Philippa crossed to the overflowing sideboard. She recognized the handwriting on the letters as being from ladies who attended her reading circle. All two dozen of them must have sent a note or a gift. She picked up the bottle of wine. A note was attached to the neck with a sunny yellow ribbon. Philippa removed it carefully and unfolded the letter to reveal several paragraphs of Lady Eunice’s elegant handwriting.

Darlingest Philippa—

Mother snatched the letter from Philippa’s hand and tossed it into the fire.

“I was reading that!” Philippa clenched her fists as the fire consumed the kind words. “It was from a friend.”

“Not anymore.” Mother drew herself up to her full height—an inch taller than Philippa’s admittedly short frame. Mother crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her nose. “There shall be no more reading circle and no more bluestocking nonsense.”

“What?” Philippa’s chest constricted. “Why?”

“Because you’re ruined,” Mother burst out. “What did you think you were doing?”

“The right thing!” Philippa snapped up straight. “I didn’t ruin my reputation. It is Captain Northrup who lied to everyone and stole his niece’s cipher.”

“Captain Northrup, celebrated war hero and personal favorite of the Prince Regent, who planned to bestow a viscountcy upon Northrup to honor him, and now shall not.”

“He shan’t?” Philippa brightened. “It did work.”

“It worked to paint you as poisonous to the gentlemen of the ton,” Mother snapped. “Why single him out? There isn’t a man alive who hasn’t done something he regrets.”

“I certainly have,” Father muttered from behind his broadsheet.

Mother ignored this. “Fashionable gentlemen no longer wish to be under the same roof as Philippa. Not when her presence could spell doom or scandal.”

Philippa’s happiness faded. This was the worst possible outcome of the best thing she had ever done.

“There are no more suitors,” Mother whispered, pressing her hands to her chest in horror.

No. That was not the worst thing. Philippa didn’t give a fig about receiving the cut direct from men. She liked the idea that her mere presence could cause arrogant bucks to tremble in their champagne-shined Hessians. “Bringer of Doom” was an even better sobriquet than bluestocking.

But if Philippa was persona non grata to the men, then she had become persona non grata for the ladies, too. The female half of the ton had brothers, fathers, husbands, sons. Some would forbid contact with her. Others had never wished to rub elbows and now had even more excuse to ostracize her. Philippa’s stomach sank.

The citywide lending library was not going to happen. The charity collaborations were as ephemeral as smoke. In fact…there were eighteen letters and gifts, not twenty-four. Her grand triumph might have cost her several of her dearest friends.