The second chapter as promised! And a little lengthier than most of my other chapters, which is usually a plus. Hope you like it!

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…And the yellow half-moon large and low;

And the startled little waves that leap

In fiery ringlets from their sleep…

--Robert Browning—

**

The Viscount stared at the vision of long legs and teenage naivete before him. Could it be that those wide, straightforward eyes hid the soul of a vicious con artist? Because though he couldn't for the life of him remember how his father liked his eggs, nor the man's favorite boot maker, of one thing he was certain:

"My father never had a godson!"

This did not appear to discourage the youth. Instead of insisting that he wasthe late Viscount's godson, he only nodded slowly.

"I think I'll have to explain the whole to you." He turned to the tree and Nevan watched suspiciously as he rose on his tiptoes and retrieved a black valise from one of the lower branches.

"Doesn't it bother the squirrels?' Nevan asked nonsensically, as if he'd suddenly recalled that he was supposed to be drunk.

The newcomer raised his eyebrows, but indulged the Viscount. "Doesn't what bother the squirrels?"

"Your taking up of all the space they need for storing nuts, of course."

"Of course," the boy drawled in response. "But the storing season hasn't begun yet. I believe the rodents have marked August 23rd on their calendars as the official start."

Nevan tapped his cane to the tip of the boy's boot. "Are you pulling my leg, boy?"

The stranger grinned very suddenly, drawing an answering smile from Nevan. "Could be."

The sound of boots clapping against the wet street silenced them at once. "Who's that?" the youth hissed urgently.

"Must you hiss everything?"

He paid no heed and instead clambered back into the tree, leaving the valise standing beside a quizzical-looking Nevan. "Pardon, but I don't believe our conversation was finished!" the Viscount shouted, pointing a scolding finger at the upper boughs of the tree. "You cannot just claim to be my father's godson and walk away! Or climb away in your case."

"Please, sir, shhh."

"Always with the shushing. You know, Idon't think I babble on as much as you seem to think I do." Nevan turned to see the figure lumbering towards him. "Darien! Wonderful to run into you!" He leaned across the hedge that bordered the Grosvenor park to slap Darien on the shoulder.

Mr. Darien Caulfield slowly ran his gaze over Nevan. "Have you taken to talking to trees now?" Guessing that his new young friend did not wish to be discovered, Nevan had the tact to avoid mentioning his presence in the branches right above them.

Luckily, Darien's question had been rhetorical. "Did you come to my birthday dinner?" he asked sharply.

Nevan clapped his hands. "That's it! I was at your dinner party at Boodle's tonight!"

"Took St. James's Street by storm, I believe," Mr Caulfield said, not without pride. After a moment: "I didn't get any presents."

Nevan's appeared solemn for a few moments. "Sorry, old thing." The Viscount smacked Darien's back in what was meant to be a comforting gesture—instead the other man nearly went toppling into the street. Darien gravely adjusted the navy coat (which, as his beloved Serena had informed him, went so perfectly with his dark blue eyes) and clamped a hand to his wide-brimmed hat to ensure that it was still on his head.

In the tree, the youth rolled a pair of emerald green eyes.

Darien spotted the valise. "Are you going somewhere? Are you going to Bath?' he demanded.

Instead of denying any immediate traveling plans, Nevan snapped: "Bath? Of course not! I hate the place. Nothing to do except listen to some awful group singing and drink…drink what? Waters!" he spat.

"I dunno; water is an important thing to drink," Mr. Caulfield intoned wisely. "D'you know, there's a lovely shop that sells the best boot blacking. I tell you, the stuff's exceedingly good at making your boots…what's the word I'm looking for?"

"Black."

"No, don't be ridiculous."

Nevan asked where this lovely shop was.

"Brighton, of course! Haven't you been attending to a word I've said?"

"You're foxed. Drunk silly," said the pot to the kettle.

"I never denied it!"

"True," Nevan conceded.

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"What? No, old man, I don't believe I am."

"Oh…like to have a drink with me at my house?" Mr. Caulfield asked in a suddenly enthusiastic tone. "It's my birthday, y'know."

A twig suddenly dropped from the tree and onto Nevan's head. "Actually, I think I'll turn in."

"Well…fine."

"Fine. G'night!"

Mr. Caulfield muttered a few unflattering phrases and took off down the street.

"Your house is the other way, Darien."

"Oh. Yes."

When he'd finally gone, the youth descended from the tree. "Lucky the only people about are as drunk as you are. Is everyone in London like that?"

Nevan ignored this. "Now, my lad, are you going to tell me the truth about yourself or aren't you going to?" he said with still a bit of a slur.

"I am. Do you think we could…speak more privately in your house?" The boy seemed to have trouble saying the words, as if unwilling to trespass on the Viscount's property.

