So I know this story's supposed to follow "Of Good Ton" but I've made changes. For example I had a Jaden in the one-shot, but here he's...Jim :) It just seemed to work better. Ages are different in this story as well. Anyway, enjoy!
Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens,
Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence
--Robert Browning--
Letitia leapt back as if she'd been struck.
The Viscount, meanwhile, blinked at her strange behavior. "What?"
His auburn-haired guest could only open her mouth, then snap it closed again.
"It's a good plan," Nevan insisted. Had he said something wrong?
"Sir, I..." Letitia drew farther back, and moved to her right so that a chair stood between him and her. She wondered if she should be fearing for her reputation (again). But two objections to this possibility rang out in her head: for one, she could probably defend herself. For another, she wasn't sure she would really object if Nevan intended to do anything that wasn't entirely proper...
"Sir," she tried again, with a stammer, "you can't be serious. I'm afraid that liquor is having its effect again."
"Oh, dash the liquor. You need a bed to stay in and mine is as good as any," he ranted.
Letitia sucked in a breath abruptly.
Nevan stared. Slowly: "You don't think that...you absurd girl, I'm not going to be here while you sleep."
"What?"
"No, no, I'm going to stay at a friend's home while you can make yourself comfortable here."
Letitia knew very well she should be thankful that that had been the Viscount's meaning all along.
And yet, she wasn't sure she was.
"I wouldn't want to impose."
"Well, too late for that," Nevan replied reasonably. "Shall I carry your things up?"
Letitia stared at the small valise pointedly.
"Quite right, you're certainly man enough to see to that. We'll talk in the morning I suppose. Just go to my bedroom, first door on the left and lock the door."
"But what if someone asks to be let in?"
Nevan scoffed. "My dear Miss Letitia, you underestimate my servants' intelligence. No one in my household would be stupid enough to try to wake me before eleven."
The girl's brown eyebrows arched.
"That's settled then." He nodded as if to congratulate himself on a job well done.
It wasn't settled, as Miss Oliver well knew, but she trusted the Viscount would be able to think better with a sober head in the morning. At least, she hoped he would.
"I'll be off then." He turned and made as if to exit the house.
"Sir," Letitia called suddenly.
"Miss Letitia?"
"Thank you again." She smiled, feeling shy for some reason.
The Viscount performed one of his most graceful bows, only to trip on the cane he'd left on the floor. "Devil confound it to hell!" Pause. "You didn't hear that," he told her as he left his house.
***
"Darien!"
"..."
"Darien!!"
The dim light of a candle appeared at the second-story window. A shadowed form tugged the curtains to one side. "Dash it all, who is it? Mama?"
"No, you codhead, it's me! Nevan!"
"Codhead? Who's the codhead? Seems to me anyone throwing rocks at a man's window at three in the morning is the real codhead."
Mr. Caulfield had a point there, but Nevan wasn't about to tell him so. "I'm just accepting your invitation. Didn't you ask me over for cards and a drink?"
"No."
Nevan spluttered for a moment. "You did, though!" the Viscount persisted.
"No."
"My good man, I thought we were celebrating your birthday!...again," he added in an undertone.
"My birthday?...You remembered!" rejoiced Mr. Caulfield from the window. A minute later, he was ushering Nevan into his library.
Darien poured Nevan a glass of burgundy, all while wearing a blue dressing gown and fuzzy slippers. But he paused for a moment and stared into space. "Funny thing, Nevan; I dreamt that my birthday was yesterday. Odd, isn't it?"
"Quite," his friend responded solemnly.
"Very vivid dream," Darien recalled before filling his own glass with crimson liquid.
***
As one accustomed to drinking the night and the better part of the morning away, Viscount Stafford should have been immune to the headaches, light-sensitivity, and groans that follow hours upon hours of frivolity.
Unfortunately, he was not. In fact, not only was he not immune, he was, as his dresser would put it "the damndest, crankiest person in Grosvenor Square" on those particular mornings/afternoons.
It was this persona which slowly made his way up the steps of his home in the rumpled clothing of the night before.
As for the occurrences of last night and the strange (even by Nevan's standards) encounter with a lovely, albeit cross-dressing, young woman he hoped against hope that they had been, as Darien had put it, part of a "very vivid dream."
