Merriweather glanced up from the girth. “Be a bit of a surprise when her brothers show up and find her sporting a bebby on her hip.”
Higgins used a gnarled finger to chuck the baby’s wee chin. “Be some surprises all around before the sun sets this day. Mark me on this, nipper.”
Merriweather winked, and they shared a grin while Kit chortled gleefully and grabbed for Higgins’s nose.
“You’ve grown ominously silent,” Val observed.
Westhaven rode to his brother’s left, because it was St. Just’s turn to break the trail ahead. The merchants along The Strand had done what they could to clear a path, but with so much snow on the ground, there was simply nowhere to put it all. Two horses could pass comfortably most places, but not all.
“I’m trying to decide which part of me is the most frozen,” Westhaven replied. “It’s a toss-up between my bum-fiddle and my nose.”
“I lost awareness of my nose before we hit London.”
Westhaven glanced at Val’s gloved hands. “Your fingers are not in jeopardy, I trust?”
“Heaven forfend! Ellen would be wroth, which I cannot allow.”
“I cannot allow much longer in this perishing saddle.”
“We’ve little enough light left.” Val glanced at the sky, which was turning a chilly sunset turquoise. “The Chattells will likely be sitting down to dinner, and didn’t Their Graces give the staff at the mansion holiday leave?”
“I gave them holiday leave.” Which was an idiot notion when compared with imposing on the neighbors for hospitality. “They get four weeks off, we pay them for two, and everybody has pleasant holidays. The crew at Morelands takes leave in late summer, before harvest.”
“I’ll have to implement something like it at Bel Canto, assuming I don’t turn into an icicle before spring. I don’t relish being Chattell’s uninvited guests.”
“You’re married,” Westhaven said, lips quirking up. “You’re safe, Valentine. Of no interest to the debutantes at all.”
“Yes, but they all come with mothers and aunts and older sisters… St. Just, halt if you please.”
St. Just twisted in his saddle, his horse coming to a stop without a visible cue. “We’re going to take in the fresh air, are we? It grows dark soon, in case you were too busy composing tunes in your head, Baby Brother.”
“I want to drop off this violin. The repair shop is just down that alley.” Val swung a leg over his horse’s back and climbed down into the snow. “I won’t be but a minute.”
“Might as well rest the horses,” St. Just said, nudging his beast out of the middle of the beaten path. “Westhaven, can you dismount?”
“I cannot. My backside is permanently frozen to the saddle; my ability to reproduce is seriously jeopardized.”
“Anna will be desolated.” St. Just waited while Westhaven swung down, then whistled at an urchin shivering in the door to a nearby church.
“We’ll just get the feeling back into our feet, and the saddles will be chilled sufficiently to threaten even your lusty inclination.” Westhaven led his horse to the side of the street, such as it was.
“Cold weather makes Emmie frisky.” St. Just assayed his signature grin. “We have a deal of cold weather up in the West Riding, so I’ve learned to appreciate it. Let’s at least find a tot of grog while Baby Brother sees to his precious violin.”
“The George is just up the street. I’ll be along in a minute.”
But St. Just could not just toddle on and wet his whistle. No. He must turn to Westhaven, hands on his hips, and cock his head like a hound trying to place a far-off sound. “And what will you be about while I’m swilling bad ale?”
“I’ll be stopping at that sweet shop yonder, before they close up for the day.”
Fortunately, it was too cold for a man to blush creditably.
“You’re thinking of sweets when the George will have a roaring fire and libation to offer?” The ragged child came trotting over from the church, and St. Just fished out a coin. “Keep an eye on the horses.”
“Aye, g-guv. I’ll watch ’em close.”
“For pity’s sake.” Westhaven unwound his scarf and wrapped it around the child’s neck. “We won’t be long.”
They couldn’t be long, or Westhaven’s ears would freeze off. “As it happens, I own that sweet shop. Go get your grog, and I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes.” He walked off, hoping his brother would for once take an unsubtle cue.
“You own a sweet shop?” St. Just fell in step beside Westhaven, all bonhomie and good cheer.
“Diversification of assets, Kettering calls it. Get your own sweet shop, why don’t you?”
“My brother, a confectioner. Marriage has had such a positive impact on you, Westhaven. How long have you owned this fine establishment?”
It was a fine establishment, which was to say, it was warm. The scents of chocolate and cinnamon thick in the air didn’t hurt, either.
Westhaven waited silently while St. Just peered around the place with unabashed curiosity. There was a prodigious amount of pink in the decor, and ribbon bows and small baskets and tins artfully decorated.
“You own a bordello for sweets,” St. Just observed in a carrying voice likely honed on the parade grounds of Spain. “It’s charming.”
“Unlike you.”
“You’re just cold and missing your countess. One must make allowances.”
Mercifully, those allowances meant St. Just kept quiet while Westhaven purchased a quantity of marzipan.
“You aren’t going to tell the troops to carry on, God Save the King, and all that?” St. Just asked as they left the shop. He reached over and stuffed his fingers into the bag of sweets Westhaven was carrying.
“Help yourself, by all means.”
“Can’t leave all the heavy lifting to my younger brothers.” St. Just munched contentedly on some of the finest German confection to be had on earth. “Why didn’t they know you were the owner?”
“Because I don’t bruit it about.”
“You don’t want to be seen as dabbling in trade?”
Westhaven took a piece of candy from the bag in his hand, wondering if the marzipan would freeze before his brothers consumed it all. “I do not want to be seen as owning a sweet shop. Sweet shops are not dignified.”
He marched forward to meet Valentine at the horses, his older brother’s laughter ringing in his ears.
“Ouch, blast you!”
The blow to Sophie’s chin was surprisingly stout, considering it had been delivered by a very small, chubby baby heel, but it left Sophie wanting to hurl the infant’s bowl of porridge against the hearth stones.
“That hurt, Christopher Elijah.” She grasped his foot and shook it gently. “Shame on you.”
He grinned around the porridge adorning his cheeks and kicked again. Sophie tried one more spoonful, which he spat out amid another happy spate of kicking.
“Time for you to romp,” she said, wiping his mouth off with a damp cloth. And then time to play with him, read to him, and tuck him up in his cradle, while she…
Sophie’s gaze drifted to the window to see darkness had finally fallen. Yesterday had been a day for tears; today was a day beyond tears. She’d missed Vim yesterday; today she ached for him in places she could not name, even in Latin.
Personal, feminine, silent places she feared had the ability to ache without end.
She tidied up the baby’s supper mess and lifted him into her arms. “You do feel heavier, sturdier, but this is doubtless my imagination.”
That his nappy needed changing was by no means a product of her imagination. She tended to him in the laundry, realizing that in just a few days, the whole untidy business had become routine to her.
“You are a good baby,” she said, picking him up and bringing him nose to nose. “You are a wonderful baby. Time for you to conquer the carpet, hmm?”
