It was the perfect distraction to help her forget about the duke and to keep her from missing the Delamar sisters and her life at Westbury House.

This was an enormous opportunity. If her father became popular again, the commissions would resume. The royalties from his previous works, which had been scant of late, would flow again.

Humming happily to herself, she mounted the stairs to her room. She’d start searching for the right poem immediately in her small library, and if she couldn’t find it there, she’d go to the Lady’s Club on the Strand, which had an extensive library stocked with mostly female authors.

She paused halfway up when she heard Withers answer the door. Her spirits fell when she recognized the grating voice of Mr. Barker, their landlord.

“Mr. Beaton is not at home,” she heard Withers say.

“I know he’s here so let me pass. This is a matter of urgency.”

“He’s not here, I tell you.”

Viola tucked a few stray curls under her cap and straightened her skirts. She must project an air of calm and solvency.

“Mr. Barker, how kind of you to pay a visit,” she said as she entered the front hallway.

“Don’t pretend this is a social call, Miss Beaton, you know very well why I’m here. Where is your father?”

“He’s not to be disturbed, he’s working on a very important symphony.”

“So you’ve been saying for the last six months. I’m here to disturb him.”

“Ah, but we will be able to pay you in full very soon, Mr. Barker.” She waved the letter in the air. “This is an invitation for my father to compose an important work for a Christmastide gala to be held at the Hanover Square Rooms.”

“Not good enough, Miss Beaton. I’ve taken your promises as payment for too long now. I sold this building and you must vacate immediately.”

“You can’t do that without giving us notice!”

“It’s all in the rental contract your father signed. I’ve been more than lenient. Measures had to be taken.”

“To whom did you sell the house?” Viola asked, thinking to make a plea to the new landlord for a continued occupancy.

“To me, Miss Beaton.” A tall, fair-haired man walked through the doorway. For a split second Viola thought it was Westbury—until she recognized the pinched, haughty features of Lord Sprague, her father’s only remaining patron.

“Here you are then, Your Lordship, here’s the key and I daresay you’ll find everything to your liking. Very pretty furnishings, indeed.” Mr. Barker’s smile was insinuating and lascivious as he took his leave.

A bell rang and Withers left to tend to his master, leaving Viola alone with Lord Sprague.

“Why didn’t you write to me about your financial troubles?” the baron asked. “You know I’m always willing to help.”