Hello, my good readers! Hope the remainder of your winter holidays are going well! This next chapter is kind of filler, but hopefully still entertaining; enjoy!

And a special thank you to my beta, Kat!

DISCLAIMER: I don't own it. Duh.

***

Indoor visits, outdoor greetings,

As up and down he paced this London,

With no work done, but great works undone,

Where scarce twenty knew his name.

--Robert Browning—

***

"Letitia!"

Silence.

"Ms. Oliver," Nevan hissed, gesturing wildly for her to dismount from the carriage.

His cross-dressing ward continued to ignore him; she seemed instead to have become fascinated with her fingernails.

Exasperated, Nevan exclaimed: "Oh, very well. FREDERICK."

His companion cocked her head engagingly. "Sir?"

A hearty chuckle rang out from the driver's seat.

"Be quiet, Jim."

The unlawfully handsome man turned to face them, loosening the reins on the horses as he did so.

"If you don't mind my saying so, Nevan..."

"—I'm sure I do mind—"

"Seems to me you've met your match."

Nevan glared at first Jim—"Traitor," he accused—then Letitia, whom he addressed. "If you insist on being treated like a boy, perhaps I shall take my belt to you," he threatened. Then, without thinking, he offered his arm to the vagrant as he would have with any other female. Letitia ignored it and leapt down.

"Thank you sir, but you may want to save those manners for a lady."

"Just what I was thinking," the Viscount replied bitingly, before leading the way to Weston's. The famed shop's windows practically shone with the coats of royal blue and charcoal as the couple approached. The streets themselves bustled with people and Nevan was hard put to guide the curious Letitia through the crowds.

"Come along," he snapped impatiently, as if she'd been a dog at his heels. Letitia arched her brows, but did as she was told.

It must be said that jer guardian still chafed under the idea that she had disobeyed him outright and had chosen to remain a boy. As one used to having his word amount to law, it was a new and not very pleasant experience to have to deal with this new stubborn gender-confused ward.

Additionally, Nevan had never had to worry himself over anyone's comfort other than his own. Briefly, he wondered: was he indeed suited for this job as guardian? And—

"Mr. Oliver," he whispered suddenly, "put your hat back on."

Letitia had begun fanning herself with the hat, but without the hat her auburn waves showed and it was quite clear that she was a woman. "Oops, sorry."

--the girl could jeopardize her reputation as easily as one could pull a petal off a rose! How was he to cope with it?

Letitia simply smiled obliviously and replaced her hat, then tailed behind him as he pushed the door to the tailor's shop open and the bell signaled Mr. Weston himself.

"My lord," he greeted, smiling in anticipation of the many pounds that would soon be flowing out of the Viscount's pockets and into his own.

But it was not to be business as usual for Mr. Weston. For one, the Viscount, who seldom came into the shop accompanied had a friendly, effeminate friend in tow, and introduced the young man as his "godson." It did not take a genius to determine that this was mathematically impossible, but the tailor saw no reason to complain. Business was business.

But the odder thing was that the man refused to be properly fitted. That is, the Viscount refused to have the young man fitted, especially after Mr. Weston approached to measure him about the torso and the youth reddened. Then the two young men consulted quietly for a while, with the boy saying "unless you want to measure me yourself" and the Viscount...blushing?

In the end, Mr. Oliver, who really was a very pretty boy and thus either the pride or despair of his mother, took off his (rather ill-fitted) coat and Mr. Weston was forced to glean measurements from that.

"Mark my words, it'll be one scrape after another as long as you're a boy,"

Nevan told Letitia darkly as they exited the shop.

Her thoughts however, were not on the social errors yet to be committed.

"How much did he say the coat would cost?" she asked suddenly.

Nevan glanced at her in surprise, then shrugged. "Haven't the foggiest idea."

"I must pay you back for it, though," she insisted.

As the Viscount ushered her in the direction of his carriage, he replied: "My dear Mr. Oliver, how much money did you bring with you to London?"

There was silence here. Letitia discreetly shoved a hand into her coat pocket, touching the few shillings she had left.

Nevan noted the action, though, and nodded. "Just so. And as I recall, you came to London for someone to fund your coming-out, did you not?'

He had her there. "Well, yes, but that coat is not for my coming-out."

