Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish Read online

  She did, gently and awkwardly.

  “You aren’t accustomed to children, are you?”

  She paused in her attention to the child. “I am an aunt, but it’s hardly a role that prepares one for…” She wrinkled her nose tellingly.

  “Dealing with a baby is usually a matter of trial by fire. Is that your mews?”

  The stable doors bore an emblazoned crest, something with a unicorn and a lot of vinery, which again tickled the back of Vim’s memory. A groom came out amid the thickening snow to slide the stable door back so Goliath and the gig could be parked right in the barn aisle.

  Vim brought the horse to a halt and alighted, turning to take the baby from Miss Windham’s arms. “You’ll want to be seeing to his nappy.”

  She opened her mouth as if to say something, then drew her brows down. “His nappy?”

  The wizened little gnome of a groom looked up from where he was coiling the reins then quickly went back to work.

  Vim brushed a finger down his own nose. “His nappy. I can show you if you would like.”

  The offer was made before his brain had a chance to truss up his idiot mouth. The baby made another fussy noise, blinking up at Vim owlishly. So little, and the boy’s mama had just abandoned him. A clean nappy wasn’t too much of an imposition, really.

  Miss Windham’s expression had cleared. “Higgins, Goliath stood for a bit in the cold. Perhaps he should have a bran mash?”

  Higgins paused in the unbuckling of the harness straps to pat the horse. “Of course, Miss Sophie. Nothing’s too good for our lamb.”

  “Precisely.” The smile she sent the groom would have felled a brace of sober stevedores. Holding the baby just a few feet away, Vim watched as her mouth curved up into the very arc of sweetness, her eyes lit with warmth, and her whole countenance beamed appreciation and approval at the groom.

  Or perhaps at the horse.

  She petted the gelding on his tremendous stern then moved toward to the animal’s bow and planted a kiss on his enormous nose. “Thank you, precious. Stay nice and warm tonight.”

  The horse blinked at her or perhaps batted its eyes. When Miss Windham straightened, she wasn’t smiling.

  “I suppose we should get the baby out of this weather. Higgins, you’re settled in for the night?”

  “Right and tight, Miss Sophie. Any word from your brothers?”

  “They’re due any day, though the weather might slow them down. Thank you for asking.”

  She swept past Vim, so he fell in step behind her. Miss Windham did not float nor mince, as a society lady would have. She clipped along, all business, until she got to the barn door, where she stopped so abruptly Vim nearly collided with her.

  “This snow means business,” she observed. “It will be difficult to send anybody out to search for Joleen as long as the weather is so foul.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that?”

  She moved off again, casting him a curious look over her shoulder. “She fell prey to a footman, Mr. Charpentier. Joleen was old enough, but she was innocent and not overly bright. I don’t hold it against her that she gambled her heart on a losing hand.”

  She clearly held it against the footman, however. Vim pitied the man if Miss Windham ever laid eyes on him again.

  They passed through a gate into a walled garden that backed up to nothing less than a mansion. In some parts of the city, the old great houses built in the reign of the last king had been broken up into multiple dwellings, each with its own narrow strip of back garden.

  This house took up roughly half the block, with no divisions of the back lots to suggest it had been split into rental properties. There would be a ballroom in a dwelling this size, parlors, music rooms, and enough cheery fires to keep a baby nice and warm.

  The baby squirmed in Vim’s arms just as both wind and snow became more intense.

  “This way.” Miss Windham led him to a back door. As soon as Vim stepped inside, he was hit with the scents of clove, allspice, cinnamon, and yeast. A wave of nostalgia for Blessings up in Cumbria, with its big kitchens and familiar retainers, passed through him as the child began to squawk in earnest.

  “He is telling us he has been patient as long as he’s going to be, Miss Windham. We’ll need clean nappies, a clean flannel, and some warm water.”

  She paused in the act of hanging her cloak on a hook. “The fires in the nursery have likely been allowed to go out because Kit was to have been on his way south by now.”

