A memory, faint and hazy, entered his mind. His mother at the door of the nursery, watching him read to Belinda and Betsy from a picture book, her eyes lit with pride.

Brandan, she’d said later that day, you have a warm and a giving heart. Always remember that small acts of kindness multiply and yield richer dividends than all the gold and diamonds in this world. She’d ruffled his hair. You’ll be a good man someday. You’ll make some lucky woman a wonderful husband.

He’d wanted her approval and love with the same powerful longing that swamped his senses now. The craving for companionship, the lure of easy laughter and warm smiles, was only a memory from his past. He’d buried his weakness, his need for love, drowned it in gin, smothered it with hedonistic pursuits.

You’re wicked and shameful. Tainted by sin. Life is no bed of roses for one such as you.

It was too late for him to change. He’d do what he always did.

Walk away from his sisters, from their innocent laughter, from Viola’s wide-open smile. From the soft light in her green eyes.

Turn your back and walk away, into the dark night.

And head straight for hell.

Chapter Eleven

West finally stumbled home at well-past-inebriated o’clock. There was a lamp lit in the music room of the dower house. Viola hadn’t struck him as a late-night sort of person.

As he approached the house he heard the sound of piano music. But this was a far cry from the elegant air he’d heard Viola play earlier. This was something entirely different. Strident, almost bombastic chords, crashing into the air like waves battering a cliff during a squall.

This must be the father, composing his fabled Symphony no. 10. West could have a brief listen outside the music room door, a preview of the great composer’s masterwork.

The sleepy servant who answered West’s knock evinced no surprise at seeing him there. It was his house, after all.

West sent him back to bed and made his way to the music conservatory, lured by the music and the promise of hearing the genius at work.

The playing stopped at intervals and was replaced by the scratching of a pen across paper.

West reached the conservatory and paused outside. The door was ajar, the room striped with shadows. The figure sitting at the piano was slight and . . . shapely.

Viola wore a shadow-colored gown. The light in the room danced in the flickering candelabras mounted on either side of the pianoforte and the flames in the fireplace.

Her back was to him, she’d never even know he’d been here.

She stopped making notations and resumed playing.

How could such a small person create such an overwhelming wave of sound? Her fingers flew across the keys and her whole body swayed in time with the music.