Having a tendre was torture.
It was nine thirty, and all she’d done this Sunday morning was watch the clock and think of Tommy.
She wished she could write to her. Better yet, Philippa wished Tommy would write toher. She wished Tommy would appear on the doorstep as…well, anyone. The disguise didn’t matter. Philippa missedTommy.
Perhaps Philippa should release Tiglet.
Should she? The kitten was asleep somewhere. Surely it was rude to awaken a sleeping kitten. But Tiglet was atrainedcat. A professional homing kitten, specifically placed in Philippa’s possession in the event she wished to summon Tommy.
Philippa quickly wrapped the precious illuminated manuscript for safekeeping and tucked it back into its hiding spot at the back of her wardrobe. She checked for Tiglet behind each stack of neatly folded clothes, then shut the wardrobe.
“Tiglet,” she called. “Come and drink your milk before your long journey.”
Tiglet did not come. The milk beside her dressing table remained untouched.
Philippa lifted her skirts and sank to her knees in order to peer beneath her four-poster bed. Nothing, except a few tufts of fur.
She lifted her head and looked over the mattress at her bedchamber door. It was closed. Tiglet had to be in here somewhere…Didn’t he? Nervousness fluttered in Philippa’s stomach as she lifted pillows and moved curtains aside as she searched.
Wherever Tiglet was, he wasn’t here in her bedroom. Despite leaving her windows closed and her door shut, she had lost her only companion. Perhaps when the maid had brought the breakfast tray.
Philippa ran out into the corridor and looked both ways. All the doors were closed. She shut hers and then hurried downstairs. Because it was late October, most of the windows should be closed, too.
Underwood stopped her as she dashed from room to room. “There you are, Miss York. A letter has just arrived for you.”
Philippa hurried to the silver tray before her mother intercepted incoming correspondence as well. “Have you seen Tiglet?”
“I have not,” Underwood replied. He glanced over Philippa’s shoulder at a passing maid. “Have you seen the kitten, Fidelia?”
“I found fur in the bluestocking parlor,” Fidelia replied. “We were airing it out since it hasn’t been used in a while.”
Because there was no reading circle anymore.
And now, no Tiglet.
Perhaps the letter was from Tommy! Philippa took it from the tray. The letter was franked by the Duke of Faircliffe. Since recipients paid postage and many of the Wynchesters’ clients were poor, Faircliffe might be providing franked covers. It would be wonderful irony for Philippa’s prior suitor to pay for what she desperately hoped was a love letter from someone else.
My dearest Philippa,
Pardon the short notice, but the most wonderful opportunity has emerged. You must come to a ladies’ breakfast at my residence at once, after which we will depart for a lovely afternoon of volunteering at orphanages for charity.
Do say you’ll come, dear. Don’t keep good works waiting.
Ever yours,
Chloe Faircliffe
Not Tommy, then. Philippa’s shoulders sagged, but only briefly. She liked Chloe, and she was passionate about charity work…ifthat was really the plan. Even if it was, spending the day with children would be a far more appealing prospect than returning to the makeshift desk in her empty dressing room.
“May I send the footman back with your response?” Underwood inquired.
Philippa’s head jerked up.Justarrived, he had said. Perhaps this wasn’t a proper invitation at all, but rather a ruse. Heart pounding, she dashed past Underwood and flung open the door.
“Tommy?” she said breathlessly.
A very startled, very-not-Tommy footman dressed in Faircliffe livery blinked back at her in confusion. “Jackson, I’m afraid. Sent by Her Grace.”
“Oh.” Philippa’s face flamed with heat. “Please tell Her Grace that I would be honored—”
