It was why Great-Aunt Wynchester kept her comments to the occasional ribald jest at the reading circle. Tommy wasn’t a bluestocking. She hadn’t read a hundred books. She couldn’t speak Ancient Greek or write in cipher. She could drink wine and eat oat cakes and watch the others in silence like a spectator at a play.

Tonight would be different. She would be onstage. Instead of watching the show from the audience, the audience would be watching her. Judging her. Critiquing Baron Vanderbean. His first public outing with Miss York.

And the person she most wished to impress was…Philippa. Who wanted a real man. Unfortunately, Tommy could not become one fully enough to be an acceptable suitor. Looking the part and even feeling like a man was not sufficient. Especially if Philippa was looking for someone who could father children. But tonight was just a ball. A dance or two. Light flirtation.

Tommy straightened her hat again and fussed with her neckcloth for the tenth time before approaching the front door. Did all men feel this self-conscious when they called upon a lady? Were butlers all around Grosvenor Square peering through slits in the curtains at well-dressed but comically nervous gentlemen who had not yet banged the knocker because they could not decide the proper angle of the sharp black beaver hat upon their head?

The door swung open before Tommy had finished gathering her wits.

“My lord,” said the butler. “This way, if you please.”

He did not appear to be laughing internally at Tommy’s anxiousness. Then again, Mr. Underwood had realized Tommy would never knock on her own and had saved her the hassle.

The butler was a good man. Mr. Underwood enjoyed Mozart and waxwork exhibitions, and avoided billiards, pecans, and small children. Tommy had read Graham’s compendium on the York family so many times that the spine had broken, and Graham had been obliged to create a second copy. He kept it on a special shelf Tommy was forbidden from touching.

She didn’t mind. She kept the tattered original volume upstairs in her bedchamber.

Tommy followed Mr. Underwood toward the same blue sitting room she’d visited the day before. Nothing written in Graham’s books could compare to the rush of being invited in person.

“Pinch your cheeks,” came a loud hiss from the corridor. Mrs. York to her daughter.

Tommy tried not to smile. She had perhaps spent more time than anyone observing Philippa’s pretty face, with great care and attention to detail. Tommy could state with authority that a cold wind and a glass of wine were the only things she had ever witnessed bring a flush to Philippa’s cheeks.

Mother and daughter swept into the room.