Tommy personified fearlessness and freedom. When Tommy saw a wall, she jumped over it or broke right through it. She would have made a marvelous knight in tales of chivalry and adventure.

Unfortunate that she wasn’t actually a man. Or a legitimate English lord.

When it came to passion, Philippa’s cold dead heart remained resolutely cold and dead, but at least a future with a man like Tommy sounded like a happy one.

The false Baron Vanderbean was charming and clever. Dashing and bold. Sweet and romantic, even if that part was just pretending. Dancing had been fun for the first time in five seasons, all because of the company. Tommy was a delight, no matter what they were doing. Or almost doing. That moment, out in the garden…

But Philippa hadn’t meant to spend all night and all morning reliving every moment she’d ever shared with Tommy—who had not written a letter. The Wynchesters were hard at work helping Damaris. Philippa ought to attend to her responsibilities, too.

A properly executed husband hunt would appease more than her parents. Marrying a lord would make her project for local libraries more appealing to the rest of Polite Society. Half of her letters were from ladies who had no time for charity—the season would begin in only three months, you see, and there were so many new gowns and accoutrements to arrange. They were certain Philippa understood.

The other half of her correspondence came from antiquities enthusiasts.

Earlier in the week, she had sent letters to her entire list of book collectors inquiring about other copies of the Northrup chivalric tales. Responses were trickling in. Thus far, every seller had the same news:

Our deepest apologies.

We no longer possess the volume in question.

She pushed the letters away and made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat. All the Northrup manuscripts had disappeared over the past half decade?

All of them?

Vaguely, she recalled a persistent attempt to purchase her copy years ago, by some strange collector. He eventually offered prices so high, Philippa had stopped taking him seriously. She was fortunate that his correspondence had been with her, rather than her father, or the illuminated manuscript might have vanished at the first offer.

She would write to him at once. She would also write back to everyone who’d answered and ask where they had sold their manuscript. Someone, somewhere, had to have a copy.

Philippa moved to her dressing table and pushed her creams and hairpins out of the way. She now had twenty inquiries to write.

After she had finished her letters, she took out her battered volume two for further study. Philippa did not want to wreak irreparable damage upon the fragile manuscript—she had a horror of destroying books—but if she wished to extract the mysterious document from the binding, there was no other way.