“Technically,” said her mother, “I don’t give a jot what your dictionaries say. I say you’re to dance with Northrup before you even look at Vanderbean.”

“The baron isn’t here,” said Philippa. “It appears you’ll get your wish.”

But she couldn’t stop looking for Tommy.

Philippa lowered her heels. What was wrong with her? She was angry with Tommy and at the same time desperate to see her again. Going days without a sign was torment. What was Tommy doing? Glooming out of her rain-spattered window like Philippa? Or off scaling battlements and stealing illuminated manuscripts?

The worst part was, after several hours of throwing herself into charity work to numb her hurt at not figuring in Tommy’s plans, Philippa was forced to admit that she was an illogical choice for a partner in daring escapades. She wasn’t a Wynchester. She didn’t have practical experience, or any sort of special skills to aid and abet a burglary in progress. She would be an anchor, not an asset, weighing down the team when they most needed to be agile.

Inviting Philippa along on a caper would have been the least practical, most inefficient decision Tommy could have possibly made.

And yet Philippa wished she’d made it anyway.

She sent her anxious gaze about the ballroom for the hundredth time. What if Tommy was here tonight as a great-aunt rather than a gentleman? Might Philippa have missed her? Or what if she’d come not as belligerent, colorful Great-Aunt Wynchester, but as…Miss Thomasina? What might that look like? Would Philippa even recognize her?

Her eyes scanned and discarded each person in turn. Young, old, male, female, fat, thin—

The voice of the Oglethorpes’ butler rang out. “Baron Vanderbean.”

Philippa’s head jerked toward the entrance on the opposite side of the ballroom.

“Humph,” said her mother. “The evening only wanted this.”

Philippa certainly had wanted it.

Her heart galloped furiously. Tommy had come, and she looked magnificent.

Black breeches clung to tightly muscled thighs that moved with confidence. An emerald green waistcoat disguised the chest that had brushed tantalizingly close to hers. The black superfine of Tommy’s tailcoat hid the arms that had once wrapped tightly about Philippa. The dazzlingly white cravat drew the eye up to Tommy’s supple mouth, and to the baron’s usual expression of impishness and amusement. Either her argument with Philippa hadn’t bothered her, or the coy looks Tommy gave others had always been an act. Perhaps Outrageous Flirt was just as much a mask as Great-Aunt Wynchester.

Philippa could no longer claim to be passionless. She had spent years trying to solve the wrong puzzle. It wasn’t a matter of “finding the right man” after all.