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?