She was not the only woman in the world reluctant to wed and bear children. But her friends at least seemed passingly interested in the “pleasurable” bits. Philippa had lost count of the rakes Gracie had danced with or kissed. Florentia pretended to be brash, but she could banter flirtatiously with the best of them. Philippa had been slobbered upon in the shadows a few times and did not care to repeat the experience.

Her most memorable moment during the Faircliffe end-of-season gala had been when a tall, slender young lady with pretty brown eyes marched across the dance floor to Philippa, stared her in the face for the space of a heartbeat, then flushed and ran away.

Philippa had wished she could run away, too. She dreamed of running away.

But she stayed because of her friends.

“We should get started,” she announced. Not everyone had arrived, but they were already fifteen minutes late and Philippa didn’t want to run out of time. “Have you all decided if you’ll be sponsoring a community library?”

Philippa had thrown herself into charity work ever since she gained her majority and control over her maternal inheritance. This was the project she was most passionate about: installing a small library in every neighborhood in London. The acquisition of books was cost-prohibitive for all but the wealthy, but Philippa strongly felt that knowledge and entertainment should be available to all.

Jessica lifted a leather bag. “I brought a few new children’s primers for the first round.”

“I’ll help you add them to the wall of donations,” said Florentia. “I’ve got things in the order I like them, and—”

Damaris burst into the parlor and shut the door behind her. “I’m here!”

Philippa hurried over to stuff a handkerchief in the keyhole before her mother returned to spy on them.

“We’re to speak Welsh, are we?” quavered Great-Aunt Wynchester.

“Greek,” said Florentia.

“Ancient Greek,” corrected Sybil.

“I’ll say this in English,” Damaris said, “because I don’t care who hears me. My uncle Captain Northrup can go to the devil and take his fancy title with him.”

Philippa frowned. “What happened?”

Sybil leaned closer to Philippa, voice low. “You didn’t hear about Damaris’s uncle? It was in the morning papers.”

“He’s being ‘honored’—” Lady Eunice began.

“—for his ‘cleverness’—” Gracie interrupted.

“—in stealing Damaris’s ideas,” Florentia finished.

“Before the first day of the season,” Sybil said in a rush, “Parliament shall bestow a viscountcy upon Captain Northrup. The Prince Regent will christen a chamber of the Royal Military Academy in Woolwich the ‘Northrup Salon’ to honor Northrup’s entire family.”

“Not his entire family,” Damaris muttered.

“Only the ‘important’ ones,” Gracie said.

Over two centuries ago, Sir Reginald Northrup, one of Captain Northrup’s ancestors, had created a semi-popular quartet of illuminated manuscripts, gorgeously hand-lettered on fine paper and decorated with large, intricate initials at the top of the text.