Instead, she’d caused him more stress, just like Mother always did. Philippa sighed and turned away. She would not bother him now. Once she had a husband, Father would be proud of her. She would have proved her worth. Wasn’t that what she’d told Tommy she wanted? To be helpful?
She made her way upstairs to her bedchamber and glanced down at the correspondence Underwood had given her. Part of her wondered whether one of the letters would be from Tommy. Why would it be? She wasn’t a real baronora real suitor. Nor would she have any idea how constantly she had remained in the forefront of Philippa’s mind.
She stepped into her room and closed the door. PhilippalikedTommy. There was no one she’d rather find herself in a fake courtship with for the next three months.
Tommy personified fearlessness and freedom. When Tommy saw a wall, she jumped over it or broke right through it. She would have made a marvelous knight in tales of chivalry and adventure.
Unfortunate that she wasn’t actually a man. Or a legitimate English lord.
When it came to passion, Philippa’s cold dead heart remained resolutely cold and dead, but at least a future with a man like Tommy sounded like a happy one.
The false Baron Vanderbean was charming and clever. Dashing and bold. Sweet and romantic, even if that part was just pretending. Dancing had beenfunfor the first time in five seasons, all because of the company. Tommy was a delight, no matter what they were doing. Or almost doing. That moment, out in the garden…
But Philippa hadn’t meant to spend all night and all morning reliving every moment she’d ever shared with Tommy—who hadnotwritten a letter. The Wynchesters were hard at work helping Damaris. Philippa ought to attend to her responsibilities, too.
A properly executed husband hunt would appease more than her parents. Marrying a lord would make her project for local libraries more appealing to the rest of Polite Society. Half of her letters were from ladies who had no time for charity—the season would begin in only three months, you see, and there were so many new gowns and accoutrements to arrange. They were certain Philippa understood.
The other half of her correspondence came from antiquities enthusiasts.
Earlier in the week, she had sent letters to her entire list of book collectors inquiring about other copies of the Northrup chivalric tales. Responses were trickling in. Thus far, every seller had the same news:
Our deepest apologies.
We no longer possess the volume in question.
She pushed the letters away and made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat. All the Northrup manuscripts had disappeared over the past half decade?
Allof them?
Vaguely, she recalled a persistent attempt to purchase her copy years ago, by some strange collector. He eventually offered prices so high, Philippa had stopped taking him seriously. She was fortunate that his correspondence had been with her, rather than her father, or the illuminated manuscript might have vanished at the first offer.
She would write to him at once. She would also write back to everyone who’d answered and ask where they had sold their manuscript. Someone, somewhere, had to have a copy.
Philippa moved to her dressing table and pushed her creams and hairpins out of the way. She now had twenty inquiries to write.
After she had finished her letters, she took out her battered volume two for further study. Philippa did not want to wreak irreparable damage upon the fragile manuscript—she had a horror of destroying books—but if she wished to extract the mysterious document from the binding, there was no other way.
The gilt-embossed cover was stunning. When closed, even the edges of the pages had been inked and painted with violets and pomegranates and abstract lines and swirls. A fanciful touch, given that the ornamental edges would be out of sight when the book was tucked into a shelf. Opening the volume spread the ivy and swirls into nothing at all.
She picked up a small blade and a clean quill.
This was an act that could not be undone. She hesitated. Harming a rare, priceless book made her hands shake and her stomach feel queasy.
The thin wooden boards inside of the covers were weak. Philippa supposed she was lucky that these were Elizabethan manuscripts, rather than medieval, or they might not have survived. The boards’ interior walls were stiff and peeling, even without her interference.
Carefully, she sliced the leather to reveal a folded document beneath. As gingerly as she could, she liberated it from the fore edge. The parchment peeled away as though it had never been glued in place. As though it wasn’t part of the binding at all, but a separate hidden page. It had been protected from sunlight and weather and oil from fingers. The painted colors were slightly brighter than those in the manuscript. The paper itself was slightly less yellowed and decorated with elaborate swirling designs.
Nonetheless, the paper was still brittle. Philippa pulled on a pair of gloves before attempting to unfold it. Carefully, she opened the paper as far as she dared without risking it falling apart along the fragile folds.
It was a letter!
“‘To my dearest Agnes,’” she read aloud.
Who was Agnes? Sir Reginald’s wife? His daughter?
“‘How I have adored these years together, you and I working side by side at our little table. Each stroke of my pen reminds me of your hand, its art indistinguishable from my own. Each completed volume, identical to the last. I often cannot tell where I end and you begin.’”
Sir Reginald had not created these manuscripts by himself? He and Agnes bound and illustrated them together, side by side at their…little table?