"Cyrus," Nevan greeted with a curt nod to his butler who had answered the door.
"M-my lord!" he stuttered.
The Viscount looked into Cyrus's panicked face and could have kicked himself when he realized--he was supposed to be comfortably locked in his room.
"I ended up staying the night at Mr. Caulfield's home." Cyrus still looked uncomfortable, perhaps because he had interpreted the name Mr. Caulfield as "Miss Donovan" or "Miss Jennings" or...well, the list went on and on. "Is the lock on my bedroom door jammed again?" he asked, congratulating himself on his quick thinking. "It's been doing that...very recently."
Cyrus just looked perplexed now. "Not that I know of, sir." He ushered the Viscount in, albeit a little nervously.
Nevan looked about him. Casually, he asked, "Cyrus, have I had any, erm, visitors today?"
The butler went white, then suddenly burst out. "I'm sorry, sir, I knew he was lying! To think that boy had the gall to traipse in here as if he owned the place. I will take care of it directly."
Nevan leapt to catch Cyrus by the arm before he could alert the household of the intruder. "Are you speaking of Mr...Oliver?"
Cyrus relaxed. "He is your guest then, sir?"
Nevan did not answer immediately. Instead, he pondered for a few moments. He would not be able to see to Miss/Mr. Oliver on his own, and it would be helpful to have an accomplice, so to speak. Cyrus had worked for him for years and would, Nevan knew, carry many of the Viscount's indiscretions to the grave.
Sighing, he pulled Cyrus into his library. "Cyrus, there's something you should know about this Mr. Oliver character."
"Is he threatening you sir?"
"N-no..."
"Blackmail?"
"No, I--"
"Close connections to the family--your father perhaps?"
Nevan ignored the suggestive tone in Cyrus's voice. His father had committed his own indiscretions before marriage, and it seemed that Cyrus believed Letitia could be the result of such an affair. But Nevan knew this could not be true, at the very least because the dates and places didn't match up (and thanked God for it).
"Certainly not!"
Cyrus straightened in embarrassment. "Proceed, sir."
Nevan haltingly told Miss Oliver's story, starting with the fact that she was, in fact, Miss and not Mr. Oliver.
"Your father's goddaughter!" Cyrus realized.
"Just so."
Nevan related the happenings of the night before, minus, of course, the undeniable tension between himself and Miss Oliver.
"But now I don't know what I'm to do with her, Cyrus," finished Nevan, drawing a hand through his chestnut locks. "I feel obligated to help her, though, and she certainly shouldn't return to her aunt and uncle."
Cyrus studied his polished black shoes for a minute or two. "Would you like to know what I think, sir?"
"Please."
"I think you should find her a husband."
"What?" Nevan snapped his head up, so quickly he grunted in pain.
"Yes. She more or less said that was what she wanted--a relative to bring her out into society--and to tell the truth it's the only solution that would make sense for a girl her age."
"So you suggest I bring her out into society and...parade her to the eligible bachelors?" Nevan asked slowly.
"I would think it your duty."
His father would have considered it to be _his_ duty. In fact, it was the only viable solution, Nevan felt. But something fought against the idea...
"You're right, of course, Cyrus." He turned to the door. "Where _is_ Miss Oliver, by the way?"
Cyrus clucked disapprovingly, probably since he had a low opinion of girls who wore men's clothing. "In the stables, sir, with Jim. Very improper," he added.
Nevan hurried from the room before Cyrus had finished enlightening him.
***
"Mr." Oliver rolled up the hems of her pant legs up to her knees for fear of getting her only trousers full of dust and mud. Clapping her hands free of dirt, she grabbed the saddle and other equipment.
"Shall I saddle her, Mr. Stone?" she asked of Jim, the overseer of the stables. The young man swiped his bangs from his sweaty face and gazed at something for a second.
"Mr. Stone?" Letitia waited by the beautiful grey mare Jim had chosen to exercise that morning. If it hadn't been for the horses surrounding her she wouldn't have minded the opportunity to just look at the attractive stable boy she'd met. With his golden curls, crystal-blue eyes, and fine physique, he was only a few inches short of being a figure from Greek mythology. But the fact of the matter was, there were horses all around, and horses were Letitia's passion--they always had been.
