“I can recall any number I hear, no matter how large,” Northrup was informing his profusion of admirers. “I’m told I was not only the best shot of my division, I also possess the strongest muscles. Due to my superior blood, of course I was the only one who could—”

He caught sight of Philippa, which she supposed was a minor miracle in itself.

When Northrup leered blatantly, she realized it was not her countenance that had animated him, but rather the thought of despoiling her upstairs in his bedroom while everyone else was engaged in a country dance. He was about to be disappointed.

His worshipers turned to see what had caught their deity’s attention.

Northrup’s leer faded at the sight of his ancestor’s manuscript in Philippa’s gloved hands. No. The manuscript belonged to his ancestor’s tenants, whose efforts Sir Reginald had claimed as his own.

Northrup patted his chest in growing horror.

Tommy held up the missing key and bellowed, “I believe you dropped this, pup!”

Now they held the attention of the entire refreshment queue, as well as the dancers closest to this edge of the parquet.

“I didn’t lose it.” Northrup stormed through his admirers, knocking them out of his way. “You stole it from me, you crazy old bat—”

“So you confirm that she is holding your key and that this is your manuscript?” Philippa asked archly.

The dancers stumbled as more of them tried to stare.

“Obviously it’s my book,” Northrup said peevishly. “My great-great-et-cetera-grandfather, Sir Reginald Northrup, penned every stroke of that illuminated manuscript by hand. He was the most revered Elizabethan scribe, and the most important artist to all of us here today.”

“More important than Sir Walter Raleigh?” Tommy barked. “More revered than William Shakespeare?”

“Was Sir Reginald half as intelligent as the great Captain Northrup?” Philippa lifted the cover of the manuscript and pulled out the cipher she had created. She held the paper out toward Northrup. “As you have reminded us all on many occasions, you are the cleverest man in the room. Can you tell me what this says?”

He snatched the paper from her hand and stared at the grid of symbols, then flipped to the side with the map, then back to the side with the perfect square in neat rows and columns.

“It’s gibberish,” he said in disgust. “Did you write this?”

“Yes, I did,” she replied. “In cipher.”

Damaris broke through the refreshment line as planned. She set a basket at Philippa’s feet and held out her hand to Northrup. “May I see it, Uncle?”

“Who cares what it says?” He shoved the paper into his niece’s palm with enough force to crumple it. “I am busy speaking to other men. Can’t you bluestockings entertain yourselves elsewhere if you cannot entice a man to dance?”