“You may call me Lord Westhaven.”

“Mama! The man’s name—”

“Elizabeth Ann Harrad. What have I told you about bellowing in the house?” Mrs. Harrad arrived to the foyer, hands on hips. “I beg your pardon, my lady, my lord. Elizabeth, make your curtsy.”

The child flung her upper half forward and down in a bow.

“Very nice,” Sophie said, retuning the gesture in more recognizable form. “Mrs. Harrad, I don’t mean to impose, but my brothers were going this way, and I thought I’d drop a little something off for—Baron Sindal?”

Vim sauntered up behind Mrs. Harrad, Kit perched on his shoulder.

“Sindal.” Westhaven’s greeting was cool. “Mrs. Harrad, felicitations of the season. I’ll be collecting Lady Sophia when I’ve called upon the vicar, if you’ll excuse me?”

He was out the door before Sophie could stop him.

“Lady Sophia.” Vim nodded at her, his smile genial. “We were just having a bit of early luncheon in the kitchen, weren’t we, Mrs. Harrad?”

“If your lordship says so. I’ll fetch Mr. Harrad to make his bow to you, Lady Sophia.” She bustled off as an argument started up elsewhere in the house between two girl children.

Sophie stood there in her cloak, the argument fading, the various smells of the house fading—baking bread, a faint odor of tomcat, coal smoke, and unwashed baby linen. All she perceived was Vim, standing there with his shirtsleeves turned back to the elbows, his eyes the exact shade of blue as Kit’s.

“His dress is dirty.” Sophie glanced around, hoping Mrs. Harrad wasn’t close at hand to overhear her.

“These things will happen when man flings his porridge in all directions,” Vim said. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck with him?”

“Mary and Louise are arguing again,” Elizabeth reported, her gaze going from Sophie to Vim. “That’s why Papa must keep the door to his study closed all the time. Because they always argue, and Mama yells at them, but they never stop.”

Vim smiled at the child. “Tell them Lady Sophia complimented your curtsy. Then you can argue with them too.” He winked at the child, and she scampered off.

And thus, for a moment, Sophie was alone with Vim and Kit, her gaze devouring the sight of them.

“How are you?”

“It’s good to see you.”

They spoke at the same time, and as each took one step toward the other, Mr. Harrad came bustling up the hallway, followed by his wife.

“Lady Sophia, my apologies. I wasn’t aware we had more company. Do come in. My dear, can you take Lady’s Sophia’s wrap?”

He spoke pleasantly, but a hint of rebuke laced his tone. An instant’s hesitation on Mrs. Harrad’s part could have become awkward, but Kit chose that moment to start waving his arms in Sophie’s direction and babbling.

“Here.” Sophie shrugged out of her cloak. “May I hold him?”

“He seems to like being carried about,” Mrs. Harrad said, hanging Sophie’s cloak on a peg. “My girls weren’t quite as demanding.”

Sophie ignored the word choice, ignored whatever currents were passing between husband and wife, ignored even the pleasure of brushing her hand over Vim’s as they passed the baby between them.

“My Lord Baby,” she said softly, cuddling him close. “You were about to wake the watch with your racket.” She glanced up at Vim. “Was he done eating?”

“Not nearly,” Vim said. “Perhaps we might take our tea in the kitchen? I’m sure Lady Sophia would enjoy spending some time with her young friend.”

Mr. Harrad shrugged; his wife looked resigned. They were both blond, a little on the slight side, and had a tired, harried look to them.

“Has he been running you ragged?” Sophie asked Mrs. Harrad. “Kit, I mean.”

Mrs. Harrad glanced at the baby in Sophie’s arms. “It’s just that he’s a boy. My husband wanted a boy, but they’re not the same as girls, and this one is fussy.”

He wasn’t the least fussy, Sophie wanted to retort. Kit was curled happily in her arms, his little fingers batting at her chin and mouth. “Has he been crawling much?”

Mrs. Harrad looked down, and before she could answer, they’d arrived to a big, warm kitchen redolent with the scent of baking bread. “I can offer you fresh bread with your tea.”

“Don’t go to any bother, please.” Sophie sat so she could put Kit on her lap. “Lord Westhaven will be collecting me before I could do your bread justice.” She picked up an adult-sized teaspoon and frowned at it. Had they been feeding Kit with this?

“It suffices,” Vim said quietly from his seat beside her. “You just have to give him a moment to work at it.”

The sound of his voice had Kit grinning and bouncing on Sophie’s lap.

The next minutes passed in a blur, with Kit slurping down a quantity of plain, cold porridge, Vim making small talk with their host and hostess, and Sophie trying to store up a pleasant memory of spending time with Kit.

It was difficult. The baby’s dress was dirty, which, true enough, could happen in five minutes flat, but his fingernails were also dirty, and the fat little creases of his baby-neck were grimy. There was a red scratch down the length of one arm, and when all three girls came bellowing and stampeding into the kitchen, Kit began to cry.

He cried more loudly when Mrs. Harrad began to scold, and Sophie herself felt an urge to cry.

“…So we’ll just be going.” Vim held her chair as he spoke, but the last thing Sophie wanted was to abandon Kit in the middle of this pandemonium.

She tried to communicate this to Vim with a look, but he remained standing above her, his gaze steady, while one of the girls pulled the other’s hair and ran from the room. Mrs. Harrad followed in high dudgeon, and Mr. Harrad stood at the door to the hallway looking stoic.

“It isn’t always quite this lively,” he said when they’d reached the foyer. “The children are very excited to have young Christian with us, and then too, I’m a bit preoccupied. Vicar has given me the sermon for Christmas Day, which is quite an honor.”

“I’m sure things will settle down once the girls get used to having a baby brother,” Vim said, holding Sophie’s cloak out to her.

But if she took the cloak, she’d have to give Kit up.

“Is there a reason you’ve changed his name?” she asked while Vim arranged the cloak around her shoulders.

“I’m a curate, Lady Sophia. A son named Christian seemed fitting, if a bit optimistic, given this one’s origins.” He nodded at the baby, his gaze speculative. “Missus says he’s more demanding than the girls, but we’ll be patient with him.”

He smiled at Sophie, a tired, charitable smile that made her want to scream. Vim took the child from her, and she gave him up, feeling as if the heart had been torn from her chest.

“We appreciate all you’re doing for the boy,” Vim said. “My regards to your wife. Lady Sophia?”

He passed the baby to the curate, who looked a little surprised. By the time Vim had Sophie bustled out the door, Kit was beginning to fuss again.

“I can’t bear this.” The words were out of her mouth before Vim had dragged her two steps from the door. “Kit is not thriving there. He’s barely noticed amid all the squabbling and noise. He isn’t bathed, he isn’t clean, they aren’t patient enough with him at feeding, those girls are jealous of him. He’ll never—”

Right there on the curate’s tidy little porch, Vim’s arm came around her waist. Not exactly a hug, but a half embrace that let Sophie lean against him.

“Hush, my dear. Kit isn’t crying now, is he? A man with three daughters knows a few things about dealing with babies. Let me walk you to the livery, and I’ll wait with you until Westhaven is done making the pretty with vicar.”

Across the cold, sunny air, Sophie heard one repetitive piano note being struck in the lower register again and again in slow succession. Over at the church, Valentine was tuning the curmudgeon, but the single repetitive tone felt like a bell tolling somewhere in Sophie’s heart.