"Go right ahead, Master Oliver," Jim finally said. He grinned and leaned against the sturdy fence as Letitia approached the horse, only to have it whinny angrily at her.
"That's why she's called Firecracker," the stable boy warned, albeit in amusement.
Letitia was considering the best way to approach the prickly-tempered horse when she heard a voice call for "Mr. Oliver." She swerved only to catch the stern eye of the Viscount.
"Ah, Jim, I see you've made the acquaintance of my young guest."
The young man nodded. "And a fellow lover of horses."
Nevan paused in interest. "I see. Would you mind if I borrowed your stable hand for a minute, Jim?"
"Take 'er away, sir," Jim said idly, and he began to walk towards the house.
But before he could take more than three steps, Nevan's hand had landed on his arm. "Er, what did you say, Jim?"
The blonde turned to Letitia, a slight flush coming to his face. "It mayn't be my business, Nevan," he began, the informal tone due to the fact that he and the Viscount had grown up together, "and I don't know that your guest wanted you to know..."
"How did you know she was a girl?" Nevan demanded.
"I'd like to know, too," Letitia put in.
The flush remained on Jim's face. "Well I won't pretend I don't know my way around the petticoat lines and opera dancers' rooms..."
Nevan promptly tossed a lone rag at his old friend. "Jim, we don't need any details on your conquests. And there is, after all, a lady present."
Jim apologized. "Anyway, it was when Miss Oliver put up her trouser legs..." he said, trailing off.
Letitia and Nevan instantly looked at said trousers, to see that they revealed a shapely pair of calves, creamy, smooth...
"Letitia!" he practically barked.
The girl immediately rolled the pant legs down, a palpable heat coming to her face. "I really didn't mean to be indecent, truly, I just didn't want my trousers to get dirty. Being a man is much more difficult than I thought it would be," she added to herself.
Jim couldn't help revealing a pair of shining white teeth in a grin. "Especially when you're a woman, ay?"
Nevan shot Jim a darkling look. "Jim, we have to keep this a secret. I'll explain everything to you later, but remember, you can't tell a soul about this. Agreed?"
"Cross me heart," Jim replied solemnly.
"Good man. I'll talk to you later, but first I have to straighten out Miss Oliver."
"Don't be too hard on her Nev. And if all else fails, I'll keep her to myself, eh?" He winked engagingly at Letitia, who smiled.
Nevan practically snapped at his friend. "Jim, Miss Oliver is a lady; not a cheap opera dancer," he said so only the other man could hear.
His companion was unfazed. "Well you'd best be remembering that yourself, hadn't you Nevan?"
Jim patted the hunter green shoulder of Nevan's coat and walked away, whistling.
Nevan rounded on Letitia immediately. "What have you been doing, Miss Letitia? I told you to stay put in my room!"
"Yes I know, but I had a better idea."
"Oh, did you?"
Letitia ignored the sarcasm. "Yes. I've decided to, for the time being, just stay a boy."
"Certainly not," Nevan replied.
"And why not?"
"Because I forbid it." The words had come out before he had time to think, but once they'd been said, a forboding look came into Letitia's face.
"What presumption. You forbid it? You're not my father. You're not even related to me!"
"No, but I am your guardian."
"Is there some document that says so?"
"Well no, but by default I am. And listen here, my girl, don't tell me you didn't come to London partly to be brought out into society."
"What of it?" she asked in curiosity.
"I could sponsor that coming-out. In fact, I shall, because I think it my duty to do so."
Letitia crossed her arms as she leaned back against the stable wall. "How noble of you."
"A little."
"I preferred you when you were drunk."
Strange; you're the first. Now then, do you agree that by bringing you out into society, you and I can find you a husband?"
She met his gaze. "I suppose…"
"Good; that's settled." Nevan surveyed Letitia's clothing. "Do you even own women's clothes?" he asked in despair.
"Of course I do!"
"Good, because starting tomorrow you're wearing them. Now, we just have to make sure you're kept out of sight for the rest of the day. If any one outside of this house sees you, the fat'll be in the frying pan; take my word for it."
"Nevan, old man, good to see you!"
At the sound of the unexpected town visitor, Nevan jumped to his feet and promptly pushed Letitia into the middle of a haystack.