It's been a long time coming, but read below for new plot points and the first part of an interesting ball scene!

Letitia received the beautifully cut hunter green coat from Mr. Weston with little to-do.

She marveled at the feel of the velvety cloth in her hands and thanked the tailor more than once, as if he had done her a service she could never repay instead of having just relieved Nevan of a sizeable amount of money.

"Alright, young man, I hope it's to your liking," said Mr. Weston with a fatherly smile. His eyes speculatively looked over this Mr. Oliver once more, again at a loss as to what his mother would do with such a pretty boy. How would she marry him off? Though there was that Shakespeare play about a boy so pretty and charming he did catch the eye of a noblewoman…though if he remembered correctly, it had turned out that the boy was in fact a girl…Weston mentally laughed away the thought.

The Viscount, who had accompanied Mr. Oliver to retrieve the newly-fashioned coat, gave the tailor a brief nod and hastened to escort Letitia out of the shop before she could draw any more curious stares.

"I promise to pay you back every penny for this, sir," Letitia assured him as they made their way back to the carriage.

Not one to mince words, Nevan said: "Yes, well…I'm not precisely sure how you plan to do so, my girl. Boy. Whatever you are."

Letitia's face burned. How useless it was to be a woman, especially in the city. What could she say? Oh, when I marry, I shall give you my husband's money? I'll earn some by playing cards with other fine gentlewomen?

Nevan realized he'd hit a sore spot with his comment. "Letitia, really, don't give it a thought. I want to do this—look after you, that is." She didn't respond, but felt touched at the admission. "It's what my father would have wanted. I'm not exactly in the basket, anyway."

She frowned, but her next comment was unexpected. "You know, you really must teach me all these funny ways you all have of speaking. It's like a new language!" she said, not without admiration.

"Oh." Nevan coughed. "Erm, frankly, I would rather not. You see, it's not exactly proper 'language' and certainly not fit for a lady's ears."

"But I am Mr. Oliver right now, sir, a university youth primed to use all this thieves' cant," Letitia told him with a grin. "For example, what exactly is a 'bit of muslin'…"

Her guardian was relieved when a sound distracted her from pursuing the question. He was not about to fill her ears with scandalous slang used when referring to "loose women." Alarm spread through him though, when he too caught a flurry of shouts from the street.

Letitia spoke: "...Isn't that your carriage…?"

"Of course it would be," Nevan growled before the two of them ran towards

the scene of pandemonium.

When asked about it afterwards, Jim would maintain that it hadn't been his

fault.

Instead he would blame the lady.

Or, to be more specific, the lady's moonstruck beauty. Along with the lady's flashing

dark eyes and sculpted raven locks and really the most flawless face he had

ever had the misfortune to behold.

Actually, if one of his cohorts had been unintelligent enough to ask him about the incident, he would have cut Jim off here saying he had lost all interest in the matter, as it turned out.

But if one wanted to be even more precise in determining the root of the chaos, one could blame the lady's parents who had had the indecency to pass on such beauty to their child.

That said, it had certainly not been Jim's fault.

The whole scene began to play out when an innocent lace handkerchief floated towards the carriage and dropped in front of the horses. Jim jumped from his seat and bent to pick it up only to rise too quickly and hit his head. On someone else's head.

"Ouch," the other person rang out at the same time as him.

"Sorry miss, I was just..." He suddenly felt as if he'd hit his head a second time when his eyes rose to the owner of the handkerchief. Slightly dizzy, he handed it to her.

"Thank you," she said, with, he had to admit, little warmth in her voice.

Unlike most of those who served the noble class, Jim had never, in their words, truly "learned his place." He had grown up in the Stafford household where he had been treated as another son of the house and had been playmates with Nevan. Thus, although he knew this lady probably regarded him as beneath her, he didn't see that he had anything to lose by saying what he did next.

"May I say, miss: you're the most beautiful female I've ever seen."

Raye Hinston was certainly not used to being addressed in this way. Firstly, no one had ever referred to her as a "female." Second, her admirers usually veiled their praises with lines from Shakespeare or nervously kissed her hand once in a blue moon. To have a man she'd just met simply and sincerely say something so blunt was unprecedented.

"I..."

It was entirely improper. He was probably a stable hand or a coachman. Besides, no one had even formally introduced them.

"My name is Raye Hinston," she found herself saying.

He grinned and his smile seemed to light up everything around him. "Jim Stone," he replied, holding out his hand. Another impropriety. Women did not shake hands, she told herself. This man should have bowed while she curtsied.

