The teakettle started to whistle, but Vim kept his gaze locked on Sophie.

Lady Sophia. The implications reverberated through his mind: the daughters of earls, marquises, and dukes were ladies, as were the wives of peers. Wives were permitted a great deal of latitude unmarried women did not enjoy…

“Sophie, as you appear acquainted with this person”—the fellow with the chestnut hair put an edge of condescension on the word—“will you introduce us?”

From down the hall, an indignant squall sounded.

“I’ll get him.” Sophie sent Vim a pleading look when she brushed past him. “And there had better not be any broken crockery when I get back.”

The brother who’d asked for introductions had a scholarly look to him, and he’d watched Sophie go with something like concern in his eye.

“Vim Charpentier.” Vim stuck out a hand and tried not to make it a dare. He was outnumbered, for one thing, and Sophie did not want broken crockery, for another.

“Westhaven.” The man nodded but did not extend his hand. “My brothers, Devlin St. Just, Earl of Rosecroft, and Lord Valentine Windham. We are assuredly not at your service until we get an explanation for your very presuming greeting to our sister.”

And if Sophie’s brother was Lord Valentine Windham, and she was Lady Sophia Windham, then that narrowed down the family title to a marquis or a…

God in heaven, it was almost funny.

“Explanations will wait until Lady Sophia rejoins us,” Vim said just as she emerged from the hallway with Kit in her arms.

“Hello, lad.” Vim had to smile at the way the baby started bouncing in Sophie’s embrace and reaching his arms toward Vim. “I missed you too.”

She passed him the baby, a gesture he was sure had more to do with preventing her brothers from putting out his lights than anything else. Still, it felt good to hold the child, to see that somebody was glad to know he’d not frozen in some snowbank.

Sophie spoke softly as she eyed the baby in his arms. “Westhaven, Rosecroft, Lord Valentine, may I make known to you Mr. Vim Charpentier, late of Cumbria and bound for Kent. The storm stranded him here, and I needed help…”

“Sophie.” Vim spoke quietly and willed her to meet his gaze. “I suggest we see the child settled first and then have a civil discussion with your brothers. They are no doubt hungry, and you are entitled to a few moments to compose yourself.”

She twisted her hands and said nothing, her gaze meeting his only fleetingly.

“A sound enough plan,” the dragoon said—Rosecroft, or St. Just. “Valentine is stealing all your marzipan, Westhaven. I believe you mentioned naming your seconds?”

The tension eased fractionally at what Vim took for a jest—or sword rattling, but not a genuine threat. He turned with the baby. “We’ll be in the parlor with Kit.” He did not reach for Sophie’s hand. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Lady Sophia’s hand.

“Leave the damned door open,” Lord Valentine said. It was a marginal comfort that Sophie ignored her brother’s admonition and closed the damned door when they reached the parlor.

“It will let in the worst draft. Valentine has no children yet, you see, and it wouldn’t occur to him Kit will be on the carpet—”

“Sophie.” He made no move to touch her. She fell silent and sank to her knees on the rug and blankets.

“They’ll think the worst,” she said. “I don’t want them to think ill of me, Vim. Mr. Charpentier, oh—bother. What do I call you?”

He stopped short in the process of turning Kit loose among his blankets. “If I’m to call you Lady Sophia, you might consider calling me Lord Sindal.”

Her brows flew up, then down. “You’re titled?”

“A courtesy title, much like your own, but humbler. I’m heir to the Rothgreb viscountcy. Baron Sindal.”

“Oh. My goodness.” She did meet his gaze then, and he saw understanding and relief in her eyes. “You did not tell me because you thought I was just a what… a lady’s companion? A housekeeper?”

“Something like that. Mostly I thought you were lovely.” He still did. “What do we tell your brothers, Sophie? They’ve left us these few moments out of respect for you, but they’ll be in here any minute, crockery be damned.”

“I suppose we tell them as little as possible.”

It wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear, though the constraints of honor allowed him one further attempt to secure his heart’s desire. “I will offer for you, if that’s what you want.” Offer for her again. He kept the hope from his voice only with effort.

Though from the severe frown Sophie displayed, a renewed offer wasn’t what she sought from him. “I won’t ask it of you.”

