Tommy was engaged in consuming fresh lemon cakes when the interminable first set finally ended. Since Philippa had been standing with her ancient chaperone when Northrup arrived to claim his dance, he brought her back to Tommy.

“Where’s that duchess?” Northrup glanced over his shoulders. “She promised me the second set. What was her name again?”

“Her name is ‘Your Grace,’” Tommy barked. “You green lads, with no sense of respect for ladies—”

“No.” Captain Northrup scowled. “I meant her title. She’s the Duchess of—”

“Faircliffe,” Chloe said smoothly, materializing from nowhere to slip her hand around Northrup’s arm. She winked at Tommy. “I believe this is my dance?”

“So it is.” Northrup puffed up his chest again and strutted out onto the dance floor with exaggerated slowness, so that everyone could see him with a duchess on his arm.

“Oh, he’s bon ton,” Philippa muttered darkly. “Overflowing with je ne sais quoi.”

“It’s ‘shite,’” Tommy whispered. “He’s overflowing with shite.”

“If only my parents had felt this passionately about marrying me off to Baron Vanderbean,” Philippa said with a sigh.

Tommy shook her head. The ton’s opinions of Baron Vanderbean were irrelevant. He wouldn’t be marrying anyone. She didn’t want to have to pose as her father’s namesake to earn her lover’s acceptance. She wanted to live as Tommy. Chosen for herself, and nothing else.

“It’s been almost a full minute,” Tommy said. “Chloe’s done by now. It’s my turn.”

“What?” Philippa spun to face the dancers. “How?”

“I’ll return posthaste,” Tommy said. “I have to bump into my niece.”

She placed her spectacles in her wig and bumbled onto the parquet, hunched and squinting. She narrowly avoided the other dancing couples then collided with Chloe.

“There you are,” she barked. “I can’t find my spectacles.”

Northrup’s face turned so purple, Tommy hoped he might explode.

“Aunt…” Chloe said gently. “They’re on your head. Please go wait for me elsewhere. I’m dancing with Captain Northrup.”

Tommy patted the spectacles on her head, harrumphed, and tottered away without another word. She adjusted the fichu covering her bodice. The key was now inside her false bosom.

Hurrying, Philippa caught up with her halfway to the door.

“What are you doing?” Tommy motioned for her to stay in the ballroom, where it was safe. “Chloe will ensure he doesn’t notice anything amiss until he’s at least finished his set with her, but that gives me barely thirty minutes. Wait here.”

“No.” Philippa did not slow her pace. “I’m coming with you.”

32

32

You’re not coming with me.” Tommy staggered backward in obvious horror. “You don’t have an excuse to be wandering the corridors—”

“I do,” Philippa said, keeping her voice low but firm. “Northrup gave me the excuse. He told me where to find his bedchamber and heavily intimated our second set of the night could take place upstairs.”