She was not the only woman in the world reluctant to wed and bear children. But her friends at least seemed passingly interested in the “pleasurable” bits. Philippa had lost count of the rakes Gracie had danced with or kissed. Florentia pretended to be brash, but she could banter flirtatiously with the best of them. Philippa had been slobbered upon in the shadows a few times and did not care to repeat the experience.
Her most memorable moment during the Faircliffe end-of-season gala had been when a tall, slender young lady with pretty brown eyes marched across the dance floor to Philippa, stared her in the face for the space of a heartbeat, then flushed and ran away.
Philippa had wished she could run away, too. Shedreamedof running away.
But she stayed because of her friends.
“We should get started,” she announced. Not everyone had arrived, but they were already fifteen minutes late and Philippa didn’t want to run out of time. “Have you all decided if you’ll be sponsoring a community library?”
Philippa had thrown herself into charity work ever since she gained her majority and control over her maternal inheritance. This was the project she was most passionate about: installing a small library in every neighborhood in London. The acquisition of books was cost-prohibitive for all but the wealthy, but Philippa strongly felt that knowledge and entertainment should be available to all.
Jessica lifted a leather bag. “I brought a few new children’s primers for the first round.”
“I’ll help you add them to the wall of donations,” said Florentia. “I’ve got things in the order I like them, and—”
Damaris burst into the parlor and shut the door behind her. “I’m here!”
Philippa hurried over to stuff a handkerchief in the keyhole before her mother returned to spy on them.
“We’re to speak Welsh, are we?” quavered Great-Aunt Wynchester.
“Greek,” said Florentia.
“AncientGreek,” corrected Sybil.
“I’ll say this in English,” Damaris said, “because I don’t care who hears me. My uncle Captain Northrup can go to the devil and take his fancy title with him.”
Philippa frowned. “What happened?”
Sybil leaned closer to Philippa, voice low. “You didn’t hear about Damaris’s uncle? It was in the morning papers.”
“He’s being ‘honored’—” Lady Eunice began.
“—for his ‘cleverness’—” Gracie interrupted.
“—in stealing Damaris’s ideas,” Florentia finished.
“Before the first day of the season,” Sybil said in a rush, “Parliament shall bestow a viscountcy upon Captain Northrup. The Prince Regent will christen a chamber of the Royal Military Academy in Woolwich the ‘Northrup Salon’ to honor Northrup’s entire family.”
“Not hisentirefamily,” Damaris muttered.
“Only the ‘important’ ones,” Gracie said.
Over two centuries ago, Sir Reginald Northrup, one of Captain Northrup’s ancestors, had created a semi-popular quartet of illuminated manuscripts, gorgeously hand-lettered on fine paper and decorated with large, intricate initials at the top of the text.
Philippa’s collection contained only one illustrated volume of Sir Reginald’s collected tales of English chivalry. The complete four-book set was rare to find. The binding on the volume Philippa owned was barely hanging on, which was how Damaris had first got the idea to—
“Ohno,” Philippa breathed. “Not your cipher!”
Damaris nodded miserably. “My cipher.”
Four years ago, Damaris had brought a family heirloom to the reading circle: a bright, colorful volume collecting dust in her uncle’s library. Leaves and pomegranates and flamboyant swirls decorated the gilded cover. The exterior edges of the pages likewise illustrated with half-moons of abstract swirls amid fruits and ivy. The interior was absolutely stunning. Though the style was identical, Philippa’s was a different volume, and in poorer condition.
Damaris created a cipher, using her uncle’s rare manuscript of chivalric tales as a base. She taught the code to the others, only for the group to lose interest when it proved impossible to decipher without having the illuminated manuscript at hand to use as the key.
“When we stopped using the cipher, I hated to see something so elegant fall into disuse. I showed the idea to Uncle Northrup and explained how it was uniquely suited to Sir Reginald’s quartet of chivalric tales, due to their astonishing uniformity, as well as the abundance and variability of—”
“English, you said,” barked Great-Aunt Wynchester.
