“My conveyance is just around that corner.” She pulled on her gloves, nodding to the north, toward Mayfair. “We’re not far from home, but with Joleen’s valise, I thought the carriage would save us effort.”

She wasn’t wearing a bonnet, which allowed her to wrap a knit scarf around her head in such a way that her ears and neck and some of her hair were covered. Vim was relieved to get shut of the commons, relieved to breathe the relatively fresh air of the out-of-doors. They hadn’t gone very far when Vim stopped abruptly.

“God in heaven. What is that?”

“Not so loud.” Miss Windham turned to frown at him as the boy holding the reins darted off toward the inn. “You’ll hurt Goliath’s feelings. He’s a very sensitive pony.”

Her sensitive pony was almost as tall at the withers as the top of Vim’s head, which put the beast at something over eighteen hands. Such an animal would be able to cut through the snow without breaking a sweat, but his kind were seldom kept in the confines of Town.

“Did he escape from in front of some beer wagon?” Though escape was hardly the appropriate term. A horse that size went where he pleased—fences, stone walls, and human wishes notwithstanding.

“He did not enjoy a sanguine existence before joining our stable, but he’s the best of horses in bad weather. I’ll take the baby.” She turned to Vim as he noticed three fat, lazy snowflakes drifting down from the sky. He did not pass her the child.

“I don’t see a driver, Miss Windham. How will you manage to guide the horse and hold Kit?”

“I can put the reins in one hand,” she said, brow puckering. “Goliath knows the way home.”

“No doubt he does.” Or he knew the way to his barrel of oats. “Nonetheless, I would be more comfortable if you’d allow me to drive you. It seems we’re to be treated to yet more snow, and I would not want a lady and her very young charge relying on the good offices of her horse when a gentleman was on hand to see to her safety.”

It was a courteous, gentlemanly speech, calculated to reassure her and let him attend to an errand of conscience, though he’d meant what he’d said: he wanted to see her and the baby safely ensconced in a well-heated home before he set about finding his own accommodations. Call it vestigial chivalry or a rare manifestation of seasonal charity, but he wasn’t going to abandon her to her own devices just yet.

“It’s only a few blocks, Mr. Charpentier.” She gave his name the same emphasis he did, Shar-pen-tee-ay, in deference to his father’s distant Norman antecedents.

“Then you won’t mind if I drive you.” He tossed his haversack into the back, and with his free hand, he took her elbow, guiding her over to the gig. The angle of her chin suggested she had a stubborn streak, which was about to come inconveniently into evidence, but a chilly breeze came along at just the right moment—sporting more snowflakes—and her chin dipped.

“If you insist, then. I do appreciate it.”

He boosted her into the gig and glanced at the sky in silent thanks. If there was one thing he did not regard as a productive use of his time, it was arguing with a strange woman in the street while a blizzard bore down on the city and the baby in his arms grew closer to that moment when…

“My goodness.” Miss Windham wrinkled her nose where she sat on the bench. “Something…”

“Not something.” Vim handed her the baby. “Someone. He ate, he burped, and now he must treat us to a demonstration of the health of the other end of his digestion.” He climbed into the gig and unwrapped the reins from the brake. Beside him, Miss Windham was holding the baby slightly away from her body.

“I say.” She frowned at the child. “I do say. You’re sure they do this regularly?”

“With appalling regularity, if you’re lucky. I’d guess the boy’s getting some solid food too, which will make his situation a great deal easier if you can’t locate the mother.”

She didn’t ask him how he came to such a conclusion, though the evidence presented to Vim’s nose was unassailable. A child subsisting exclusively on mother’s milk wasn’t half as odoriferous as Kit had just been.

Vim flicked the reins, and the chestnut behemoth in the traces moved off. “Where are we heading?”

She rattled off an address on one of the great squares of Mayfair, prompting Vim to wonder just whom he was escorting.

Sophie Windham was well spoken, but she was also driving herself around London in the dead of winter. Her clothing was well made but not fancy enough to suggest wealth. She had the brisk competence of a housekeeper, and a position in service would explain her lack of familiarity with child care, as domestics seldom married.

“You were traveling today, Mr. Charpentier?” She’d relented and was holding the child against her body, despite the baby-stink emanating from the bundle in her arms.

“Heading to the family seat for the much-vaunted holidays.” The family seat, such as it was, for the holidays, such as they were. His tone of voice must have given him away, for she shot him a look. He could feel her scrutinizing his profile and see her female brain choosing the most delicate way to frame an awkward question.

But she said nothing.

“What about you?” He glanced over at her. “Is London home, or should you be traveling somewhere to join your family for Christmas?”

“My brothers are coming through Town later in the week. We’ll journey to Kent together, assuming they all arrive safe and sound.”

“How many brothers do you have?”

“I had five. Thanks to consumption and the Corsican, I now have three.” Her voice hadn’t wavered, hadn’t revealed any particular sentiment, but she cradled the child closer.

“I am sorry for your losses.”

She was quiet for a moment, while around them, the flurries were becoming a light, regular snow. She spoke just when he’d thought the topic closed. “My brother Victor died this time of year. I don’t think my parents will spend another Christmas in Town for some time. We’re still trying to find our balance with it.”

He had no idea what to say to that. The lady fell silent, as well, suggesting the admission wasn’t comfortable for her either. “This is a fairly recent loss?”

She nodded. “You can turn up that alley there; it will lead to our mews two blocks up.”

Not surprisingly, the alley was relatively free of snow. The neighborhood was such that droves of servants would be available to move snow, to dig out the stables, to shovel off and then sweep the walks and garden pathways.

“My father died at Christmas, as well,” he said as the horse trotted along. “He was not a well man in my lifetime. I think my mother was relieved to see him at peace.” The baby fussed, which provided a distraction. “Try patting his back.”

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.”