"Agreed—unless you want to be a well-dressed boy when a bachelor offers you his

hand in marriage," finished Nevan. "Unfortunately, Miss Oliver, being a young man without occupation costs a good deal of money. Whereas being a

young woman without occupation..."

"Could reel in an heir and his wealth." The girl sighed, casting a wistful look to the crowds of men around her strutting about freely, without worrisome aunts or chaperones to bother them. "I suppose Freddy Oliver will be going back to Oxford soon—

"Tomorrow," Nevan interrupted firmly.

Letitia paused, mouth twisting into an obstinate frown. "Saturday."

"Today." Her guardian seemed unconscious of the fact that he had just lowered his offer instead of raising it to meet hers.

"You're an awful haggler."

"Because I usually get my way at the outset," he informed her with a smirk.

Letitia was not at all impressed. "The day after tomorrow?"

"Oh, very well."

The brunette "girl" nodded, albeit ruefully. "So Freddy will leave the day after tomorrow; to be replaced with his twin sister."

"Good lad. Er, girl, I mean."

For some odd reason, Nevan felt the urge to wrap a comforting arm around her dejected shoulders—as he had seen Andrew do so easily.

"That man over there," Letitia suddenly said, indicating a tall, black-haired gentleman dismounting from a carriage with a blonde one. "He looks familiar."

The Viscount instantly recognized Darien and Zain and muttered: "Oh no. All right, stay calm. Don't blab, for we can't give them any hint that you're a girl. Just don't worry and don't panic."

"I'm not worrying," Letitia said in mild surprise.

"Well you should be," he snapped back. "Why hallo, Zain, Darien, didn't expect to see you here," he greeted in a smooth voice.

His two friends glanced at each other in confusion, then shrugged simultaneously.

"Heard that Andrew's finally back, Nevan?"

"He called on me earlier today. Have you seen him Darien?" Andrew and Darien had been inseparable in their youth, and Nevan knew the black-haired gentleman had been counting down the days till his arrival.

"Indeed I did! He's dark as a gypsy, isn't he?" he remarked fondly. "Yes, he called not long after you—" Darien's expression suddenly morphed into one of annoyance. "By the by, I have a bone to pick with you!" he told the Viscount, wagging an accusatory finger at him.

"Wha—?"

Darien proceeded to demand: had Nevan had taken leave of his senses? For what he meant by throwing stones at Darien's house at three in the morning, Mr. Caulfield could not even fathom, nor could he understand Nevan's need to barge in as if he lived there because as far as Darien could recall his placard did not read Darien Caulfield and Nevan Stafford, thank you very much!

Temper roused, Nevan tried to cut in. "Will you take a moment to breathe? As I remember, you practically tripped over yourself to let me in—"

"—and to top it off, you just LEFT this morning without so much as a by-your-leave. Didn't even think to stay for morning tea," Darien accused petulantly.

"I was drunk! I popped by because I thought—"

"DON'T try to pull the 'but it's your birthday' trick because I KNOW it's not my birthday."

Zain patted his friend's shoulder with a proud nod. "Yes you do, pumpkin."

"Darien, calm down—"

"I AM CALM!"

Letitia had watched this one-sided fight bemusedly. Given that Nevan's actions had been harmless, she could only come to one explanation for Darien's outrage—a general theory she had made upon her arrival to the city.

London men were daft.

Tragic, but true. She dared any of them to prove her wrong.

"Snuff?"

Letitia turned her head to face the angry man's companion, who now bent over her amiably, holding a small box of white powder. The man himself was a golden-haired gentleman with soft features and an engaging smile, one that seemed to light up his fair face.

And apparently, he had as daft a brain as everyone else.

"Excuse me?"

Snuff? Was that a nickname? Or perhaps a dog name? Aunt May had once had a dog with that name. She looked frantically around for the man's lost dog. "Snuff? Here Snuff!"

The blonde man blinked.

Then, deciding this boy was very odd—he'd probably been taking lessons from Nevan— the blonde man shrugged and introduced himself as Lord Zain Latham.

"And I suppose you don't care for any snuff? Never liked the stuff anyway," Zain admitted, snapping the box shut and putting it away.

Letitia realized now that the white powder in the box had been the snuff. She bit her lip, annoyed with herself. There was so much to learn about high society it made her head whirl.

