“I’ll go and I’ll be civil.”

“You have to be more than civil. Perhaps you should compose a sonnet about her eyes,” Birdie suggested.

“There will be no sonnets.”

“At least bring her a bouquet of red roses,” Bernadette suggested.

“No sonnets. No roses. I’ll offer her a queenly salary and if that doesn’t work, I’ll throw her over my shoulder and stuff her into my carriage and bring her back to you.”

“Please try not to be too disagreeable,” Blanche remonstrated. “Don’t mention your opinion about her lady’s club, for example.”

“And don’t call her Miss Bedlam,” said Bernadette.

“And tell her she has pretty dimples and you should like to see them.” That from Birdie. “I do miss her dimples. Her smile is so bright and cheery.”

West hated to admit it, but he’d noticed that without Miss Beaton there was a decided lack of cheeriness in this house. It seemed she was the source of all sunshine. Always a smile on her lips, always a bright look in her eyes. Without her, the entire house felt colder, as though the sun had gone behind the clouds and the house was in perpetual shadow.

“I’m going to rehire Miss Beaton and then I’m going to have some peace and quiet. Away from this house.”

Away from females.

He’d go and gamble with some of this hard-won new money in a dark room filled with men who had no agenda other than to shake the dice and have a good time.

“We’ll be waiting,” said Blanche.

“Don’t worry, I’ll bring her back.”

He must have her back. His sanity depended upon it.

Chapter Seven

“Father, I have the most wonderful news!” Viola ran into the music room, waving the letter they’d just received. Sometimes she still forgot that he couldn’t hear her clearly. His condition had worsened gradually, and no physician had been able to offer a satisfactory explanation.

She approached the table where he was bent over an ink-covered symphonic score. She placed her hand gently on his shoulder.

“Eh? Viola?” He lifted his metal ear trumpet.

“Good news, Papa,” she said, speaking directly into the trumpet. She gave him the letter that could be the answer to her prayers. She’d had no luck finding another position this last week. And her appeals to the duke for her back wages had gone unanswered.

The memory of the heated words they’d exchanged still stung. And she hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye to the ladies. She’d have to find a way to see them, to explain that she’d quit her employ because the duke had insinuated that he would sack her.

The blusterous jug-bitten blunderbuss!