Lady Eunice had sneaked out one letter and a bottle of Madeira, but her very proper parents had no doubt forbidden her from any further acquaintance with Philippa.

“You’re not canceling my reading circle,” she said bleakly.

“I’ve no need to,” said her mother. “We’ll be lucky if the newspaper still comes.”

“I am literally reading it at this very moment,” Father said from behind his broadsheet. “Or rather, was attempting to do so before I was interrupted.”

Of course the newspaper would still come. And the milk cart, and their servants, and so forth. But many, if not most, of Philippa’s friends would not be permitted to risk their reputations.

And she had only herself to blame.

She noticed a letter written in a strange hand. It bore no name but her own. She turned it over: the wax was unmarked. Philippa broke the seal and scanned only the first few lines before tossing it into the flames herself.

“Yes,” Mother said softly. “Some of your letters are anonymous, and they were not penned by admirers.”

“I’ve told her a hundred times to cease reading your correspondence,” Father said from behind his newspaper.

“Philippa doesn’t want to read that rubbish either,” Mother said. “You would have seen her throw it into the fire if you had put down your broadsheet.”

“I’m reading about our daughter,” Father said. “She is the topic of a scandal column.”

“Me?” The word scratched Philippa’s throat. She’d known she would be mentioned, but Damaris was the heroine of the story—and the villain was her uncle. “What happened to Captain Northrup?”

“Oh, he’s ruined as well.” Father shook out his paper. “You’re infamous for coldly engineering the downfall of a celebrated gentleman of Polite Society.”

“I…Well, I…definitely did that,” Philippa admitted. “I would do so again.”

Her concern had been the women who had been wronged. A man like Northrup would only grow worse once he became a lord.

“You should have gone along with him,” Mother bit out bitterly. “You would have had a famous husband, and a title. What the dickens is wrong with you?”

“Why can’t you see that something was wrong with Northrup?”

“Like ‘being the Prince’s favorite’?” Mother asked sarcastically. “Or, ‘soon to be honored publicly, with his betrothed at his side’?”

“Not everyone withdrew their suits,” Father said from behind his broadsheet.

“And that is where we find ourselves.” Mother’s lip curled in disgust. “Left with a handful of fortune hunters too eager for your dowry to care what kind of woman they wed. At this point, we must marry you off to anyone who will take you.”

“It’s not a difficult decision,” said Father. “The ‘handful’ is gone. There’s only one man left.”