"And your name, sir?" Lord Latham prodded gently.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I'm Frederick Oliver." She shook Zain's gloved hand in a hearty grip so as to make up for her idiocy.

Nevan and Darien's voices rose again and in spite of herself she tuned in once more, panicking inwardly when she heard Darien say:

"Is there something you're not telling me, Nevan? Some reason you felt the need to barge into my house?"

"Darien," Nevan said soothingly. "What reason would I have for wanting to sneak into your house at night and stay till morning? Hold your tongue, Zain."

"Not even one tiny seduction joke?"

Letitia did her best to tamp down the rising color in her cheeks. Nevan glanced over at her and hurried to change the subject.

"The fact is I was nowhere near sober. Hell, you should have seen yourself."

"I have seen myself before, thank you. And I'm quite attractive."

The Viscount ruthlessly posed the question: "But have you seen yourself performing a sock puppet play with your bedroom slippers?"

Zain raised a brow with a grin. "Quite the thespian, aren't you Darien? Or should I say, your slippers are?"

The two quarreling men turned back to face one another when Darien named another crime committed.

"And my new blue dressing gown has gone missing!"

"God help us all! Whatever shall we do?"

The argument continued as Zain shook his head like a nursemaid over a pair of toddlers.

"It's the dressing gown that's at the heart of all his hysterics," he confided to Letitia. "Darien's fiancée, Serena, gave it to him for his birthday. 'Twill go so well with your eyes,'" Zane cooed in a voice that was scarily feminine (though Letitia mused that she was one to talk). "But now that it's already lost, Darien's having a fit. Even though, I think he's secretly glad about it."

"Why?"

"His heart still belongs to his—hideous, mind you—olive green dressing gown. But tell me, how do you know our dear Nevan?" Zain asked, indicating that gentleman just as he made a rude gesture at his sparring partner.

"Erm, he's my guardian."

Zain's green eyes flew open in shock. "What? Y-your guardian?"

By the time Nevan and Darien had finally remembered what good friends they were and Nevan had taken leave of the other man—

("That's enough squabbling for today. I have to go tend to my ward."

"You have a ward?!"

"Two actually."

"Good God!...give them my condolences.")

--they found Zain clutching his sides as he roared in laugher at some joke. Meanwhile, Letitia grinned uncertainly.

"Oy, Zain, what's the joke?" Nevan asked affably.

"Y-you are," Zain gasped out.

Letitia surveyed the faces around her in amusement. Zain remained doubled over, laughing even harder now, so that Letitia was tempted to laugh as well. Darien's lips were twitching suspiciously and Nevan looked both confused and insulted, although he wasn't sure why.

"Are all of my acquaintances numbskulls?" he finally asked of the heavens, pushing Letitia towards the carriage as they were attracting the attention of passersby.

**

The time spent in the carriage ride from Weston's was focused on fabricating a believable story about 'Frederick Oliver' and his/her twin sister. Nevan and Letitia soon dismissed Jim from the conversation as his contributions consisted mainly of comments such as "I hope Freddy's sister has ankles as pretty as Freddy."

"All right, so Frederick Oliver attends Oxford while his twin sister, Letitia, has been in Norfolk. I am about to launch Letitia into society, but she did not accompany Frederick here because…"

"—my aunt was ill."

"Oh, was she?" Nevan asked sympathetically.

"What? No, she—moving on! My aunt was supposedly ill and I had to tend to her while Freddy came to London early because he so wanted to see you."

"Naturally—who wouldn't?"

"Try to be helpful?" she requested sternly, though she fought a smile.

"The twins will unfortunately be unable to see one another in London as Freddy leaves before Letitia arrives. Tres disappointing," said Nevan in a French accent, "but that is life."

"I do hate all this lying," Letitia sighed.

Nevan nodded in understanding. He was discovering that his ward had a frank, honest nature. But, as he reminded her: "One's image and reputation are everything in London."

Morosely, Letitia dismounted from the carriage, not at all comforted. "So I've learned."

She cast her eyes to their destination. "Where've you brought me?" she asked, staring at the beautiful, stark white house before them.

"To Letitia Oliver's new home—I hope…" he murmured to himself.

***

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