“You’re on your way to Kent?” St. Just asked.

“I am.”

“Then to Kent you shall go, traveling in company with us.” St. Just glanced over at Westhaven, suggesting Westhaven occupied a place of authority regarding family matters.

“That will serve,” Westhaven said. “But confirm for us, first, Charpentier, or Sindal, that you are half brother to Benjamin Hazlit.”

Benjamin, who according to Sophie had handled some administrative matters for Their Graces—which could mean anything. That these men would know of the connection between brothers was… curious.

“Hazlit is my half brother,” Vim said. “He is not in Town at present, to my knowledge.” There was no telling with Ben. The man never outright lied, but he raised discretion to a high, arcane art.

Lord Valentine cocked his head and regarded his sister. “Does this complicate matters, that he’s related to Hazlit?”

“Watch him!” Westhaven was half out of his chair as all eyes turned to Kit. Sophie was calmly prying the dangling end of an embroidered table runner from the child’s grasp, while the men in the room collectively sat back and took a sip of their drinks.

“He nearly brought the entire platter down on his head,” Westhaven said. “It’s a dangerous age, infancy.”

“He’s a wonderful baby,” Sophie said, tucking the table runner out of reach. “He’s just starting to crawl.”

St. Just snorted. “Not in earnest, or that table runner would be nowhere in sight. Emmie and I have boxes of things, pretty, breakable, ornamental things that had to disappear from sight when my younger daughter started crawling.”

Lord Valentine frowned at the baby. “I believe we were discussing Sindal’s connection with Hazlit before Disaster Incarnate here upstaged the topic.”

“My Lord Baby will do,” Sophie said, sending Lord Valentine a reproving look.

“It’s like this. Charpentier, Sindal, or whoever you are.” Westhaven also regarded the child as he spoke, or perhaps he regarded Sophie and the baby both. “The Windham family owes your brother a debt of… consideration. Both Lord Valentine and myself would find ourselves removed from our wives’ charity did we not extend Hazlit’s relation some courtesy.”

Vim passed Sophie a serviette to wipe the drool from Kit’s little maw. For as much upheaval as the child had endured, he seemed to be enjoying a room full of Sophie’s siblings.

“Your wives frown on dueling?” Vim asked.

“Her Grace frowns on dueling,” Lord Valentine supplied. “Rather ruins a young man’s reputation, when his fellows know his mama won’t allow him to duel.”

“But as we’re no longer young,” St. Just added, “we might be persuaded to make an exception for you, Sindal.”

“Most kind of you.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Don’t encourage them. There’s a child present.”

“And a lady,” Westhaven said. “I propose we simply proceed to Kent, and as far as the world is concerned, we’re traveling with Sindal for the convenience of all parties. The three of us have been resting here for several days in the company of our sister before setting out for the country. Sindal did not join the household until Sophie’s relations were already on the scene.”

Vim watched Sophie carefully, trying to pick up a reaction from her to this planned deception. A ducal family could pull off such a subterfuge, particularly this ducal family, and particularly if there was only one tipsy footman to gainsay them.

“Soph?” Lord Valentine tapped her knee with the toe of his boot. “You want some time to consider your options?”

The baby chose that moment to toddle forth on his hands and knees, squealing with glee when he’d covered the two feet between Sophie’s side and St. Just’s boots.

“A headlong charge into enemy territory can see a fellow taken prisoner.” St. Just lifted the baby under the arms and brought the child up to face level.

Kit grinned, swiped at St. Just’s nose, and emitted such sounds as to establish beyond doubt that a certain fellow’s nappy was thoroughly soiled.

“Gah!”

“Gah, indeed.” St. Just kept the child at arm’s length. “Westhaven, you have a son. I nominate you.”

“Valentine needs the practice.”

Vim took the baby from St. Just’s grasp and headed for the laundry. As he left the parlor, he heard Lord Valentine softly observe, “You know, Soph, most men with any backbone can calmly accept the threat of a duel to preserve a lady’s honor, but it’s a brave man indeed who can deal with a dirty nappy without even being asked.”

“Your timing is deplorable,” Vim told the malodorous, grinning baby. “But I think you’ve given Sophie’s brothers their first reason to pause before they call me out.”

“Bah!”

