“Marry someone other than Vanderbean,” Mother snapped. “I will accept a viscount at this point, as long as he is respectable and English.”

“And has a nice library,” Philippa added. “They really should add that to Debrett’s.”

“Listen carefully,” Mother said. “The advantage of Baron Vanderbean is his title and his wealth. He doesn’t need your dowry. Gossips will jump to the conclusion he’s actually interested in you.”

“So illogical,” Philippa murmured. “What must he be thinking?”

“The disadvantage of Baron Vanderbean…is that he is a Wynchester,” Mother concluded. “You’re to lead him on without reeling him in. Keep him interested but not quite ready to pounce, until you have a better offer on the line.”

“And if he offers, tell him, ‘No, I shall betroth myself instead to someone less foreign and higher ranking’?”

“Exactly,” Mother said with satisfaction. “His interest will help to increase your popularity, which can open up countless better opportunities.”

“I think we could count them.” Philippa tried to edge her mother out of her dressing room. “There are eight unmarried lords above the rank of baron, only half of which are currently in town. This is a very ambitious plan.”

“I will accept heirs apparent,” Mother said begrudgingly. “Many of those are here in London. According to the scandal columns, several gentlemen’s clubs remain open year-round. You could still be a duchess.”

“No more dukes.”

“Then a countess or marchioness.” Mother cast her gaze over Philippa and smiled. “Once you’ve an acceptable gentleman or two in the wings, perhaps we can allow two hours per week with your little reading circle.”

Philippa jerked her eyes toward her mother’s. “If I’m being courted, I can have some of my freedoms back?”

“Courted by the right gentleman,” Mother reminded her firmly.

An important distinction. Philippa dropped her gaze. It was impossible.

“However,” her mother said craftily, “if you do manage to secure and sustain Baron Vanderbean’s interest, I shall relay this to your father as a sincere effort of good faith.”

“Why does it feel like blackmail?” Philippa muttered. She wished her father would speak to her himself. There was a thing or two she’d like to tell him.

“Everyone extorts everyone else all the time, darling.”

“Do they?” Philippa said doubtfully.

Her mother pursed her lips. “That’s what a society is. A group of people with agreed-upon methods of social extortion. ‘Do this, or suffer the consequences.’ We call it ‘proper comportment’ so that it sounds nice. You cannot fight it. It’s just the way things are.”

The way things are. Philippa was so tired of the way things were.

A footman appeared in the doorway to Philippa’s dressing room.

“Pardon the intrusion,” he said. “There’s a caller for Miss York.”

A caller for Philippa? On a Saturday?

She held out her hand for the card. Her mother snatched it from the footman’s fingers.