  “A servants’ parlor might do.” If any room in the house was kept cozy this time of year, it was the servants’ parlor.

  “Follow me.”

  She led him through a spotless kitchen and down a short, dim hallway that looked to be lined with pantries. The servants’ parlor at the end of the hallway was indeed snug and comfortable and enjoyed a view of the snowy back gardens. A fire burned cheerily in the hearth, though the room was with without occupants. The cradle sitting near the hearth suggested Kit had already spent a substantial amount of time here.

  Vim spoke to his hostess over the baby’s increasingly loud fussing. “This will do. If you’ll bring flannel and warm water, I’ll get him unwrapped.”

  She withdrew a little quickly, her expression suggesting a distraught baby unnerved her every bit as much as it did Vim.

  “We can get down to business,” Vim informed the child. “But I need to get you unswaddled first, so be patient.” As soon as he set the baby down, the little fellow started kicking his legs out and waving his arms around.

  “Getting bored, are we? Flail around all you like, little man. You’ll be off to sleep that much sooner.”

  The habit of talking to people too small to join in the conversation was ingrained. Babies liked being talked to, just the way they liked music boxes and twittering birds and running water. In some ways, babies were the easiest people to like.

  But as the warm air in the parlor picked up the scent of soiled nappy, Vim revised his judgment: clean babies were easy to like. He tossed his coat on a chair, slipped his cuff links in a pocket, and started rolling up his sleeves.

  He soon had the child naked on a blanket before the hearth, the dirty nappy neatly folded and tucked aside. Fortunately, the mess was minimal.

  At the soft click of door latch behind him Vim glanced up from where he knelt on the floor. Miss Windham stood there, some folded cloths in one hand, a steaming bowl in the other. Her eyes went to the baby, surprise registering at the child’s state of undress.

  From her expression, Vim considered that the baby on the floor was very likely the woman’s first encounter with a completely naked male.

  Two

  Sophie Windham frequently described herself as a well-read, intelligent woman in an age when neither attribute was much encouraged among her peers. Coming upon the scene in the parlor, all that came out of her mouth was, “My goodness!”

  And then… nothing. She frankly gaped at the tableau before her: the baby naked on a nest of rugs and blankets, cheerfully kicking and squirming at nothing in particular, and the great golden length of Mr. Charpentier, curled indolently above the child, long, elegant fingers playing with the child’s feet.

  Sophie did not know how to change a diaper.

  She did not know how to comfort a fussy baby.

  She did not know the particulars of feeding such a small child.

  But she did know that these matters were the province of women, a fact of which Mr. Charpentier was apparently ignorant.

  “Is it good for him to be… unclothed like that?” she asked.

  The man rose smoothly to an imposing height—he was every bit as tall as Sophie’s brothers—and cocked his head at her. “Be a little difficult to get him cleaned up otherwise, wouldn’t it?”

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Sophie felt a blush rising up her neck. “Suppose it would. So how does one…?” She gestured with the clean nappies at the baby.

  “It isn’t complicated.” He took the cloths and basin from her
. “I shall demonstrate. By the third one, you’ll be an expert. The trick is to be fast and calm, as if you were dealing with a nervous horse or an injured cat.”

  He folded himself down to his knees, leaving Sophie no choice but to join him and the baby on the floor.

  “Why does he kick and wiggle about like that?”

  “Because he can. My guess is if we put him on his tummy, he’d be just about at the stage where he’s getting up on all fours and rocking but not quite crawling yet.” As he spoke, Mr. Charpentier wrung out a cloth in the warm water and started using it to tend to the child… who was quite completely and utterly naked.

  Sophie’s blush threatened to become permanent. There were certain body parts not intended for exposure to the broad light of day, much less such gleeful exposure. The baby was grinning and cooing as Mr. Charpentier deftly used the rag to clean what needed to be cleaned. When he seized both of the child’s ankles in one hand and lifted the baby partly off the rug to reach a little farther back, the infant started laughing, as if being handled like that was great, good fun.

