“That would be a terrible shame.” Mr. Atwater hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. “It should be published. And performed.”

“We do publish the works of several female composers, Miss Beaton,” Mr. Herrick assured her.

“I don’t wish to come forward publicly as Mr. Beam. I only want to claim my prize.”

“Are you certain?” Mr. Atwater asked. “For it seems to me that it takes rather a bold lady to come forward and claim that she entered a contest under a male pseudonym.”

“Perhaps it was bold of me to come. But that’s all I wanted, Mr. Atwater. To explain the confusion.”

“Allow us a moment, Miss Beaton. Please, don’t leave.”

The gentlemen adjourned to another room. Viola wondered what there was to discuss. She’d revealed her identity, and the news would probably circulate throughout the Royal Society of Musicians, but she’d decided not to have the work published.

The gentlemen returned wearing identical beaming smiles.

“We really do want to publish your symphony, Miss Beaton. And we want to publish it under your name,” Mr. Atwater said. “As a mark of our seriousness, we’re prepared to offer you two hundred pounds in advance.” He held out an envelope. “You’ll find it’s all here.”

Viola made a startled sound. “Two hundred pounds. Are you both insane?”

Two hundred pounds was a dizzying sum. It didn’t make her heiress enough for West, but it was a great deal of money.

“We’re very shrewd investors, Miss Beaton, I assure you,” said Mr. Herrick.

“I suppose . . .” Viola’s mind whirled. “I suppose I might see my way to considering your offer.”

“What changed your mind about coming forward?” Mr. Atwater asked. “When we spoke at the Duke of Westbury’s musicale you were most adamant in your denial of any knowledge of the work.”

“A gentleman of my acquaintance urged me not to hide my musical compositions away in a trunk to be discovered only after my death.”

“You have other compositions, Miss Beaton?” Mr. Atwater asked eagerly.

“An entire trunk’s worth.”

“This is very good news indeed,” said Mr. Herrick.

“Your gentleman friend is quite right, Miss Beaton. Quite right, indeed. A talent such as yours shouldn’t be hidden away. My grandfather founded this publishing company, but it was my grandmother Kitty who was the musician who inspired him. She was a composer in her own right, her works mostly attributed to her brother, or swept aside by male critics.”

“Your grandmother was Kitty Atwater? I didn’t make the connection. She’s one of my inspirations.”

“Then it’s kismet, Miss Beaton.” He held out the envelope. “Take this. And give us your handshake that we will be your exclusive London publisher.”

“I hardly know what to say.”

“Say you’ll be ours,” Mr. Herrick said with a wide smile.

She laughed. “Very well, Mr. Atwater and Mr. Herrick. I’ll be yours. And blast the critics!”