With her hair knotted tightly at the nape of her neck, and a collar that buttoned all the way up her throat, she was restored to order. The final touch was a white lace cap pulled down over her ears. Now she was a never-to-be-kissed-again spinster.

She greeted her father at the breakfast table and buttered a roll to eat with her tea.

“How was the ball last night?” her father asked, placing the shell-shaped metal sound collectors of the auricle hearing device the duke had given him on either side of his head and fitting the ivory earpieces into his ears.

“Disastrous. The duke was publicly jilted by the American heiress.”

“Ha.” Her father took another helping of eggs. “Plenty of fish in the sea for a duke.”

True. But not all the fish had money and social connections enough to save Wicked Westbury.

Her father glanced at her slyly. “He’s a handsome fellow, the duke.”

“Undoubtably.” Viola spread more butter on her roll, determined to remain unperturbed and buttoned-up.

“And you’ve been spending quite a lot of time with him.”

“With his sisters, you mean.”

“You’re blushing.”

“Am not.”

“That’s more butter than roll now,” her father pointed out.

Viola glanced down. She’d spread a good inch of butter on the bread. “I like it that way.” She choked down a bite, the rich butter leaving a film inside her mouth like the aftertaste of her lies.

“Viola,” her father said warningly. “You’re hiding something from me.”

“Of course not.” Time to deflect this conversation away from her. “How is the symphony coming along?”

“The finale is giving me no end of misery.” He set down his fork and clutched at his shock of white hair, which was always standing on end. “It’s a cantata, a choral fantasy, and I want it to be on a much grander scale than anything I’ve done before. I can hear the choir singing, Viola. I can hear them but when I try to capture it . . . it’s a symphony within a symphony and it plays hide-and-seek with me, it runs away, just out of reach. I must get it right!”

He was becoming agitated, his hands grasping at the air as if he held a baton, his face clouding over, the muscles of his jaw working.

She went to him, clasping his hand. “You’ll get it right, Papa. I have faith in you.”

He calmed beneath her soft touch, his shoulders stopped trembling, and the wild look left his eyes.

“My Viola.” He squeezed her hand. “What would I do without you?”

“Come,” she said. “Let’s go into the music room and you can show me the beginning of the finale and we’ll see if we can chase it down.”