Her father raised his baton. But instead of conducting, he turned around, toward the audience.

“What’s he doing?” Viola asked.

“This Christmas carol was written by my daughter, Viola, Duchess of Westbury, a composer in her own right,” he pronounced in loud, ringing tones.

Viola gasped. A scandalized murmur traveled through the crowd. The king wasn’t in attendance tonight, thank goodness. Such a breach of protocol in his presence would have been unforgivable.

“She wrote it while I was composing my masterpiece, my Symphony no. 10, which the world will have the pleasure of hearing very soon.”

“Not very humble, your father,” West murmured in her ear.

“What’s he doing? This wasn’t the plan.”

“I submit that my daughter should be the one to conduct this orchestra and choir tonight. I myself taught her the art of conducting, though she’s never had the opportunity to put it into practice in public. My dear, please come to the stage,” he called loudly.

“Oh my God.” Viola’s stomach dropped into her slippers. “I can’t believe this.”

“What are you waiting for, my love?” West asked, his eyes worried.

“I . . . can’t. There are too many people here,” she whispered.

“Don’t think about them. Think only of me.” He brought her fingers to his lips. “You may picture me naked, if it helps.”

The absurdity of it made her smile. Which was exactly the tonic to overcome her nerves. “Thank you, dear. I believe I shall picture you clothed. Until I get you back to bed and I can have the real thing.”

She took a deep, steadying breath, and rose to her feet.

There was only scattered applause as she made her way to the stage.

“Papa, how could you?” she mouthed.

He had the temerity to smile. “How could I not?” he mouthed back.

He handed her the conductor’s baton. Could she really do this?

Her hands quaked. She could feel West and his sisters sending their love and support. She straightened her spine, nodding at the cello soloist.

She raised her baton. And began to conduct.

The music swelled around her, rich and powerful, anchored by the cellist and embellished with the chiming of the bells.

She brought the choir in precisely on cue. “All color resigned and left. Cold white embraced the land,” they sang, “causing the place bereft to beg for a kinder hand. No light, no jewel, to spice our Yule? Do we hear so faint a peal? In darkness comes a chime, wild bells, unseen but real, to color our joyous time. Not sight, but sound, does now abound!”

After the last shimmering notes rang out, the hall fell silent, and then applause broke out, begun by West, of course, who leaped from his seat, cheering loudly.

“Bravo, bravo!”