  Mr. Charpentier set the nasty rag aside and tickled the baby’s tummy. The child grabbed at the man’s hand and caught one long index finger in his tiny fist.

  “I’ve been taken prisoner by a fierce pirate.” He shook his finger gently, which inspired the baby to kick madly. “If you’d slide the nappy under the pirate’s bottom, we’ll see to his attire.”

  Bottom. Well, what else was there to call it?

  She attempted to comply, when Mr. Charpentier again half raised the child by the ankles.

  “Other way, Miss Windham. We’ll use the tapes to fasten the thing on him. As much energy as he has, a snug fit is called for.”

  She repositioned the diaper but had to move in close to man and baby to get it done. Kneeling side by side with Mr. Charpentier, she made the mistake of glancing over at him.

  At the coaching inn, she’d been nigh distraught over the baby’s increasing discontent. Joleen had been gone long enough that Sophie had begun to worry, and thinking what to do over the baby’s crying had been impossible.

  And then a quiet, calm male voice right beside her. “May I be of assistance?”

  She’d wanted to snap at him something to the effect that it was the baby needing assistance—she was perfectly fine—then stomp away with the dratted child before she started yelling herself.

  Except the gravity of his voice, coupled with blue eyes so full of kindness and concern, had her passing him the baby without further question.

  She’d never realized babies were so heavy. It wasn’t that they were large; it was that one could never put them down for a moment—or if one did put them down, one assumed a burden of anxiety of greater weight than the actual child, which had one picking the little person up again, no matter how tired one’s arms were.

  “Watch carefully, Miss Windham. This is an arcane and closely guarded Portmaine family secret.”

  He picked up both the tapes on one side, but the child thwarted the adult’s attempt to secure the nappy by dodging south with one small hand and grabbing stoutly onto his own…

  “My goodness!”

  The baby grinned, the man smiled as well, and Sophie wished the floor would swallow her up immediately and permanently.

  “He’s just a baby, Miss Windham. He knows only what feels good, and there’s no harm in it, really.” Gently, the man disentangled the child’s hand from that portion of the male anatomy for which Sophie’s brothers had endless names.

  And Sophie herself had not a one she’d speak aloud.

  Mr. Charpentier leaned in close over the baby, so close his wheat-blond hair fell forward over his shoulders. “You are scandalizing the lady, young Kit. Desist, I say.” He shook his head from side to side, making his hair swing. The baby cooed his delight, barely missing Mr. Charpentier’s chin with a small heel.

  And all the while, the man had been deftly tying the nappy closed at the sides with two neat bows that would be easy to untie when the need arose.

  “How often is this necessary?” Sophie asked.

  “Very often.” The man leaned forward, crouching on all fours over the child. “Because we are a very healthy, busy baby, aren’t we, Master Kit?” He shook his hair for the infant again, provoking more squealing and kicking and grinning.

  It wasn’t dignified in the least, the way the grown man crouching on the floor played with the child—made a fool of himself to entertain a stranger’s abandoned baby.

  Not dignified, but it was… oddly endearing.

  Sophie felt an urge to get up and put some distance between herself and this tomfoolery on the floor, and yet she had to wonder too: if she brushed a lock of her hair over the child’s nose, would the baby take as much delight in it?

  She sat back. “How is it you know so much about babies?”

  “My half sisters are a great deal younger than my brother and I. We more or less raised them, and this is part of the drill. He’ll likely nap next, as outings tend to tire them when they’re this young.”

  He crouched low over the child and used his mouth to make a rude noise on the baby’s belly. The child exploded with glee, grabbing wildly for Mr. Charpentier’s hair and managing to catch his nose.

  It was quite a handsome nose in the middle of quite a handsome face. She’d noticed this at the coaching inn, in that first instant when he’d offered to help. She’d turned to find the source of the lovely, calm voice and found herself looking up into a face that put elegant masculine bones to the best possible use.

  His eyes were just the start of it—a true pale blue that suggested Norse ancestry, set under arching blond brows. It was a lean face, with a strong jaw and well-defined chin—Sophie could not abide a weak chin nor the artifices of facial hair men sported to cover one up.

