She realized as Val helped her dismount that her brothers had been right to suggest Vim avoid an encounter with Their Graces. Sophie’s parents were perceptive people, and who knew what innuendos and looks they might have picked up on between Sophie and the man who’d made half her wishes come true?
“Back so soon?” Rothgreb surveyed his nephew, not needing spectacles to see the boy was preoccupied.
Not a boy, a man grown, and a handsome—if somewhat thick-witted—man at that. Love made such fools of young people.
Vim slid into the chair across from his uncle’s desk. “The distance we covered wasn’t great. You have the ledger books out?”
“You just let that pretty filly go?”
Vim looked up, and Rothgreb could see him trying to balance respect for his elder with the urge to throttle an interfering old busybody.
“She refused my suit on more than one occasion, Uncle. I don’t suppose you’ve made a list of all the things that have gone missing?”
“Refused your suit! Did you go down on bended knee? Shower her with compliments and pretty baubles? Did you slay dragons for her and ride through drenching thunderstorms?”
“I changed dirty nappies for her, got up and down all night with the child, and offered her the rest of my life.”
“Dirty nappies? Bah! In my day, we knew how to court a woman.”
This provoked a sardonic smile. “In your day, you married for convenience and were free to chase any panniered shirt that caught your eye.”
“Little you know.” Rothgreb tossed his spectacles on the desk. “Your aunt would have had my parts fed to the hogs if I’d done more than the requisite flirting with the dowagers. And she knew better than to share her favors elsewhere too, b’gad.”
“About my aunt.” Vim sat up, his expression grim. “She does not seem in the least vague to me, Uncle. I must conclude your descriptions of her conditions were exaggerated, and I have to wonder for what purpose.”
Damn the boy. Love had made him stupid about some things, but not nearly stupid enough.
“She has good and bad days, and having people around seems to help. She’s particularly glad to see you and glad to see you’ve an interest in the Windham girl.” Let the young rascal chew on that. “Don’t suppose you’d be willing to take Essie calling over at Morelands? These old bones don’t weather a chill like they used to.”
The truth of that admission didn’t make it any easier to state, and Vim didn’t look like he was taking the bait.
“If I never set foot on Moreland property again, it will be too soon.”
Oh, the boy had it bad. Rothgreb shoved to his feet, a shift too ponderous to have the requisite dramatic impact, but it did allow him to glower down at his beef-witted nephew. “For God’s sake, when are you going to let a youthful peccadillo go? The Holderness girl was a wrong turn, nothing more. We all make them, and most of us, thanks be to The Deity, get over them.”
“I’m over the girl,” Vim said, springing to his feet with enviable ease. “I was over the girl before the packet left Bristol, but I will never get over being refused the opportunity to seek satisfaction for the slur to her honor and mine. I’ll expect a list of missing items on my desk after dinner.”
He stomped out, all indignation and frustration, the picture of thwarted love. Rothgreb lowered himself into the chair and reached out a hand to the hound who’d come blinking awake at Vim’s departure.
“The boy is an ass. My wife would say he takes after me.”
The hound butted Rothgreb’s hand.
“Let’s go find Essie, shall we? We must do something, my friend. I’m not sure what, but we must do something.”
Seventeen
“You’d best come down to dinner, Soph.” Maggie’s green eyes held compassion and a hint of stubbornness too. “Her Grace is being patient, though I suspect that’s just because our brothers are charming her for all their worth.”
“I’m not hungry.” Sophie rose from her escritoire, where she’d been trying to write a list of Kit’s likes and dislikes for Mrs. Harrad, but this allowed Maggie to walk over to the desk and start snooping.
“Sophia Windham, when did you become an expert on changing an infant’s linen?”
“Vim showed me the way of it—quick and calm.”
“About this Vim…” Sophie realized her mistake too late, because Maggie had put the list down and was regarding Sophie very directly. “A dozen years ago—when you had barely begun wearing your hair up—I was introduced to him as Wilhelm Charpentier, a younger relation with more good looks than consequence. He danced well enough but disappeared without a word after some to-do at one of Her Grace’s Christmas parties.”
“I know him as Vim, but he’s Baron Sindal now, Rothgreb’s heir.” Sophie kept her voice diffident, very carefully diffident.
Maggie crossed her arms, a martial light coming into her eyes. “And how does the baron know about caring for babies?”
Older siblings knew family history worth learning, but they could also be damnably protective.
“Put down your guns, Maggie. Vim has younger sisters, and I think he simply has an affection for babies. He hasn’t mentioned any offspring. What was the to-do about?”
Maggie pursed her lips and peered at Sophie as if torn by indecision. “I don’t know. Socializing was never my forte, but whatever it was, nobody said a word about it afterward. Tell me about this baby of yours.”
Sophie turned her back on her sister, ostensibly to rearrange things on the vanity tray. Vim had used that brush on her hair.
“You’re being nosy, Mags.”
And now Maggie was beside her, her expression hard to read. Maggie was the second born, a half sibling like St. Just, and her mother’s influence showed in flaming red hair, more height than any other Windham sister, and an occasional display of temper.
“You changed this child’s napkin, Sophie Windham—many times. Her Grace is a devoted mother, but I am willing to bet my favorite boar hog she never changed dirty linen for any of you.”
Siblings were the very devil when a woman needed some privacy to regain her composure.
“Needs must,” Sophie said softly, blinking at her hairbrush.
“It isn’t just this dratted baby, is it?” Maggie gently took the brush from Sophie’s grip. “You’ve gone and fallen in love with Sindal, and all over a basket of dirty laundry.”
“It wasn’t quite like that.” It was exactly like that, and on the carpet in the servants’ parlor, no less.
“I overheard the boys talking. St. Just was muttering something about Sophie’s mad scheme and that idiot Sindal. Did something happen, Soph?”
Maggie, being the duke’s oldest daughter and illegitimate, had not had an easy road. When she’d turned thirty, she’d moved into her own household in Town. This had created a paradoxical opportunity for closeness between the sisters, allowing Maggie’s pretty little house to become a place of refuge for her younger siblings.
“I don’t know what to do.” Sophie picked up the brush again, then put it down and reached for a handkerchief neatly folded on the vanity tray. Vim’s handkerchief—how had she come by this? She brought it to her nose, caught a whiff of bergamot, and began to cry.
“Damn all men forever to a place in hell so cold their nasty bits shrivel up and fall off,” Maggie muttered. She slid her arm around Sophie’s waist and walked her to the chaise by the hearth. “Shall I have the boys deal with Baron Sindal? They all love a good scrap, even Westhaven, though he’ll think it’s unbecoming of the Moreland heir to gang up on a man or even go at him one at time. They’ll likely draw straws, and Dev and Gayle will rig it so Valentine’s hands—”