“What about books?” Elizabeth asked.

“Your sisters are skilled negotiators,” Philippa said. “We find ourselves forced to compromise. Tommy can have me sometimes, and the rest of you can have me some other times.”

Tommy crossed her arms. “I did not approve this plan.”

“You don’t have to,” said Elizabeth. “We are the Democratic Republic of Wynchesters and our collective vote outnumbers yours.”

“We’re not that, either,” Tommy whispered to Philippa. “If we were, Elizabeth would find a way to legislate daily sword fights.”

“I’ll teach you.” Elizabeth beamed at Philippa. “Tommy won’t be half so cocky once you’ve sliced off a lock of her hair with the tip of your sword.”

“I’ll illustrate the act.” Marjorie held up her sketch pad. “For posterity.”

“Do I even want to know what sorts of images one might find amongst those sketches?” Philippa inquired.

“You do not,” Tommy said. “But if you do, peruse Graham’s shelves. Marjorie has helpfully illustrated a few choice scenes from the intelligence his network has gathered.”

“That sounds ominous,” Philippa said.

Marjorie smiled at her angelically. “It is.”

The carriage drew to a stop. Philippa’s stomach lurched. They had arrived at Grosvenor Square. The York town house loomed just outside.

Tommy helped Philippa from the coach. “We’ll be with you every step of the way.”

“If you require violence, just make the sign,” Elizabeth said.

Philippa held Tiglet nervously. “What is the sign?”

“Any sign.” Elizabeth patted the handle of her sword stick. “Blink if you want mayhem.”

Philippa blinked in surprise.

“Perfect.” Elizabeth unsheathed her sword. “I’ll attack first.”

Tommy pushed Elizabeth behind Marjorie.

“Keep her in check,” Tommy told Marjorie. “If she kills anyone, it will be your fault.”

She nodded. “I won’t look away, except when I’m drawing.”

Philippa giggled despite herself at their silliness. She knew they were doing it on purpose, to try and ease her nervousness. “Thank you.” She straightened her shoulders. “I’ll attack first.”

She sucked in a deep breath and strode up to the front door.

Underwood welcomed her in with a distressed expression. “Your parents are in the cerulean sitting room. Together.”

Philippa’s eyes widened. It did not bode well that Mr. and Mrs. York were still in each other’s company—or had returned to the sitting room to continue arguing over their daughter’s fate.

“No swords,” she said to Tommy’s sisters. “Follow me.”

She marched into the parlor with her head held high.

“Where have you been?” snapped her mother.

“We’re here if you need us.” Tommy pulled her sisters to one side.

“Need who?” Mother said.

“The Wynchesters,” Elizabeth answered helpfully.

“Philippa, these people are exactly what’s wrong with you,” Mother hissed.

“No,” Philippa said. “They’re exactly what’s right. Please convey my regrets to Lord Whiddleburr. I shall not be accepting his—or any—suit at this time, or at any time.”