She shook his hand.

But the encounter was doomed to end there. As it turns out, whatever the century, it has never been a good idea to stand smack dab in the middle of a busy street. Yet this was just what the oblivious couple had been doing for the past few minutes and inevitably a team of four horses came charging at them.

Swearing, Jim tried to leap out of the way with the lady, but ended up more or less throwing her to the side. This turned out to be another mistake. The lady, arrayed in a morning dress of her favorite cherry red nearly fell on top of Nevan's horse-appropriately named Firecracker.

By the time Letitia and Nevan arrived on the scene the area was a veritable mess of snorting, kicking, charging horses, ripped clothes, a yelling elderly man, and two very embarrassed, harassed-looking, and attractive people.

Letitia did not wait two seconds before leaping onto Firecracker, the most dangerous of the horses.

"L—Mr. Oliver!" Nevan shouted. But she made no response as she swung a leg onto the horse. Nevan was ready to yank her out of the chaos, but within a minute, was astonished to see that she'd been able to soothe Firecracker back to normal. Indeed, no sooner had Nevan approached than the horse had become quiet and gentle as a lamb. Soon enough, Jim found that he hadn't completely lost his head and he and Nevan managed to calm and disentangle the rest of the horses.

Letitia slid off the mare. "Well done," admired both Jim and the elderly man, who had stopped shouting long enough to drop this compliment.

"Grandfather, may we go now?" Raye asked in a dangerous whisper, mortified that her dress had an enormous tear in it. Not to mention that everyone's eyes, clearly amused, were now on her and the men around her.

Jim looked up at "grandfather" in surprise. The yelling man who owned the charging horses had apparently been young Miss Hinston's chaperone.

The stable hand, who was staring at the street now, said, "Miss 'Inston, I'm awfully sorry, I don't know how it got so out of control, I apologize and I'll pay for your dress..."

"Let's go, Grandfather." The icy facade had slipped back into place and the shy, flattered girl disappeared for good. She nodded brusquely at her old suitor Nevan as if to say "of course this would be partly your fault" then mounted the carriage.

Grandfather smiled at the crowd. "Good day!" he called, waving as if they were his nearest and dearest friends instead of a motley crew of young people who'd riled up some horses. The carriage disappeared, with Jim the one watching it the most intently. "D'you know her, Nevan?"

Letitia and her guardian exchanged ominous looks.

"Somehow, I don't think that's the right question to be asking right now, Jim."

The young man shrugged. "It's better than: you going to fire me now or after ye've eaten yer supper?"

Letitia's green eyes traveled back and forth, in time with the pendulum of the grandfather clock that sat in Nevan's foyer, waiting for her guardian to finish his talk with Jim. She was currently arrayed in the lovely article of clothing Mr Weston had made for her. As she sat, she mentally reviewed the rules of whist Nevan had taught her.

Jim and Nevan exited the library at last, the former not at all looking as though he'd just been lectured at. Instead he whistled through his teeth at Letitia.

"My, Master Oliver, cleaning up well, aren't ye now? Shame I haven't seen ye in any skirts, or better yet, rolled-up trousers anymore, eh?"

Letitia was learning to accustom herself to Jim's outrageous flirting and only rolled her eyes.

Nevan however, was not so lenient. "For goodness' sake Jim, when was the last time you...uhm, visited the opera dancers' rooms?" he asked in an undertone so Letitia could not hear.

Jim smiled. "All I can say is, it's been too long Nevan. But since meeting that Miss Hinston..."

The Viscount groaned. "Another word about Miss Hinston, Jim, and I will cast you off without so much as a by-your-leave."

Jim complied on this point at least. "And you Nevs? Any opera dancers or sweet light-of-loves since Mr. Oliver fluttered into your orbit?" he asked mock-thoughtfully.

Letitia masked a cough with a laugh.

Nevan stood abruptly. "I've known her no more than a day, you good-for-nothing."

"And yet accompanying her everywhere, alone already." Jim smirked. "Want me to drive you two the club tonight, m'lord, so's I can keep an eye on you?" he added mockingly.

"Only if you lend me your whip and serve as one of the horses," responded the Viscount sweetly.

The Viscount rode through the night in the open carriage, his ward seated stiffly by his side.

He nudged her. "Anything the matter, brat? Nervous you won't be able to tell a club from a spade?" He smiled down at her warmly.

Letitia shook her head with a responding smile. "No such thing. The thing is..."

"Yes?"