He was marshalling his arguments mentally when Lord Valentine came to the door, a tray in his hands. “You will pardon me for not knocking.” He lifted the tray a few inches and shot Vim a challenging look. “Scoot over, Soph. Westhaven is counting his candies, and St. Just is fetching some libation. What’s the little blighter’s name?”

“Kit. Christopher Elijah Handel.”

Valentine lowered himself to the sofa, which had the agreeable result that Sophie shifted closer to Vim on the carpet. “Any relation to the composer?”

“I doubt it.”

“Relax, Sophie.” Lord Val nudged her with his toe. “The elders will take their cue from you, or I’ll make them wish they had. May I offer you a sandwich, Charpentier? Even a condemned prisoner is entitled to a last meal.”

The smile accompanying this gracious offer would have suited one of the large feline denizens of the Royal Menagerie.

“My thanks. Sophie, would you care for a bite?”

“That’s Lady Sophia, to you, Charpentier.” Lord Valentine’s reminder was quite, quite casually offered.

Sophie reached for the sandwich while she shot her brother a glare. “Thank you, Lord Sindal.”

She took a ladylike nibble then passed the sandwich back to Vim as Lord Valentine placidly demolished his own portion.

“You might have waited for us,” St. Just said. He, too, had arrived carrying a tray, but this one had a decanter and several glasses on it. Westhaven brought up the rear, closing the parlor door behind him.

One lowly servants’ parlor had probably never held quite so many titles at one time nor so much tension. Sophie’s expression would have suited a woman facing excommunication, but her brothers were apparently satisfied to put off her trial until they’d eaten.

“Another bite, Lady Sophia?” Vim held out the second half of his sandwich, mostly to aggravate her brothers.

“Thank you, no. I’ve had quite enough to eat today.”

“Is he teething?” Westhaven asked the question as he took a place in the wing chair near the fire. His brothers—just the two of them—took up the entire sofa, leaving Vim, Sophie, and the baby on the floor.

“I don’t know,” Sophie said, passing out the remaining sandwiches.

“He drools a great deal,” Westhaven observed. “If he hasn’t sprouted fangs yet, he will soon, and you can forget forever after whatever pretenses you had to peace of mind. Where were you thinking of fostering him?”

Lord Val started to pour drinks. “The Foundling Hospital ought to take him. His namesake set the place up with a fine organ, and Kit probably fits their criteria.”

St. Just looked preoccupied, and the sandwich Sophie had passed him only a moment ago was nowhere in sight. “What criteria are those?”

“He’s a firstborn,” Lord Val said. “His mother is in difficulties though otherwise of good character, and his papa is nowhere to be found.” He passed Vim a drink as he spoke.

“He won’t be going to the Foundling Hospital,” Vim said. The relief on Sophie’s face was hard to look on. “Soph—Lady Sophia will find him a family to foster with in the country.”

St. Just sat forward to accept a drink from Lord Val. “Is that what you want, Sophie?”

Vim did not answer for her, though he saw the indecision in her eyes.

“I think that would be best for Kit. A fellow needs brothers and sisters, and fresh air, and a family.” To a man, Sophie’s brothers found somewhere else to look besides their sister’s face.

“We have larger concerns to occupy us,” Westhaven said, dusting his hands. “I’m sure Their Graces will assist in finding a situation for the child, but your circumstances here, Sophie, leave much to be explained.”

He took a sip of his drink, letting the silence stretch with the cunning and calculation of a barrister. Vim wanted to put a staying hand on Sophie’s arm, or even cover her mouth with his hand, but the sodding buggers were right: they needed to get their story organized if Sophie’s reputation wasn’t to be tarnished beyond all repair.

“The storm helps you,” Lord Val said, lifting his sister’s hand and putting a drink in it. “Nobody was out and about, nobody was socializing.”

“Hardly anybody,” St. Just said. “We called at the Chattell’s, and a tipsy footman told us the family had departed for Surrey, and you were headed for Kent with your brothers.”

“It’s accurate,” Westhaven said, “provided nobody inquires too closely about the timing.”

Lord Val sat back, his drink cradled in his lap. “How do we explain him? If he’s Sindal, that makes him old Rothgreb’s heir, though a grown-up version compared to the one I recall from years ago.”

“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.