* * *

“They are up to something.” Sophie kept her voice down as Vim handed her a clean nappy, lest they or someone else in the inn’s common overhear her.

Vim tickled Kit’s cheek. “I don’t think your brothers are waiting to call me out, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Sophie passed him the folded up soiled linen. “They might. Devlin used to kill people for his living. Valentine arranged a very bad fate for one of his wife’s relations, and Westhaven has been known to be ruthless where Anna’s welfare is concerned. You can’t trust them.”

“They trust you, Sophie.” Vim put his finger on the tape Sophie was tying into a bow. “They trust I’m not suicidal enough to make advances to you in their very company.”

She wanted to ask him if that was why he’d kept his distance, but Valentine came sauntering up.

“Our meal will be served in the private dining room. The Imp of Satan smells a good deal better.”

“You were just such an imp not so very long ago,” Sophie reminded him. “Did you check on the horses?”

“Your precious friends are knee-deep in straw and munching contentedly on fresh hay. I watched with my own eyes while St. Just fed them their oats, which oats did not hit the bottom of the bucket but were consumed by a process of inhalation I’ve never seen before. I intend to emulate it if they ever serve dinner here.”

Something passed between the men—a glance, a look, a particular way of breathing at each other.

“I’ll take Kit.” Vim lifted the child from the settle where Sophie had been changing the baby’s nappy. “Does this place have a cradle?”

He addressed the question to Val, who shrugged. “I understand how to bed down a horse; I understand how to keep my wife safe and content. These creatures”—he gestured at Kit—“confound me entirely.”

“But the King’s English does not,” Sophie said before the breathing got out of hand. “Go ask if they have a cradle, and if they do, have it placed in my chamber.” She spun him by his prodigiously broad shoulders and gave the middle of his back a shove.

“St. Just or Westhaven will be along momentarily,” Vim said, rubbing noses with the baby. “They aren’t complete fools.”

“Do they think I’m going to have my wicked way with you right here in the common?” Sophie hated the exasperated note in her voice, hated the way Vim slowly turned his head to assess her, as if he wasn’t quite sure he recognized the shrew standing there, hands on her hips, hems soaked, hair a fright.

“Is it your courses?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My sisters grow… sensitive when their courses approach.” He went back to having his nose-duel with the baby, while Sophie fisted both hands and prayed for patience.

“I am traveling in the company of my three older brothers and the man with whom I violated every rule of polite society, as well as a baby whom I will have to give up when we reach Morelands, and all you can think is that my—”

He did not kiss her, though she hoped he might be considering it, even here, even with her brothers stomping around nearby. He regarded her gravely then passed her the baby.

“Because if it’s not your courses, then perhaps it’s all that rule violating we did that has you so overset. Or maybe it’s that we got caught violating those rules. I am willing to answer for my part of it, Sophie, duke’s daughter or not. I think your brothers know that.”

He glanced around then leaned in and brushed his nose against hers.

Leaving Sophie not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

* * *

“Lady Sophia sends her regrets. She’ll be taking a tray in her room.” Westhaven settled into a chair as he spoke, then reached across the table and appropriated a drink from his brother’s ale while Vim watched.

Lord Valentine slapped his brother’s wrist. “Which means we don’t have to take turns passing Beelzebub around while we pretend we’re having a civil meal. Is Sophie truly fatigued, or is she being female?”

“Can’t tell,” Westhaven said. “She’s probably worn out, worrying about the child. Valentine, if you value your fingers, you will put that roll back until we’ve said the blessing.”

Lord Valentine took a bite of the roll then set it back in the basket.

“Think of it as playing house,” Devlin St. Just—also the Earl of Rosecroft, though he apparently eschewed use of the title—suggested. “Westhaven gets to be the papa, Val is the baby, and I am the one who refuses to indulge in such inanity. For what we are about to receive, as well as for infants and sisters who travel fairly well, and snowstorms that hold off for one more freezing damned day, we’re grateful. Amen.”

Before the last syllable was out of St. Just’s mouth, Lord Val had retrieved his roll.

They ate in silence for a few moments, food disappearing as if it were indeed being inhaled. Vim figured it was some kind test too, and aimed his question at St. Just.

“To what do we attribute Goliath’s miraculous recovery? He was off when I tried to take him from Town yesterday, and today he’s dead sound.”