Her words came pouring out all a sudden. "I'm so sorry for embroiling you in all this. I wish my rebellious side hadn't gotten the best of me earlier. It's really not right for you to have to buy me men's clothes or chaperone me to clubs."

Nevan grinned. "Admitting I was right before, eh?"

In spite of the fact that she was doing her utmost to be penitent, Letitia was still unable to tamp down a wish to flick that arrogant smile off his face.

But the Viscount's next words caught her off-guard, as, in a softer voice, he said: "If I were you, I probably would have done the same thing." He hesitated, then slowly admitted: "I would hate to be a woman in London."

She turned to stare straight in front of her, looking right between the horse's ears. "Is it so bad?"

"For a young married woman, no, not so much. You're freer, and don't have to worry about what people may say. You can attend balls and such without your husband, can go riding by yourself in Hyde Park. If you're discreet you can even..." he trailed off, deciding he didn't want to taint her with tales of married women's...affairs.

Guessing what he'd left unsaid, Letitia bit her lip in amusement, but remained silent.

"But for a single woman, society's constantly hounding you from all sides. The older women ask when you'll be married, the older men pseudo-court you, the other women judge all you do, and the men...are men. They love you one evening, and move on the next. But if you arrayed yourself in actual women's clothes, I'm sure that..." He stopped without knowing why.

"That?"

"That you'll find a man to offer for you within a few days," he hurriedly said. "And that's what I'm here for. To find you that man, that is," he said in a tone meant to reassure both her and himself.

It did neither.

Andrew, face wreathed in smiles, greeted the two newcomers at the club entrance. Nevan, frowning slightly, looked about him. "Where are all the carriages?"

"Change in plans, my good man. We are instead off to the ball Kenneth's cousin's having."

"I don't know Kenneth's cousin," Nevan said slowly.

"Nor does Kenneth. Shall we then?" Andrew hopped into the carriage and, still in a daze, the Viscount snapped the horses forward. Andrew's directions turned out to be about as clear as mud so that it took much too long to find the site of this ball. Finally, after a few tempers (all belonging to Nevan) had been lost, they had arrived.

Letitia, intimidated by the attire and expressions people stepping down from the carriages wore, leaned into Nevan and whispered: "Were we even invited?"

The Viscount moved away a little, clearing his throat. "Highly unlikely. After you then?"

Letitia laughed her pleasant husky laugh and entered the mansion.

Anne Mariner did not enjoy balls. To be even more frank, she did not really enjoy any of the trivialities of high society. Fashion journals, the latest dances, the gossip. She found none of it more than passingly appealing.

Miss Mariner knew it did not reflect well on her that she could never remember the steps to the quadrille. And her friend, Maria, had looked ready to have an apoplexy when Anne admitted that she hadn't the faintest idea what the difference was between a pelisse and a spencer jacket. The fact was, Anne would much rather curl up in a library than shop for either article of clothing, or any article of clothing, if it came to taht.

So she had hoped beyond hope that her mother would not drag her to this whatsitcalled ball hosted by Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So this evening. But that silent wish had fallen upon deaf ears, and here she was now, dressed a lilac Italian crape gown that itched rather dreadfully.

Ladies did not feel itches, though, and heaven forbid they dream of scratching their arms, so Anne sat in her chair, intent on ignoring these unlady-like sensations. She played with her fan and turned her mind back to the predicament Nevan seemed keen on pitching her into. She chose not to linger on the second, more romantic predicament involving Zain. Zain had not made an appearance at this ball, and Anne could not be certain if that relieved or frustrated her even more.

This Oliver girl/boy, though. How curious that she had just decided one day to run off from Norfolk county and find a way out, a new life here in London, without so much as a by your leave. It was most improper and astonishing, yes, but…Anne couldn't help thinking of the idea wistfully. To be able to do exactly what one wanted and ignore the consequences (and her mother). How lovely that would be.

Yes, but, what exactly did Nevan expect her to do? She had not had time to discuss the matter with her mother, and Anne was not sure how she would take the news. Oh, mother, by the way I'm having a mysterious girl who dresses as a boy over to stay for an indefinite period of time?

Not to mention this rather preposterous notion that she teach Ms. Oliver how to comport herself and be a true lady of society. Rubbish. She herself wasn't even learned in the ways of a lady yet. Anne seriously wondered if Nevan had been a tad drunk when he'd called on her earlier.

Anne looked up—only to let out a small scream. Because, looking questioningly down upon her was the object of her thoughts: the Viscount Stafford.

