Tommy leaned casually against the red brick of the Electi Society building. Just an old man catching his breath. “Graham has tools to help. He can’t scale walls and leap from building to building with an illuminated manuscript under one arm”—she gestured at Philippa’s basket, which contained the replica Marjorie had made—“but he has a leather belt with secure pouches for carrying small things.”

“I hope these manuscripts prove what I think they do,” Philippa whispered.

Tommy didn’t address the unspoken questions.

What if the manuscripts proved useless? What if Graham’s network found no evidence to support Damaris, and Northrup was honored for deeds he did not perform? What if, in the absence of a comeuppance, Philippa’s parents married her to Northrup after all?

Tommy wanted to hold Philippa tight while she still could. To make the most of what little time they had together, whether it was months or weeks or days.

A series of soft knocks sounded on the window pane next to their heads.

Philippa jumped. “Graham?”

Tommy nodded. “It’s time.”

She held out her elbow for Philippa and they ambled the last three yards to the front door, making the same show of being slow and easily distracted as before.

Tommy placed the basket flush against the door. Under the guise of bending to brush dirt from her shin, she tipped up the lid of the basket. As she stood, Tommy subtly arranged their bodies so that she faced Philippa, and Philippa’s spine was toward the door.

Philippa’s voluminous skirts hid the basket from any curious eyes across the street. She and Tommy would appear to be an elderly couple embracing in public. Unusual enough that if anyone glanced this direction, the kiss Tommy was about to take would be all a witness remembered from this moment.

“We’re just pretending,” she murmured as she lowered her mouth to Philippa’s. “You don’t have to kiss me back.”

Philippa twined her arms about Tommy’s neck and kissed her fiercely.

Tommy had to grip the handle of the sword stick to stay upright. This was a taste of what she wanted. She wished she could toss the cane aside and kiss Philippa for the next hour…or perhaps eternity.

She could not cup Philippa’s face because of her carefully applied cosmetics. Nor could she sink her fingers into Philippa’s hair because it hid beneath a bushy gray wig.

All Tommy could do was stand there, dying to touch and feel and caress, only able to show her passion through the insatiable hunger of her kisses.

Vaguely, she heard the door unlocking, and the lock sliding into place after it closed again. Graham had switched the false manuscript for the real one and was now spiriting the replica up to the library before disappearing across the rooftops the way he had come.