"Why, yes of course! How unhostly of me. Am I your host, then?" Nevan asked in some interest.

"If-if you don't mind, sir."

"Of course not! It would be very unhostly of me to mind."

They crossed the street in silence. When they reached the front door, Nevan had to coax his guest into entering.

"One would think you were an innocent maid I was luring into my home!" Nevan chuckled.

The boy barely cracked a smile. He visibly squared a pair of wool-clad shoulders before crossing the threshold.

"Have a seat, please." The Viscount bent to start the fire, but somehow managed to fall partially into the unlit grate.

"I'll do that, sir."

"Nonsense! You're my guest."

"Though who knows for how much longer," the youth murmured as he bent over the fire.

Nevan seated himself in a stuffed scarlet armchair. Soon after, his guest turned to survey the Viscount's sitting room, illuminated now by the warm firelight. The furniture and hangings were all of autumnal colors, their rosy and comforting hues warming the room as much as the fire did. The stranger's eyes rested momentarily on the master of these surroundings—a strikingly handsome face, a loosely tied coif of dark brown curls, fashionable clothes of the first stare…clothes that cloaked a finely carved figure…

Color came into the youth's face. The blush attracted Nevan's attention, and with a pair of shrewd, albeit hazy, brown eyes, he scrutinized the boy's face. His gaze then lowered to his neck.

"Y'know, I've never seen such a poorly-tied cravat in my life! Looks like a monkey tied it for you. Or a squirrel," he amended. Before the boy could protest, Nevan had strode up to him and begun undoing the length of white muslin.

"S-sir, I'm fine, really, I'll fix it!"

"Nonsense!" Nevan refused to let the boy wriggle away and continued to tie the cravat, long fingers grazing the youth's collarbone or worse, his chest on occasion.

"There." Nevan held the boy by the shoulders to survey his handiwork. By now, the adolescent's face had gone a bright red and something about this second blush caused the Viscount to frown. He studied the face intently. "My father," he began slowly, "did not have a godson. But he did have a…good God! Goddaughter, that is! You're a--a girl!"

He practically sprang away from her, like her shoulders had burned his hands.

The teenage-boy-turned-woman nodded. Nevan scanned her figure in amazement. As an adolescent boy her height had been about average, but as the young woman Nevan now realized she was, she was undeniably tall. From underneath the cap's brim, her gaze met his hesitantly, but bravely. He noted absentmindedly that the green of her eyes could have put the fields of Ireland to shame.

"You're that girl from Norfolk." His father had grown up in that same county and been close to a Lord Christopher Oliver, a well-situated member of the peerage who would go on to marry far beneath him. 'A love-match,' Oliver's relations had spat unromantically. Unfortunately, the Olivers' fortunes took a turn for the worse, with Mrs. Oliver dying at childbirth and her husband following shortly after in a supposed shooting accident.

"Killed himself," one of the Viscount's cronies had said heartlessly.

This left the infant girl to the care of her Irish mother's sister. Though Nevan's father had confided to him that the aunt was a wishy-washy Nobody, the older man visited their rural home and his goddaughter a few times. Knowing his father, though, Nevan doubted the man had cared much for the Nobodies and probably only a little for their niece.

Nevan suddenly recalled the niece's name. "Letitia Oliver, was it not?"

"It still is." She lifted her head confidently, and met his eyes.

"Mm. Not married then." The cloud of alcohol still hanging over him, Nevan stretched out a hand without thinking.

Letitia didn't try to move away.

In one motion, he'd swept her cap from her head. The sudden action undid the tie she'd done her hair up in. Out of the cap tumbled, like water along rocks, shining auburn waves, tempestuous, falling over Letitia's shoulders, drifting around her long, fair face. Nevan remained stock still, dark face fixated on the girl before him.

For her part, Letitia felt herself growing uncomfortable, though not unpleasantly so. She cleared her throat loudly. Nevan immediately pulled away.

The sound had awakened him to the impropriety of the circumstances. He had a young, single, and unchaperoned woman in his lodgings late at night. She was dressed in men's attire—for heaven knew what reason—and the shape of her legs could be clearly seen (Nevan had been sure to check). To top it all off, he had been acquainted with her for not above half an hour.

Nevan fell back into his chair.

The girl was Quality (in spite of her uncertain dressing habits and Nobody relatives). He would not, he told himself, treat her like he would a bit of muslin—one of those cheap, light women who practically threw themselves at him night after night. She had been his father's goddaughter. Nevan's innate pride and the responsibility he felt for the protection the family name took hold; and he resolved to look upon this girl as he would a…a niece.

The word tasted bitter in his head.

"Sit down, child," he tried.

The girl blinked at being addressed in this manner, but obeyed.

"Ahem. How may I be of assistance to you?"

