Rufina all but scampered out of the workroom to lead Tommy and Philippa to the library. She had the door open in a trice.

“There’s an extra guinea here for you,” Philippa whispered as she dropped four coins in into the girl’s palm. “If any of the other teams make it this far, pretend you haven’t seen us.”

The girl nodded effusively, then dashed back to the workroom. Muffled giggles could be heard through the wall.

“That was lucky,” Philippa said under her breath. “I didn’t think they’d believe the ruse.”

“Pah,” Tommy said. “It was human nature. Servants don’t think much of the brain capacity of older women or the beau monde.”

“Well, I’m not leaving this library without the illuminated manuscript.”

Philippa glanced around the room. The book was in a heavy strongbox, which made it unlikely to be stored overhead, or on a shelf at all. It was most likely low to the floor, or on a sturdy surface.

Tommy consulted her pocket watch. “Twenty minutes.”

For a library, there were dashed few books. Most of the shelves were filled with bottles of wine and sherry, and varying styles of glasses to drink from.

“Here.” Tommy ducked behind a sofa.

Philippa joined her at a gap between the bookshelves.

Together, they managed to tug the iron strongbox free from its snug hollow. Tommy fit the key into the lock. Nothing happened. Philippa wrung her hands to stop them from trembling. If they had come all this way, only for it to be the wrong box or the wrong key—

Tommy wiggled the key again, more forcefully this time, and the lock sprang open.

Philippa sagged with relief. Of course it was the right box, and of course Tommy would be able to open it. Tommy probably could have picked the lock with a quill from a porcupine if it had come to that. Knowing Jacob, releasing porcupines down the chimney had probably been the contingency plan. Luckily, the key had worked. Philippa leaned forward.

Tommy lifted the lid to the strongbox. Because the volume was too wide to lay properly on the bottom, the priceless illuminated manuscript was stuffed inside at a diagonal. Its gilt spine was shoved against one corner and the painstakingly illustrated pages were curled and bent.

“That nodcock.” Philippa reached for the poor, abused manuscript. She ran a gloved finger lightly along the edge that had borne the weight against the side of the iron box and did her best to straighten the bent sections. “If one does not know how to treat books with care, one should not have them.”

Tommy nodded gravely. “This is why I don’t own any books.”

Philippa shook her head. “You would take care of something that mattered to you.”