fanciful pediments and capitals standing in each corner of the octagonal space. The wood was maintained with such a high shine of beeswax and lemon oil that sunny days saw more light bouncing around the foyer than in practically any other part of the house.
“I take it Their Graces entertain a fair amount?” He was coming up the stairs behind her, as a gentleman would.
“His Grace is quite active in the Lords, so yes.”
“And Her Grace?”
“She keeps her hand in. They also have the occasional summer house party at the family seat. This room ought to serve for the night.”
She’d taken him not to a guest room but to her brother Valentine’s old room in the family wing. The wood box would be full, the coal bucket filled, a fire laid, and the bed made up in anticipation of his lordship’s visit to Town to collect his sister.
“I’m sorry it’s so chilly. I’ll bring you up some water for the room. Let me show you the bathing chamber. As far as I know, the fire under the boiler should still have some coals.”
The bathing chamber was across the hall, a renovated dressing room having had the ideal location between cisterns and chimneys.
“This is quite modern,” Mr. Charpentier said. “You’re sure Their Graces would not mind your sharing such accommodations with a virtual stranger?”
They’d mind. They wouldn’t begrudge him the best comforts the mansion could offer, but they’d mind mightily that he had Sophie’s exclusive company.
“A duke’s household doesn’t skimp on hospitality, Mr. Charpentier, though by rights we should be providing you a valet and footmen to step and fetch.”
“I’m used to doing for myself, though where will I find you should the need arise?”
“I’m just down the hallway, last door on the right.”
And it was time to leave him, but she hesitated, casting around for something more to say. The idea of spending another long, cold evening reading by firelight seemed like a criminal waste when she could be sharing those hours with Mr. Charpentier. The baby let out a little sigh in her arms, maybe an indication of some happy baby dream—or her own unfulfilled wishes.
“Shall I bring the cradle up from the servants’ parlor, Miss Sophie?”
The cradle?
“Yes. The cradle. That would be helpful. I suppose I should get some nappies from the laundry and clean dresses and so forth.”
He smiled, as if he knew her mind had gone somewhere besides the need to care for the baby, but he said nothing. Just set his bag down, went to the hearth to light the fire, and left Sophie standing in the door with the child cradled in her arms.
“You’ll find your way to the bathing chamber if you need it?”
He rose and began using a taper to add candlelight to the meager gloom coming from the windows. “I’ve made do with so much less than you’re offering me, Miss Sophie. Travel makes a man realize what little he needs to be comfortable and how easily he can mistake a mere want for a need. I’ll be fine.”
His circuit of the room brought him back to her side. He blew out the taper and speared her with a look. “Will you be fine?”
She liked standing close to him, not only because he wore a pleasant scent, but also because something about his male presence, the grace and strength of it, appealed to her dormant femininity. If all men had his manners, competence, and sheer male beauty, being a woman would be a much more appetizing proposition.
Sophie took her courage in both hands and gazed up at him. “I’d like to hear about those travels, Mr. Charpentier. About the worst memories and best memories, the most beautiful places and the most unappealing. I’ve lived my entire life in the confines of England, and tales of your travels would give my imagination something to keep when you’ve left.”
He studied her for a moment then lifted one hand. Her breath seized in her lungs when she thought— hoped?—he was going to touch her. To touch her cheek or her hair, to lay his palm along her jaw.
He laid his hand over the baby’s head. “If My Lord Baby gives us a peaceful evening, I’ll tell you some of my stories, Miss Sophie. It’s hardly a night for going out on the Town, is it?”
It was better than if he’d touched her, to know he’d give her some tales of his travels, something of his own history and his own memories.
“After you’ve settled in, then. I’ll see you in the parlor downstairs. We’ll see you.”
Except the baby in her arms was seeing nothing at that moment but peaceful, happy baby dreams.
Vim’s little trip through the ducal mansion revealed a few interesting facts about the household. For example, money was not a problem for this particular ducal family.
The servants’ parlor was a comfortable place for furniture, carpets, and curtains that had seen some use, but it was far from shabby. The bathing chamber was a gleaming little space of pipes and marble counters that spoke of both available coin and a willingness to enjoy the fruits of progress.
The main entrance was a testament to somebody’s appreciation for first impressions and appearances. The whole house was gracious, beautiful, and meticulously maintained.
Also festooned with all manner of seasonal decorations, which usually struck Vim as so much wasted effort. Pine boughs quickly wilted and dropped needles all over creation. Clove-studded oranges withered into ugly parodies of their original state. Wreaths soon turned brown, and Christmas trees had to be undecorated as carefully as they were decorated—assuming they didn’t catch fire and set the entire house ablaze.
A lot of bother for nothing, or so he would have said.
But in this house…
He finished his bath and found a clean pair of pajama trousers as well as a clean pair of winter wool socks. Though the vast canopied bed beckoned, Vim instead appropriated a brocade dressing gown from the store in the wardrobe and made his way back through the house to the little servants’ parlor.
He opened the door without knocking and found Miss Sophie within, on her feet, the baby fussing in her arms.
“I don’t know what’s wrong.” Sophie’s voice was laden with concern. “He keeps fussing and fretting but he isn’t… it isn’t his nappy, and he doesn’t want for cuddling. I don’t think he has to settle his stomach either.”
Vim sidled into the room, closing the door behind him. “He’s probably hungry again. Marvelous accommodations upstairs, by the way.” And a marvelously warm silk lining in the dressing gown.
The child quieted at the sound of his voice, turning great blue eyes on Vim. Vim peered down at the baby cradled against Sophie’s middle. “Are you hungry, young Kit, or simply rioting for the fun of it?”
The child slurped on his little left fist.
“Hungry it is. Have you any cold porridge in the kitchen, Miss Sophie?”
“No doubt we do, but he just ate not three hours ago. Are you sure he isn’t sickening for something?”
In those same three hours, Sophie had apparently gone from benevolent stranger to mother-at-large, capable of latching onto every parent’s single worst, most abiding fear.
Vim laid the back of his hand on the baby’s brow. “He’s only yelling-baby-warm, not fevered, so no, I don’t think he’s sickening. Often when they’re coming down with something, they grow a bit lethargic. He’s at the mercy of a very small belly and has to eat more often than he will later in life. This belly here.”
He poked the baby’s middle gently, which provoked a toothless grin.
“Why didn’t I know he’d like that?”
“Likely because you yourself would not react as cheerfully did I make the same overture to you. Why don’t I take him while you hunt him up some tucker? A bit of warm milk to mix the porridge very thin and a baby spoon will get us started.”
Sophie nodded and stepped in close. It took Vim a moment to comprehend that she was handing him the