Nevan, arms behind his back, arched an eyebrow at Anne's reaction. "I've been trying to get your attention for the past minute," he informed her, not without petulance. "I wonder, Anne, if you should see a doctor about this."

"About what, pray?"

"Well, first, it was earlier today when you couldn't seem to hear what I was saying when I introduced Mr. Oliver. And second—well, right now, when you didn't even see me standing over you! Can you even hear me as we speak? Or are you perhaps only pretending to understand me, even now?"

Anne was grateful when she saw that "Mr. Oliver" shaking her head at her ridiculous guardian and nudging him. "With consistently drunk friends like you, sir, it's a wonder Miss Mariner's sane enough to have a proper conversation."

Nevan shot Letitia a glare for the comment. "Young ladies are not supposed to speak about drunkenness, nor are they supposed to hear about it," he hurried to add, gesturing to Anne.

"What about being exposed to it?" Anne couldn't help commenting mischievously. "Because I'm very sure that the both of us, Nevan, have had to deal with drunkenness in the form of…well, you."

Letitia laughed while Nevan frowned, then tripped off, muttering about inconsiderate females. "I'll get you both some glasses of ratafia, though I'm sure neither of you deserve it."

Letitia took a seat by Anne. "Nice ball," Letitia commented blandly.

"Eh, quite."

"It's my first, actually," Letitia admitted shyly.

Anne turned to look at her in interest. "Really?" She couldn't quite remember a time when she wasn't being forced into these occasions.

The brunette nodded, smoothing her green velvet coat self-consciously. "Truly. The closest we ever had back in Norfolk were our small fairs and house parties. Instead of grand decorations and ornaments—" she gestured to the roses and pink silk hangings draped elegantly about the cavernous ballroom—"our parties were usually restricted to drunk uncles slamming the pianoforte and impromptu horse races." Anne glimpsed a nostalgicl smile on the other girl's face.

"It sounds quite nice and homey."

Letitia attempted to shrug the feeling away. "It could be, yes. But I…couldn't continue with that life-the way my aunt and uncle had plotted it out for me. I didn't want my future to be, well, dictated like that. Not yet, at least."

Anne couldn't help a little sigh in response. She wasn't altogether sure Letitia had come to the right place for avoiding such a fate.

The two girls continued to talk, oblivious to the giggling and rustling skirts—and curious looks—around them. Letita felt a sort of relief, now that she could unburden herself of the secrets and history of her life in Norfolk. Anne, though not the most forthcoming of people, liked the other girl's open friendliness and slowly painted a picture of her own, of a sometimes shuttered, sometimes glittering, life in London.

After carousing and hobnobbing a bit, Nevan did his duty by the two ladies by delivering two glasses of ratafia to them. Anne thanked him meekly and drank it obediently enough, but Letitia's brows came together as she studied the glass of cloudy red liquid.

"Yes, but what is it?"

"Ratafia."

"Rat what?" She held the glass even further from her face, apparently disturbed by the name.

"Ratafia. It's sweet cordial."

Letitia sniffed it. "But what's in it?"

Nevan seemed taken aback by this reasonable question. "What's in it? Well it's…got sugar and…well I don't know, some red concoction…Don't look at me like that! The long and short of it is I actually haven't the faintest idea! Can't abide the stuff myself," he muttered.

To humor him, Letita tried the drink, but coughed immediately. She set her glass on a small table beside their chairs. "On second thought…I think I'd prefer a more manly "concoction."

"Oho, don't think you can start on th—"

"Nevan! Come for a card game!" Andrew interrupted suddenly. "Oh, hallo, Anne!" He greeted her sunnily, then returned to the task at hand. Darien, Andrew and their closest connection to the host, Kenneth, were all prepared for a game of whist, if Nevan would be gracious enough to make a fourth.

"Rather!" Nevan countered boyishly. Andrew caught "Mr." Oliver's eye and slapped a hand to his forehead. "What a blockhead I am! I'm so sorry, Frederick, would you like us to count you in, and we can play another game? Or perhaps you'd like to come share some stronger stuff than that ratafia with us?"

Nevan hurried to reject this invitation before Letitia could open her mouth. "Oh, no, no, Frederick's quite happy to stay here and keep Anne company, aren't you, Freddie?"

Having been given no say in the matter, Letita could only nod. "Good g—er, lad." Nevan's hand came down to clap her on the shoulder and as he did that, he paused to whisper two words in Anne's ear—"Watch her."

Letitia watched indignantly as the two men left, pulled aside a curtain hung in a doorway, and disappeared into a side room for their private card game.