  But none of that, not even the nose and chin and eyes combined, prepared Sophie for the visceral impact of more than six feet of Wilhelm Charpentier crouched on the floor, entertaining a baby.

  He smiled at the child as if one small package of humanity merited all the grace and benevolence a human heart could express. He beamed at the child, looked straight into the baby’s eyes, and communicated bottomless approval and affection without saying a word.

  It was… daunting. It was undignified, and yet Sophie sensed there was a kind of wisdom in the man’s handling of the baby she herself would lack.

  “He’ll get drowsy soon.” Mr. Charpentier shifted back onto his heels. “That’s the best part, when they’re all sweet and snuggly. Little buggers wrap us around their fingers without even trying.”

  “You sound pleased about this.”

  He turned his head, his smile fading as he regarded her. “When a fellow is likely to end up in a foundling home through no fault of his own, or left on the church steps in the middle of winter, he’d better have a mighty lot of charm stored up if he isn’t to die before he learns to walk.”

  He’d spoken quietly, but Sophie had to look away. Her gaze scanned the snowy back gardens, a sight as bleak as the prospect Mr. Charpentier described.

  “I don’t know how to change a nappy, Mr. Charpentier. I don’t know what Kit likes to eat, I don’t know how to… entertain him, but I do know he won’t be going to any foundling home. Not now, not ever.”

  He regarded her with an odd gravity for a man seated on the floor. “You’re sure about this?”

  She nodded. “If the family didn’t turn Joleen out when her difficulty became apparent, if we didn’t turn her out when the child came along, if we provided for the child thus far, and we provided coach fare home for Joleen, we’ll not be turning our backs on Kit now.”

  The decisions had been hers, the matter tacitly left to her discretion by Their Graces’ inaction, just as all the family strays eventually ended up in Sophie’s care. Sophie had decided the holidays were a fine time to let Joleen and her child make their way home, though Joleen herself had seemed reluctant to go.

  “I expect Jolee
n’s family would not have welcomed her, much less her child,” Sophie said, the conviction growing even as she spoke.

  “And she could not bring herself to consign him to a slow death by black drop, courtesy of the parish.” Mr. Charpentier’s tone was mild as he began slipping a dress over Kit’s head, but something in the angle of his jaw suggested anger. “Joleen gambled her child’s life on your kindness.”

  He had Kit dressed in no time and was soon slipping wool socks over the baby’s chubby feet. “Would you like to hold him, Miss Windham?”

  “Me?”

  “You did well enough at the inn and on the way home.” He tucked the shawl around the baby and picked him up. “He’ll likely nod off to sleep if you take the rocking chair.”

  “I suppose it can’t be too difficult.”

  “Easiest thing in the world.” He got to his feet, holding the baby without the least awkwardness, and even extended a hand to assist Sophie to her feet.

  It was a large hand, clean and elegant—also warm. Maybe that was why Kit liked it when Mr. Charpentier played with his toes.

  “Take the rocker. I’ll hand him to you.”

  She complied, feeling an odd bolt of nervousness as she did. She’d held this baby—not for long, not very confidently, but she had.

  “He likes to be right near you, skin to skin if possible. He likes the warmth, and he even likes to hear your heart beat.”

  “He told you this, did he?” She accepted the bundle of baby from Mr. Charpentier’s grasp, a maneuver that had him leaning in close enough she could catch the scent of bergamot about his person. Bergamot and soap, maybe a little laundry starch, nothing more. No tobacco, no sweat, no horse, nothing. The baby probably liked that about him too.

  “Support his head.” Mr. Charpentier slipped his hand beneath Sophie’s where she’d wrapped hers around the back of the baby’s skull. “We’ll put him on his tummy next time he’s romping on the floor and see how strong his neck is. If he’s about to crawl, he’ll have no trouble holding his head up. Ah, there. Going for the thumb. That’s a sure sign a nap is on the way.”