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touched her as the Haydn had not. He had known it would because he'd felt the same way the first time he'd heard it. She had grasped his hand and not let go until the last movement was over. That afternoon had convinced him Elizabeth was different. The two of them were alike, he thought, a little apart, a little lonely, perhaps. It was comforting to think there was at least one other person even a little like him.
    Although his letters to her never mentioned his difficulties after the death of his father, not long after his move to Pycham Street he'd received a letter from her enclosing a five-pound note—more than half her allowance for the year, he later found out. Her letter did not explain the money; there was no need to, so much between them went unspoken. And, damn it all, it had come in handy.
    Now Nicholas wondered if she had changed much since the last time he'd seen her. Elizabeth was now twenty—he had sent her an edition of Voltaire's letters for her birthday this past May—but he would always think of her as the thirteen-year-old he had introduced to van Beethoven.
    Nicholas read the letter a third time before folding it carefully and placing it in an inside pocket of his waistcoat.
    "We will be returning to London on Friday, Chester," he said.
CHAPTER 5
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    A t forty-nine Havoc Willard was still a handsome man. His brown hair was just beginning to go silver at the temples, and in his gray eyes was reflected the quiet demeanor that had so often caused his business partners to have confidence in schemes that might not have succeeded had they been attempted by another man. He was the middle son of eleven children and one of only two boys to survive into adulthood. Being the eldest son, Havoc inherited his father's business, which he had turned into one of the richest, if not strictly the largest, trading houses in London. Havoc was a lucky man, and he was wise enough to appreciate the fact.
    At present he was waiting for his wife, daughter, and niece to arrive from Dartford. He firmly believed that London was the place to bring one's daughter to get her married. Not that he worried a great deal about her making a good marriage. It was his niece who worried him. Havoc sometimes thought she was more like a daughter to him than his own. Elizabeth tended to be a little too solemn; even as a child she had been grave, but she had a quick mind and sound judgment. Mrs. Willard called her stubborn, and though Havoc had to agree, he admired her for it. Stubborn she was, but it was a subdued obstinacy, rarely seen by strangers, and disconcerting to those who expected a shy young girl to be easily led. She was also thoughtful and kind, which was a surprise to no one because it was in keeping with her looks.
    In the interest of fairness, Havoc had sent both girls away to school when they were sixteen despite his private conviction that Elizabeth was much too intelligent for a girl's school. Now they were back and ready to be found husbands. He was not sure Miss Langford's School had benefited either of them. Elizabeth's mind was already superior and not in much need of improvement, and Amelia simply did not care to know anything much over what might be necessary to attract a man. Amelia, who had been beautiful her whole life, now had a taste for ruinously expensive gowns, while Elizabeth, who had gone through a painfully long awkward stage, was as unassuming and artless as ever.
    The contrast between the two girls could not be greater. Amelia was light-hearted, always smiling and laughing at the simplest of jokes, if a man told them. She played the piano with skill and feeling, sang with a pure voice that delighted the ear, and she could read French with an impeccable accent. She was spoiled, of course, but it was a part of her charm. One would be hard-pressed not to think Amelia deserved to be spoiled. Amelia could easily fascinate a man, a good deal of the reason for it being her unshakable belief that she was