“My sisters have plenty of female relations to chaperone them and introduce them to the right people. You’ll be there as someone they trust and admire. An unofficial chaperone, companion, and confidante. You’ll keep me informed if anything seems amiss. I don’t want them falling prey to dishonorable, exploitive men like Sprague or Laxton.”

“Ah.” She gave him a knowing look. “You want me to spy on them.”

“Absolutely not.” A smile kept trying to creep back to his lips. What was it about this woman that disarmed him so? “Simply be their confidante and ensure that they never find themselves in a situation requiring defensive maneuvers with knitting needles . . . or knee jabs.”

Her gaze softened and he detected a hint of dimple. “I haven’t yet heard an apology, Your Grace. Three little words.” She held up her thumb. “I.” Then her forefinger. “Am.” And finally her middle finger. “Sorry.” She cocked her head. “Now it’s your turn.”

“What am I sorry for?”

Her gaze narrowed.

He laughed. “Very well, Miss Beaton. I’m sorry your salary was delayed. And I’m sorry I goaded you into an unbecoming fit of rage in the library. I promise not to provoke your passions in future.”

Even though the thought of provoking her to a different sort of passion had crossed his mind at least a dozen times in the last few minutes.

“That’s not much of an apology,” she huffed.

“I’ll send my man round to collect your things tomorrow morning. Think of it this way, Miss Beaton, when you think of a truly cutting insult, I’ll be just next door.”

Chapter Nine

Westbury sent not one, but five servants to move their small household the next day. Viola could have managed it herself. They had very few possessions. Her father’s manuscripts were the bulk of it, boxes and trunks filled with music. They wouldn’t be taking the butchered pianoforte. Lord Sprague could keep his ruined gift.

She’d explained to her father that he had a new noble patron who wanted to commission a wedding march. Her father had been delighted with the patronage and temporary living arrangements, and curtly dismissive of the commission. He’d requested that Viola compose any “wedding marches, military marches, operettas, and all such trivial balderdash” on his behalf while he finished his symphonic masterwork.

This afternoon she was visiting The Boadicea Club on the Strand where she went as often as possible to use the music study where she played pianoforte and composed music in peace, without fear of anyone overhearing her working on her father’s commissions. She must embark immediately upon the Christmas carol.