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?”

“Women set store by orphans, especially wee lads still in swaddling clothes. Never hurts to put yourself in a good light when you want to impress a lady.” His uncle went up the steps, leaning heavily on the banister railing.

“And why would I want to impress Lady Sophia?”

“You ogle her,” Rothgreb said, pausing halfway up the second flight.

“I do not ogle a guest under our roof.”

“You watch her, then, when you don’t think anybody’s looking. In my day, we called that ogling. You fret over her, which I can tell you as a man married for more than fifty years, is a sure sign a fellow is more than infatuated with his lady.”

Vim remained silent, because he did, indeed, fret over Sophie Windham.

“And you have those great, strapping brothers of hers falling all over themselves to put the two of you together.” Rothgreb paused again at the top of the steps.

Vim paused too, considering his uncle’s words. “They aren’t any more strapping than I am.” Except St. Just was more muscular. Lord Val was probably quicker with his fists than Vim, and Westhaven had a calculating, scientific quality to him that suggested each of his blows would count.

“They were all but dancing with each other to see that you sat next to their sister.” Rothgreb pushed away from the banister and headed off toward his room, Vim trailing a step behind him. “What are you about, boy? I know where my own room is. Lady Sophia’s in the green guest bedroom.”

The room right across from Vim’s room. “I would not disrespect a guest in this house, Uncle.”

“Youth! It’s a wonder the aristocracy hasn’t perished for sheer lack of brains. I’m not suggesting you disrespect anybody. Wish her a pleasant good night. Won’t take but a minute, and I’m sure your aunt neglected this courtesy.”

Vim passed his uncle the candle. “Good night, Uncle. Thank you for the suggestion.”

The old man pointed with a gnarled finger. “Her room’s that way, and for God’s sake, don’t wake the baby while you’re wishing her good night.”

Valentine stepped over the hound drowsing on the hearth rug in Lord Rothgreb’s study. “I can spend hours tuning that piano. Once I start on the harpsichord, we might be here all day.” He settled onto the sofa beside Westhaven.

“That’s fortunate,” St. Just said from the other end of the couch. “Trying out the mare’s paces was only going to take all morning, and that’s assuming nobody in the stables moves faster than the staff here at the house.”

“Which leaves me to do what?” Westhaven groused.

Valentine wedged himself a little lower on the sofa and propped his feet on a hassock. “You’re a clever lad, being the heir and all, you’ll think of something.”

Sophie put down her hairbrush, not even sure she’d heard a tap on the door. “Come in.” She said it very softly, in deference to the baby sleeping in the cradle near the hearth.

Valentine was fearless to the point of recklessness. He would be the one foolish enough—

“I hope I’m not intruding?” Vim closed the door quietly behind him.

“You’re not.” Sophie gathered her wrapper around her a little more closely. It was borrowed from Lady Rothgreb’s closet, a voluminous old thing more comfortable than attractive.

“Kit’s asleep?”

She nodded and watched as Vim moved a few steps into the room. “You have everything you need, Sophie? I’m not sure the staff has had to contend with visitors since the last time I passed through.”

“I’m quite comfortable. How long has it been since you came to visit?” She picked up the brush with every intention of resuming her evening toilette. It would not do to fall upon the man as if she were starving for the sight of him, for the sound of his voice, for the exact shade of blue in his eyes.