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 just a few feet away, Vim watched as her mouth curved up into the very arc of sweetness, her eyes lit with warmth, and her whole countenance beamed appreciation and approval at the groom.
Or perhaps at the horse.
She petted the gelding on his tremendous stern then moved toward to the animal’s bow and planted a kiss on his enormous nose. “Thank you, precious. Stay nice and warm tonight.”
The horse blinked at her or perhaps batted its eyes. When Miss Windham straightened, she wasn’t smiling.
“I suppose we should get the baby out of this weather. Higgins, you’re settled in for the night?”
“Right and tight, Miss Sophie. Any word from your brothers?”
“They’re due any day, though the weather might slow them down. Thank you for asking.”
She swept past Vim, so he fell in step behind her. Miss Windham did not float nor mince, as a society lady would have. She clipped along, all business, until she got to the barn door, where she stopped so abruptly Vim nearly collided with her.
“This snow means business,” she observed. “It will be difficult to send anybody out to search for Joleen as long as the weather is so foul.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?”
She moved off again, casting him a curious look over her shoulder. “She fell prey to a footman, Mr. Charpentier. Joleen was old enough, but she was innocent and not overly bright. I don’t hold it against her that she gambled her heart on a losing hand.”
She clearly held it against the footman, however. Vim pitied the man if Miss Windham ever laid eyes on him again.
They passed through a gate into a walled garden that backed up to nothing less than a mansion. In some parts of the city, the old great houses built in the reign of the last king had been broken up into multiple dwellings, each with its own narrow strip of back garden.
This house took up roughly half the block, with no divisions of the back lots to suggest it had been split into rental properties. There would be a ballroom in a dwelling this size, parlors, music rooms, and enough cheery fires to keep a baby nice and warm.
The baby squirmed in Vim’s arms just as both wind and snow became more intense.
“This way.” Miss Windham led him to a back door. As soon as Vim stepped inside, he was hit with the scents of clove, allspice, cinnamon, and yeast. A wave of nostalgia for Blessings up in Cumbria, with its big kitchens and familiar retainers, passed through him as the child began to squawk in earnest.
“He is telling us he has been patient as long as he’s going to be, Miss Windham. We’ll need clean nappies, a clean flannel, and some warm water.”
She paused in the act of hanging her cloak on a hook. “The fires in the nursery have likely been allowed to go out because Kit was to have been on his way south by now.”
“A servants’ parlor might do.” If any room in the house was kept cozy this time of year, it was the servants’ parlor.
“Follow me.”
She led him through a spotless kitchen and down a short, dim hallway that looked to be lined with pantries. The servants’ parlor at the end of the hallway was indeed snug and comfortable and enjoyed a view of the snowy back gardens. A fire burned cheerily in the hearth, though the room was with without occupants. The cradle sitting near the hearth suggested Kit had already spent a substantial amount of time here.
Vim spoke to his hostess over the baby’s increasingly loud fussing. “This will do. If you’ll bring flannel and warm water, I’ll get him unwrapped.”
She withdrew a little quickly, her expression suggesting a distraught baby unnerved her every bit as much as it did Vim.
“We can get down to business,” Vim informed the child. “But I need to get you unswaddled first, so be patient.” As soon as he set the baby down, the little fellow started kicking his legs out and waving his arms around.
“Getting bored, are we? Flail around all you like, little man. You’ll be off to sleep that much sooner.”
The habit of talking to people too small to join in the conversation was ingrained. Babies liked being talked to, just the way they liked music boxes and twittering birds and running water. In some ways, babies were the easiest people to like.
But as the warm air in the parlor picked up the scent of soiled nappy, Vim revised his judgment:
He soon had the child naked on a blanket before the hearth, the dirty nappy neatly folded and tucked aside. Fortunately, the mess was minimal.
At the soft click of door latch behind him Vim glanced up from where he knelt on the floor. Miss Windham stood there, some folded cloths in one hand, a steaming bowl in the other. Her eyes went to the baby, surprise registering at the child’s state of undress.
From her expression, Vim considered that the baby on the floor was very likely the woman’s first encounter with a completely naked male.
