Tommy looked magnificent in gentlemen’s dishabille. Casual and dissolute. Philippa tried hard not to look, and then gave up and looked. It was impossible to say without closer inspection, but Philippa thought she could make out the outline of small, firm breasts and the shadows of nipples when the light from the windows hit the cambric just so—

Tommy turned toward her and raised an eyebrow.

Philippa’s cheeks flushed with heat. She sent her mortified gaze anywhere but in Tommy’s direction. My, what a lovely ceiling. Yes, Philippa was fascinated by white ceilings. Flat. Boring. Nonsexual.

“Is there a question?” Tommy asked.

“I wondered if you bound your breasts,” Philippa blurted out. “I see you do not.”

Heaven help her. Had she really just admitted—

“I’ve bound them in the past,” Tommy said, as though inquiring about her breasts was perfectly acceptable. “I’m fortunate such a step is rarely necessary. Someone with slightly larger breasts would definitely have to bind theirs. And someone as blessed as you would have no hope of hiding her beautiful curves.”

Oh God. Now they were talking about Philippa’s breasts?

“Tell me about your disguise,” she said in a rush. “Today’s costume. What is the plan?”

Tommy’s heated brown eyes trapped hers for a moment before she turned for a basket of supplies. She set it atop her dressing table and settled into her chair.

“We begin with skin tone.” She pulled out little jars and sponges. “One must achieve the correct base color before adding any flourishes.”

Philippa nodded as though she had any idea what to do with cosmetics.

She watched in fascination as Tommy covered her face and neck in a color almost the same as her own, but slightly more sallow, less vibrant.

“I am in awe of you.” The words were out of Philippa’s mouth before she could stop them. “I have spent the past twenty years reading about intrepid heroes, but you and your family actually go out and be them.”

Tommy’s sponge paused at her throat. “You learned to read when you were three?”

“And that’s all I’ve done,” said Philippa. “Until now. Today I’m going to be part of the story. It’s exhilarating.”

“When I was three, I did not learn to read,” Tommy said. “I learned when to be small and silent, and when to be loud or run fast. But we are perhaps not as different as you think. My family and I execute complex plans to help others. You’ve dedicated your adulthood to charity work. You do Wynchestery things with your purse and your pen.”

“I’m glad of any part I can play,” Philippa said. “But sewing blankets and writing letters is not exactly swashbuckling adventure. My home is still and quiet until I want to scream. I am almost always alone, except for Thursday afternoons with my reading circle. Your house, on the other hand, is—”

“Chaotic?”