“I will let you know.” He went to the foyer, then onto the drive where his horse awaited him, his traveling pack strapped to its haunches. Without another glance at the house or the terrace where she might now be taking breakfast, Jin mounted and set off.

He had not lied. In London he had a bishop to meet and a small casket to purchase. He would put up in the rooms he kept in Piccadilly, pay a call on Colin Gray and an admiral or two, and pursue his goal of retrieving his mother’s box.

But the pressure in his chest insisted otherwise. It said that now he rode nowhere, to no purpose, and with no aim. As the distance stretched between him and the woman from whom he must remove himself, for the first time in twenty years Jin felt like a man truly at sea.

Chapter 20

At first, recreating herself into a lady did prove quite a lot of fun. The modiste arrived, tossed about fashion plates, fabrics, and laces, and oohed and ahhed over Viola’s figure while clucking over the indelicate hue of her skin. Viola was then draped with tissue-thin silks, crisp taffetas, and light muslins, strapped with measuring tapes, poked with pins, and generally treated like a mannequin. Petticoats and shifts of the lightest fabrics were produced in abundance. Silly little coats called pelisses, punishing stays, fringed shawls, gloves in every color, and a panoply of bonnets followed.

Viola found a paper and pen and scribbled the names of each garment so as to be able to recall them later. The activity of making the list, however, reminded her of those first months aboard ship when she had done the same, noting spars, lines, sails, and armaments until she had memorized the name of every single piece of wood, iron, hemp, and canvas aboard. And simply writing made her miss her ship’s diary, jotting down the day’s monotonous events each evening before turning in. With the memories swimming about, she could not fully enjoy the dressmaker’s antics. But Serena’s pleasure in the activity was patent, and Viola could not begrudge her happiness.

When Mr. Yale peeked his head in the door to query about their progress, the dressmaker shooed him away. A lady’s boudoir was no place for a man, apparently. Viola wondered what Mrs. Hamper or Serena would think if she told them she had shared her “boudoir” with a man, eagerly.

Viola slept again on the couch, vowing to make a try at the bed the following night. The sound of the sea swishing and cracking on the beach below comforted.

A second day of fitting followed the first. Mrs. Hamper adjusted one of Serena’s muslin wraps on the spot, and Jane strapped the stays around Viola’s ribs with obvious relish and tied her into the confining garments. Viola submitted to having her hair yanked again, which her maid performed with gusto. By the morning of the third day she was able to descend to the breakfast parlor looking something like a lady who belonged at a house like Savege Park, if not feeling like one.

Clothes, however, did not make the lady.

“Which one do I use for the eggs?” she whispered to the man sitting beside her.

Mr. Yale leaned over and replied in an equally hushed tone, “The egg spoon.”

The room was empty save for Serena across the table and a footman standing to either side. Viola flickered a glance at the servants. They wore poker faces.

She murmured, “Which one is the egg spoon?”

“The diminutive one,” Mr. Yale supplied.

“The two of you sound like perfect nincompoops,” Serena said. “What must George and Albert be thinking of you?”

Mr. Yale pointed his forefinger at the smallest spoon, then settled back in his chair. “Why don’t we ask them? George, Albert, do you think Miss Carlyle and I are nincompoops? Now be honest. It is your mistress that you will offend by replying in the negative.”

George furrowed his brow beneath a white wig. “Well, I don’t rightly know, sir.”

“Noncommittal. Wise man. And you, Albert?”

“Wyn, you must cease quizzing the servants.”

“Albert?” Mr. Yale pressed.

“It does seem odd, sir,” the younger footman replied earnestly, “that there be a spoon only for the likes of soft-boiled eggs, I always thought.”

“Ah, do you see, my lady? Albert agrees with your sister and me. We in society use far too many spoons at breakfast.”

“I would like to know which ones to use for what purposes,” Viola said firmly. “Last night at dinner I was completely confused. I think I may have used my soup spoon for the jelly, or perhaps the other way around.” She looked up as Serena lowered the paper.

“We don’t care what spoon you use, Vi. Do we, Mr. Yale?”

“Of course not.”

“But I do. And when Lord Savege returns I’ll wager he will too. Could this be lesson number one?”

Her sister smiled gently. “Viola-”

“You said you would teach me how to be a lady, Ser. I am holding you to that.”

“All right. If you wish.”

“I wish.”

“May I join in the project?” Mr. Yale speared a piece of bacon on his fork and peered at it curiously. “I am in desperate need of a refresher on the finer points of noble dining.”

“Mr. Yale, I am quite serious about this.” Viola turned to him. “I don’t want to embarrass my sister or Lord Savege when we go into company.”

He met her with a sincere regard. “And I, Miss Carlyle, am quite serious about assisting you. If it is a lady you wish to appear to society, then a lady you must and shall.”

“Thank you,” she replied for the hundredth time in four days. Except to Jinan Seton. To the man who had insisted her family still wanted her and made her return to England to reunite with them. To the man who had suffered her silly wager and made love to her as she had never known it could be. Who had, simply by being himself, shown her that she would have made a great mistake in marrying Aidan.

The man who had left her without even a word of good-bye.

He deserved no thanks. He was a thorough blackguard. He’d said he did not take that which was not his by right, but he had stolen her heart. Just like a pirate. She owed him nothing. Not even a fond memory.

Once Viola was suitably garbed (and remarkably uncomfortable), Serena and Mr. Yale set about instructing her in a young lady’s accomplishments: drawing, painting, singing, playing, and achieving a smattering of French and Italian. It swiftly became apparent that she must first learn more fundamental tasks.

