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
“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 men would know of the connection between brothers was… curious.
“Hazlit is my half brother,” Vim said. “He is not in Town at present, to my knowledge.” There was no telling with Ben. The man never outright lied, but he raised discretion to a high, arcane art.
Lord Valentine cocked his head and regarded his sister. “Does this complicate matters, that he’s related to Hazlit?”
“Watch him!” Westhaven was half out of his chair as all eyes turned to Kit. Sophie was calmly prying the dangling end of an embroidered table runner from the child’s grasp, while the men in the room collectively sat back and took a sip of their drinks.
“He nearly brought the entire platter down on his head,” Westhaven said. “It’s a dangerous age, infancy.”
“He’s a wonderful baby,” Sophie said, tucking the table runner out of reach. “He’s just starting to crawl.”
St. Just snorted. “Not in earnest, or that table runner would be nowhere in sight. Emmie and I have boxes of things, pretty, breakable, ornamental things that had to disappear from sight when my younger daughter started crawling.”
Lord Valentine frowned at the baby. “I believe we were discussing Sindal’s connection with Hazlit before Disaster Incarnate here upstaged the topic.”
“My Lord Baby will do,” Sophie said, sending Lord Valentine a reproving look.
“It’s like this. Charpentier, Sindal, or whoever you are.” Westhaven also regarded the child as he spoke, or perhaps he regarded Sophie and the baby both. “The Windham family owes your brother a debt of… consideration. Both Lord Valentine and myself would find ourselves removed from our wives’ charity did we not extend Hazlit’s relation some courtesy.”
Vim passed Sophie a serviette to wipe the drool from Kit’s little maw. For as much upheaval as the child had endured, he seemed to be enjoying a room full of Sophie’s siblings.
“Your wives frown on dueling?” Vim asked.
“Her Grace frowns on dueling,” Lord Valentine supplied. “Rather ruins a young man’s reputation, when his fellows know his mama won’t allow him to duel.”
“But as we’re no longer young,” St. Just added, “we might be persuaded to make an exception for you, Sindal.”
“Most kind of you.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Don’t encourage them. There’s a child present.”
“And a lady,” Westhaven said. “I propose we simply proceed to Kent, and as far as the world is concerned, we’re traveling with Sindal for the convenience of all parties. The three of us have been resting here for several days in the company of our sister before setting out for the country. Sindal did not join the household until Sophie’s relations were already on the scene.”
Vim watched Sophie carefully, trying to pick up a reaction from her to this planned deception. A ducal family could pull off such a subterfuge, particularly this ducal family, and particularly if there was only one tipsy footman to gainsay them.
“Soph?” Lord Valentine tapped her knee with the toe of his boot. “You want some time to consider your options?”
The baby chose that moment to toddle forth on his hands and knees, squealing with glee when he’d covered the two feet between Sophie’s side and St. Just’s boots.
“A headlong charge into enemy territory can see a fellow taken prisoner.” St. Just lifted the baby under the arms and brought the child up to face level.
Kit grinned, swiped at St. Just’s nose, and emitted such sounds as to establish beyond doubt that a certain fellow’s nappy was thoroughly soiled.
“Gah!”
“Gah, indeed.” St. Just kept the child at arm’s length. “Westhaven, you have a son. I nominate you.”
“Valentine needs the practice.”
Vim took the baby from St. Just’s grasp and headed for the laundry. As he left the parlor, he heard Lord Valentine softly observe, “You know, Soph, most men with any backbone can calmly accept the threat of a duel to preserve a lady’s honor, but it’s a brave man indeed who can deal with a dirty nappy without even being asked.”
“Your timing is deplorable,” Vim told the malodorous, grinning baby. “But I think you’ve given Sophie’s brothers their first reason to pause before they call me out.”
“Bah!”
“They are up to something.” Sophie kept her voice down as Vim handed her a clean nappy, lest they or someone else in the inn’s common overhear her.
Vim tickled Kit’s cheek. “I don’t think your brothers are waiting to call me out, if that’s what you’re implying.”
Sophie passed him the folded up soiled linen. “They might. Devlin used to kill people for his living. Valentine arranged a very bad fate for one of his wife’s relations, and Westhaven has been known to be ruthless where Anna’s welfare is concerned. You can’t trust them.”
“They trust you, Sophie.” Vim put his finger on the tape Sophie was tying into a bow. “They trust I’m not suicidal enough to make advances to you in their very company.”
She wanted to ask him if that was why he’d kept his distance, but Valentine came sauntering up.
“Our meal will be served in the private dining room. The Imp of Satan smells a good deal better.”
“You were just such an imp not so very long ago,” Sophie reminded him. “Did you check on the horses?”
“Your precious friends are knee-deep in straw and munching contentedly on fresh hay. I watched with my own eyes while St. Just fed them their oats, which oats did not hit the bottom of the bucket but were consumed by a process of inhalation I’ve never seen before. I intend to emulate it if they ever serve dinner here.”
Something passed between the men—a glance, a look, a particular way of breathing at each other.
“I’ll take Kit.” Vim lifted the child from the settle where Sophie had been changing the baby’s nappy. “Does this place have a cradle?”
He addressed the question to Val, who shrugged. “I understand how to bed down a horse; I understand how