Letitia's voice, still low, but huskier and more attractive than any boy's voice he'd ever heard, asked his forgiveness. "I am so sorry to have intruded like this, sir. It must seem very improper that I'm alone and dressed as I am. And now that I think of it, what I came here for will sound preposterous to you, and you can't be of help, so—"

"What did you come here for?"

His words unlocked the door to Miss Letitia Oliver's story and the world she had so recently escaped—that of her aunt and uncle's neighborhood.

"You must understand that Aunt May and Uncle George have never ill-treated me in any way. They're very jolly, though not exactly—" she hesitated "—sophisticated. But they've other responsibilities besides me. Their son, Freddy—"

"—who generously donated his clothes to you?"

She grinned. "Not precisely, sir, though I hope to return them to him soon. Freddy is their pride and joy and ready to attend university. They, of course, have to think of how they will pay for this. So to be honest, they wish to be rid of me."

Nevan frowned darkly, as if these barbarous relatives sat before him. "As if they hadn't cared for you like their own daughter!"

"That's just it, you see! They've done much for me already." Nevan wondered at the sincere, open nature of her words and face. "Well, they issued me something of an ultimatum: to marry Mr. Farber or get one of my father's relatives to look after me and fund my coming-out into society."

The Viscount's dark eyebrows flew up at the suggestion. "Are we related?" he asked in a panicked voice.

Letitia laughed. "No, of course not. But, Father's relatives disowned him after he married Mother and they really want nothing to do with me. Even after I called on them."

"Don't tell me you called on them in those clothes!"

"No. I did it the last (and only) time I came to London. Father's cousins are—" she paused.

He hazarded a guess: "Abominably rude, conceited cod heads."

"Yes," she agreed gratefully.

"Who is Mr. Farber?"

"Oh, he is our neighbor. He owns fifteen acres of his own land."

Nevan deduced that he was supposed to be impressed by this and 'aahed' compliantly.

"He offered for my hand," she said with simple pride. "And Aunt May says I certainly shan't get any other offers, what with my height and looks. And," she added, "my freckles. But do you think they are so very bad?" She tilted her face so that when he leaned forward he could clearly see the sprinkling of freckles across her faintly upturned nose. He also took another opportunity to admire the auburn waves that floated about her shoulders.

"Freckles may not be in fashion, but I find them exceedingly charming," Nevan assured her, thinking that this Aunt May must be blind and senile. "And Mr. Farber thought so too, I think?"

"Mr. Farber is…attentive," she admitted cautiously. "And he has some wonderful horses. But he's a good many years older than I am, and I don't think he loves me."

The Viscount looked up very suddenly at this casual remark. "But why have you come to me?"

"I came to see your father," she reminded him. "He was my last hope. Oh, but I'm so very sorry about his passing." She extended a hand to rest comfortingly on the arm of his armchair.

"Thank you. But it has been three years, and it's not as bad as it was," he said, touched by Letitia's sincere condolences. "I'm guessing that you had to run away from your uncle's house this time since they were so set on marrying you to Farber? And that's why you wore your cousin's clothing?"

He inwardly marveled at her ingenuity and sheer brazenness. He knew few women with the pluck to do such a thing.

She seemed pleased by his astuteness. Perhaps the alcohol had finally run its course. "Yes. My aunt had well nigh decided to tell Mr. Farber I would marry him, but I couldn't let that happen. And I remembered your father and some of the kind letters he'd sent me and…but, I see how stupid it was."

"Not just stupid; Miss Oliver, I think you're positively nutty. Though I suppose that's what comes of living with squirrels."

She bit her lip.

"However, if all your family has virtually disowned you, my father would more or less have been your guardian." Letitia's green eyes widened. He now had her full attention. "And seeing that he is no longer with us, I feel it my responsibility to act in his place—and make you my ward."

Letitia jumped up. "You couldn't do that, sir! I haven't any claim on you."

"No, you don't really. But who cares?"

Letitia shook her auburn head. "My lord, I don't think that liquor has worn off yet. You don't know what you're saying."

"Oh, don't I?" His brown eyes flashed at this. She raised her eyebrows in response, wondering what my lord was like when crossed…

The Viscount, however, relaxed his form and mildly said, "It is very late so I propose we sleep on it. I'll discuss this with you tomorrow," he told her, his tone already brisk and guardian-like.

The girl frowned. "But sir, where will I sleep?" A cold sensation stole over her. She hoped against hope her drunken host would not suggest the very place where her reputation would be most likely to be endangered.

"Here in my house, of course."

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Ooh Nevan, you can have me sleep over any time :D I know everyone guessed from the beginning who the runaway was, so I didn't want to head the chapter with YOUTH/ LETITIA OLIVER-LITA. Seemed a little superfluous.

Hope you enjoyed. Please let me know what you think!