“I know how to walk. One puts one foot in front of the other.”

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Yale said, drawing her from a chair before the tea table to the center of the terrace. “But when one is a lady, one puts them in front of the other rather less resolutely than one has been accustomed to doing aboard ship. That is, if one wishes to glide across the floor like an angel.”

“Ha!” Viola cracked a laugh. “An angel?”

“Quite. As all will believe you are until they see you trip on your hem or hear you guffaw like that.”

“I didn’t guffaw. Don’t ladies laugh?”

“Of course they do,” Serena offered. “Only they are not supposed to do so with any gusto. A very silly rule if you ask me.”

“It is indeed, but I did not invent it,” Mr. Yale commented. “I am merely acting as a conduit of the foolishness that is English high society.” He grasped Viola’s hand in his quite comfortably strong fingers and stepped away. “Now, Miss Carlyle, if you will walk four paces allowing only two small inches between your forward heel and following toe, I will be gratified.”

“Two inches?”

“To commence.” His silvery eyes twinkled.

“I must learn to walk heel to toe as though I were a girl in some Oriental king’s harem?”

Serena cracked a laugh as loud as Viola’s guffaw.

“Certainly not,” Mr. Yale assured. “We will commence with exaggeration and when that is achieved, relax our standards to suitability.”

“I see.” She took a step.

He shook his head. “That was at least six inches. And ladies do not mention Oriental harems.”

“Or any harems at all, really.” Serena plied needle to embroidery board.

“Two is ridiculous.” Viola stepped again.

“That was five.”

“Changing Maria’s nappies is a great deal more fun than this.”

“Five again.”

“Then here.” She hiked up her mass of frothy skirts and took the daintiest step imaginable.

“Ah. Much better. And of course a lady must never lift her skirts above the instep.”

“Is that true, Ser?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Viola ground her molars and stepped forward again.

“She is a quick learner,” Mr. Yale murmured.

“She always was,” Serena replied.

“It is impressive.”

“Truly.”

Viola whistled. “I’m still here.”

“And young ladies must never press themselves into a conversation into which they have not been invited. Or whistle.”

“Young ladies sound like no fun at all.”

“Most of them aren’t.”

Viola made her way back to her chair in mincing steps. With a great sigh she threw herself down into it, scooped up a pastry from the tea tray, and popped it into her mouth, then chewed contentedly. At least the rewards for her hard work were delicious.

After a bit, it seemed very quiet in the parlor. She looked up. Mr. Yale and Serena were both looking at the spray of sugar across the lap of her pretty green gown.

“Oh, bother.”

The next lesson had to do with cutlery, the lesson following that with taking a gentleman’s arm, and the lesson after that with her speech.

“I know I’ve got an American accent. A little. But I don’t see what’s so bad about that,” Viola said, clutching her bonnet to her head as the sea breeze whipped across the coastal road. The sight of two horses’ rear ends so close in front of her was still a little unnerving, but Mr. Yale handled the ribbons with ease and Serena seemed comfortable. Both had said she must become accustomed to riding in this sort of vehicle.

“Your accent is charming, Miss Carlyle.”

“Then what’s wrong with the way I speak?”

“You must curtail your use of contractions.” He always gave instruction like this, with masculine grace, whether he was sober or inebriated. He had not yet been drinking today but would probably as soon as they returned from their drive. It never seemed to affect his manner with her, though, which remained openly admiring and entirely unthreatening. Why she imagined he should feel threatening, she hadn’t a very clear idea, except that he was an actual gentleman and she had not known one since she was a girl. And he was quite attractive.

“What’s wrong with contractions?”

“Not a thing,” he replied readily. “If you wish to appear very fashionable and somewhat fast, you may employ them.”

“Fast?”

He lifted a single brow.

“Oh. I don’t suppose I do. Do I?”

“Definitely not,” Serena stated.

Lessons in comportment were interspersed with visits to the nursery to coo and tickle her niece’s tiny fingers and toes, as well as periods of torture visited upon her by Jane and her sister’s haughty maid, whom Serena insisted was quite nice once one got to know her. But since on one occasion she plucked viciously at Viola’s eyebrows until her head ached, on another she commanded the maids to scrub the soles of her feet and elbows and palms with pumice until raw, and on a third submitted her to the sheer boredom of having her nails cut, cleaned, and buffed as though she weren’t capable of grooming herself, Viola had no very high opinion of the woman. When the maid suggested to her mistress that her hair be cut short to suit present fashion, Viola finally balked.

“My hair stays. When the wind is high, it must be long enough to tie back in a queue.”

Serena stroked her fingertips through Viola’s thick waves. “It is perfect as is.”

When Viola mastered the proper use of forks, spoons, and knives, and the task of pouring out tea, she felt ready to move on to more challenging tasks. Her optimism proved overly ambitious.

“My hands aren’t made for this.” Her fingers, raw from the scrubbing, slipped on the paintbrush. A smear of blue watercolor decorated the paper on the easel before her.

“Are not suited,” Mr. Yale corrected. “Your hands are not suited to this. But in any case ladies must never speak of their hands.”

“Why not?”

“Because it gives gentlemen ideas they ought not to entertain in company.”

Serena’s eyes popped wide. Viola grinned.

Mr. Yale looked between them, his brows innocently raised. “I understood we were being frank in the service of Miss Carlyle’s education.”

“We are. But Wyn, really.”

“My lady, given that your husband was once one of the greatest libertines to grace London drawing rooms, I wonder at your squeamishness.”