come down in earnest.

***

From a distance, Sidling looked to be in decent repair. The oaks were in their appointed locations, lining the long, curving driveway; the fences appeared to be in adequate condition; the half-timbered house with its many mullioned windows sat at the end of the drive, looking snug and peaceful in the falling snow.

“It's lovely.” Sophie drew her horse to a halt and crossed her wrists on her knee. “It looks serene, content. You must have missed it terribly.”

“It has a certain charm.” Which at the moment was completely lost on Vim.

Would the hall be tidy enough for visitors? Would there be sufficient sheets for their beds? Would Uncle's antediluvian hound have chewed all the carpets to rags? Would Aunt be drifting about in dishabille, making vague references to friends no longer alive?

“You're very quiet, my lord.”

He was anticipating more seasonal humiliation already. “My aunt and uncle are elderly. I'm hoping I haven't overestimated their capacity for hospitality.”

“I daresay my brothers could enjoy each other's company before a campfire with naught but horse blankets and a short deck of cards between them.” She sent her horse forward, leaving Vim no option but to do likewise.

“Is that what all this bickering is about? Enjoying each other's company?”

“Of course.” She peered at him, looking lovely, the snow clinging to her scarf, the cold putting a ruddy blush on her cheeks. “Isn't it the same for you? You come home for the holidays, and it's as if you never gave up your short coats. The feelings of childhood and youth are restored to you just like you never left.”

“God, I hope not.”

She fiddled with her reins. “Perhaps this year can give you some memories to replace the ones you find uncomfortable. Tell me about your aunt and uncle.”