Philippa’s mother swept in, clapping her hands together. “Well, I hope you’ve had a lovely meeting. I’ll see you all next week. This way to the door, if you please.”

“Mother—what—” Philippa hurried to block her. “It hasn’t been an hour yet. Damaris barely arrived fifteen minutes ago!”

Mother lifted her chin. “An hour has passed since the first carriage arrived. You and Miss Urqhart should learn to heed the clock.”

“Mrs. York, this is important.” Sybil held up the broadsheet. “We’re discussing a wartime cipher—”

“If you bluestockings want to fathom out difficult puzzles, then find Philippa a husband who won’t embarrass the family,” Mother interrupted. “I don’t want to hear a single word about anything else until next Thursday afternoon, at which time you will have precisely one hour to bore each other silly.”

The ladies exchanged glances.

“Next week,” Florentia murmured in Greek. “We plot our revenge.”

Philippa’s thwarted friends trudged from the parlor to the front door, this week’s undiscussed archery books still clutched in their hands.

Great-Aunt Wynchester paused at the threshold. Her brown eyes glowed intensely from her pale, wrinkled face.

“Don’t you worry,” she quavered beneath her breath. “If there’s a way to stop that bollocks-for-brains, I’ll find it.”

“You are very sweet,” Philippa said. Great-Aunt Wynchester was one of her favorite people. Philippa hoped to be half as bold and confident when she reached her age.

“Come along, Aunt.” Chloe looped her arm through her aunt’s and helped the older woman to hobble from the room.

Philippa’s mother patted her cheek. “You’d be a bluestocking spinster for the rest of your life if I weren’t here looking out for you. It’s for your own good, darling.”

4

4

Tommy detached her white wig from her head as she and her sister strode through the front door of the grand Wynchester home in semi-fashionable Islington. The disused wing to the left hadn’t been touched since Bean had died. On the right was the bright, bustling half of the house, with siblings and servants and smiles everywhere.

Chloe shouted up the marble stairs, “Planning Parlor!”

“I’ll ring for tea,” Graham’s muffled voice called back.

Tommy and Chloe reached the first floor in time to glimpse Elizabeth walking carefully down the corridor, one hand gripping her cane and the other holding her hip.

Some days, she used her sword stick to defend the defenseless. Other days, it was heavily employed to keep Elizabeth upright.

This appeared to be one of the bad days.

Usually, the siblings sat in an order that mirrored their family portrait. Today, Elizabeth arranged herself on a sofa, along with a plethora of pillows.