A silence fell, while Kit positioned himself to go a-Viking across the carpet, and Sophie wondered about Lady Rothgreb. Vim had suggested the older woman was growing vague, wandering both mentally and physically, and yet her ladyship had presided over a lively dinner conversation and handled unexpected guests with gracious good cheer.
“I have a motive for intruding on you, my dear.”
“It’s not an intrusion,” Sophie said, shifting to sit between the baby and fireplace. “I can’t imagine swilling port with my brothers has any appeal.”
“Actually, it would—they are charming men, and it would allow me a little more time with my nephew. Rothgreb is entitled to play host, though, so we’ll leave them to it.”
“I should not have shut myself up with Kit,” Sophie said, feeling defensive without any particular reason, “but he has had a great deal of upheaval lately, and I did not want to impose on—”
“May I exercise an old woman’s prerogative and be blunt, my dear?”
“Of course.” Something uneasy in Sophie’s middle suggested this bluntness was going to be painful.
“You are attached to this child, Lady Sophia.”
Sophie watched as Kit lurched and crawled and scooted over to Lady Rothgreb. “Anybody would be. He’s that dear.”
“He’s a baby. Dear is their forte, but he’s not your baby.”
The old woman spoke very gently. Sophie kept her eyes on the child. “I will find a foster family for him soon.”
“Vim said you were sensible.”
Sensible. He’d said she was sensible. Not lovely, intelligent, dear, attractive, or capable of mad, passionate love. Not even an adequate cook, for goodness sake. Sensible. She added Vim to the list of men narrowly escaping bodily injury.
“I cannot encourage you strongly enough to place this baby with that foster family as soon as possible, my dear. To all appearances, he’s in good health and will make the transition easily now. The longer you put it off, the harder it will be on both of you.”
Sophie managed a nod, but her hostess’s words cut like a winter wind. To think Kit would part from her easily hurt; to think he’d be pained to part from her was unbearable.
“Do you know of any families in a position to take on an infant?” She made herself ask the question but hoped in a selfish corner of her heart for a negative reply.
“Indeed I do. The curate’s family has three half-grown girls, and they’d love to have a boy. Mrs. Harrad has remarked many times that a son would lighten her husband’s load.”
“Are they an older couple?” Sophie sternly suppressed the notion that Kit would end up as some fire-and-brimstone preacher’s glorified bond servant.
“They aren’t old from my perspective, but they are humble, godly people who have always comported themselves charitably.” Lady Rothgreb pushed to her feet, while Sophie picked Kit up and rose with him. “I think the boy would thrive in their care.”
“I will consider what you’ve suggested, my lady, though I’d like to have my mother’s wisdom on the matter, as well.”
“Her Grace would agree with me, I’m sure of it.” Lady Rothgreb eyed the infant. “The only person I know whose eyes are still that blue is my nephew. I hope he was pleasant company at dinner?”
“He was all that was gentlemanly.” Sophie wrapped the baby in a receiving blanket as she spoke. “But tell me something, Lady Rothgreb, why is Lord Sindal so reluctant to visit his family seat over the holidays?”
It was spying, plain and simple, but spying on a man who’d had all day and then some to acquaint Sophie with details of his past—and had declined to do so.
“He was happy enough here as a toddler,” Lady Rothgreb said. “We were happy to have him, though his papa did not enjoy good health. Vim’s father married primarily because the old lord insisted on it, for all I don’t think it was an unhappy union.”
“You think his father’s death overshadows Vim’s memories of the place?”
Vim. She should not have called him Vim before his aunt, but he was Vim to Sophie. Vim changed nappies and read poetry and made mad, passionate love to her. Lord Sindal was a man at risk for injury.
“His early memories were happy ones, and his papa’s death was not unduly difficult—Vim’s mother took the boy north within the year.” Lady Rothgreb tucked the blanket a little more carefully around the baby. “Wilhelm suffered some egregious and very public indignities, courtesy of a young lady, around the holidays the last year he was visiting here. We haven’t seen much of him since.”
“His heart was broken?”
“He’d be the one to ask about that, wouldn’t he? You should also ask him to show you around the portrait gallery, if it’s sunny tomorrow. The little fellow here might enjoy the outing, as well, but it’s chilly up there this time of year.”
Something in Lady Rothgreb’s smile suggested this outing to the portrait gallery would be more than a way to pass the time or walk off breakfast. The older woman was being too casual, too… disinterested in her own suggestion?
“I’ll ask him, though I’m fairly certain my brothers will want to push on to Morelands tomorrow.”
Lady Rothgreb paused with one hand on the door latch. “Her Grace replied to our note. She says you’re not to overtax yourselves hastening on to Morelands in dirty weather. Rothgreb is enjoying your visit very much, my dear, so I hope you won’t hurry off too early.”
She slipped out the door, a gracious hostess having checked on her guests.
Sophie cuddled the baby close, not knowing whether to pray for decent weather so she could get free of proximity to Lord Sindal, or to pray for the roads to be closed for days, that she might enjoy a little more time with the child she was bound to give up.
Fifteen
“Here you go.” St. Just offered Vim a peculiar sort of smile as he handed over a carrying candle. “You’ll want to light your uncle up to his room, won’t you?”
He would? “Of course. Uncle, I’m sure Aunt is wondering what’s become of you.”
“She knows damned good and well what’s become of me,” Rothgreb said, tottering to his feet. “Haven’t had so much fun swilling port and telling stories since I last rode to hounds.”
“And you’ll introduce me to Dutch’s Daughter in the morning,” St. Just said, shaking a finger at the viscount. “I’ve seen her offspring under saddle and coveted her bloodlines.”
“No doubt about it, my boy, you’d be a lucky man to get your hands on such as her.” The viscount winked and turned to his nephew. “Onward, young Vim. My bride awaits me.”
Vim caught looks from Westhaven and Lord Val suggesting Rothgreb might need a steadying hand on the stairs, but when he accompanied his uncle into the corridor, the old man’s step was brisk.
“Moreland sired some decent sons,” Rothgreb remarked. “And that’s a pretty filly they have for a sister. Not as brainless as the younger girls, either.”
“Lady Sophia is very pretty.” Also kind, intelligent, sweet, and capable of enough passion to burn a man’s reason to cinders.
“She’s mighty attached to the lad, though.” His uncle shot him a look unreadable in the gloom of the chilly hallways. “Women take on over babies.”
“He’s a charming little fellow, but he’s a foundling. I believe she intends to foster him. Watch your step.” He took his uncle’s bony elbow at the stairs, only to have his hand shaken off.
“For God’s sake, boy. I can navigate my own home unaided. So if you’re attracted to the lady, why don’t you provide for the boy? You can spare the blunt.”
Vim paused at the first landing and held the candle a little closer to his uncle’s face. “What makes you say I’m attracted to Lady Sophia? And how would providing for the child endear me to her?”