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Synopsis
Fans of Bridgerton will love this “delightful” Regency romp (Julia Quinn, New York Times bestselling author) in which a proper Society miss recruits a very improper lady investigator in a quest for vengeance, only to find love instead.
As a master of disguise, Thomasina Wynchester can be a polite young lady—or a bawdy old man. She’ll do whatever it takes to solve the cases her family takes on. But when Tommy’s beautiful new client turns out to be the highborn lady she’s secretly smitten with, more than her mission is at stake . . .
Bluestocking Miss Philippa York doesn’t believe in love. Her heart didn’t pitter-patter when she was betrothed to a duke, nor did it break when he married someone else. All Philippa desires is to decode a centuries-old manuscript to keep a modern-day villain from claiming credit for work that wasn’t his. She hates that she needs a man’s help to do it—so she’s delighted to discover the clever, charming baron at her side is in fact a woman. But as she and Tommy grow closer and the stakes of their discovery higher, more than just their hearts are at risk.
Release date:
October 26, 2021
Publisher:
Grand Central Publishing
Print pages:
368
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Tommy Wynchester strolled off one of the many boats docked at Billingsgate and melted into the marketplace. The smell of the water permeated the crisp air, as did the cacophony of voices, punctuated by the cries of vendors hawking fish, crabs, and countless other treats and treasures.
It was the perfect place for a boatman to disappear.
From the busy stalls clustered along the dock, a gentleman emerged. The brim of his hat was pulled down low against the chill autumn wind, but Tommy didn’t need to see his face to recognize him. Tall and rugged. Black hair and bronze skin. An annoying habit of quoting dramatically from the morning scandal columns when one was trying to eat one’s breakfast.
“You got it?” Graham murmured when their elbows were close enough to touch.
“Of course.” She slid him the package.
He continued on.
In moments, Tommy’s brother had vanished into the milling crowd, slipperier than the eels hawked beside the water. He might have a horse tied to a post somewhere under guard. Or he might scale the brick in a narrow alleyway, choosing to race across rooftops instead of slog through the congested street traffic.
Tommy’s part in the mission was over. She could relax and give up the life of a boatman. And she knew just where to begin: the Clams & Cockles Inn.
Two women sat in wicker chairs at Tommy’s favorite table overlooking the water. The diminutive blond one with the faraway expression and the clumps of red paint in her hair was Tommy’s sister Marjorie. The woman with the sharp green eyes and a sturdy sword stick was Tommy’s sister Elizabeth.
The only one missing was Chloe.
Tommy and Chloe had been inseparable from the moment they’d met at the orphanage. Tommy had been little more than a toddler. They’d grown up together, first as orphans with side-by-side cots and then as wards of the eccentric Baron Vanderbean.
But Chloe had married a duke. She had new responsibilities and was no longer free to join in her siblings’ exploits, no matter how much Tommy missed her.
“Where are they?” she asked as she took her seat.
“Any minute now.” Elizabeth’s fingers caressed a brass handle in the shape of a serpent.
“Your oysters!” sang out a lusty voice. A serving girl placed a brimming basket in the center of the table, along with a tankard of ale for Tommy.
“You are the best sisters,” Tommy said fervently, and reached for the oysters.
“And you’re the worst,” Elizabeth grumbled. “I wish I could swill pints of ale in public without receiving disapproving looks from passersby.”
“Hit them with your sword stick,” Marjorie suggested. “Judging strangers is rude.”
“Or become a boatman,” Tommy said between bites, careful to face her sister when she spoke. It was difficult for Marjorie to hear over the noise of a crowd. “No one pays any mind to what we do.”
“You are not a boatman,” Elizabeth reminded her. “You are playing a role.”
“Were playing,” Marjorie corrected, her voice loud and pointed.
Tommy’s many temporary roles did feel like playing a game. She loved each while it lasted, but was always glad to remove her costume and be herself.
“Did you find the fish spinster of your dreams?” Elizabeth asked.
“I was working,” Tommy reminded her. “There will be time to look for love later.”
“Liar,” Elizabeth said. “You stopped looking the moment you laid eyes on—”
“Shush.” Tommy felt her neck flush. “Wynchesters meddle in other people’s business. Not mine.”
Marjorie brightened. “And Graham?”
Relieved by the change in topic, Tommy waved her hand toward the buildings on the other side of the market. “He’s off saving the day. Tonight, a father will finally reunite with his family. Thank you for the forgery, by the way.”
“Always my pleasure,” Marjorie replied primly.
“I could have gone on the boat with you,” said Elizabeth. “I could have bludgeoned villains or poked holes in them with my blade.”
“No poking necessary,” Tommy assured her. “I would have signaled if we needed you.”
“The signal wasn’t badgers this time, was it?” Marjorie asked.
Tommy shook her head. “Polecats.”
“Polecats,” Marjorie repeated. “Should I ask, or is it better for me to remain in blissful ignorance?”
“Blissful ignorance,” Elizabeth answered with feeling. “I don’t even want to know how Jacob managed to train a polecat.”
Each of the Wynchesters possessed unique talents that helped them to aid the downtrodden and the desperate. The siblings’ methods might have been unorthodox…or at times, a wee bit illegal…but at the end of the day, faith was restored to those who had lost hope, and justice was served.
What could work up a better appetite than that?
“Do you ever tire of being someone new?” Marjorie asked.
“Never,” Tommy answered without hesitation.
She loved the cool wind whipping through her short brown hair and the cozy warmth of the linen cravat tied about her neck. She also adored swinging a heavy hammer at an anvil, blustering along as a myopic old woman, or mincing about as a helpless maiden.
Two decades ago, as a skinny six-year-old lying in a narrow cot in an orphanage, Tommy had dreamed about what sort of person she might become or what post she might hold when she grew up.
She never imagined the answer would be all of them!
One summer, rich, reclusive Baron Vanderbean had plucked six orphans from poverty and turned them into a family. He had given them a new direction and changed their lives forever.
It had been fifteen months since Bean had died. Tommy still missed him every day. But the Wynchester siblings carried on, doing their part to improve the lives of others, the way Bean had once done for them.
“What role haven’t you played?” asked Marjorie.
“Prince Regent,” Elizabeth said before Tommy could answer. “That I’d like to see.”
“Or a princess,” suggested Marjorie. “You have so many pretty wigs. You’d make a fetching Balcovian heiress.”
“Pah,” said Tommy. “I had my fill of flirting with fops and aristocrats the night of my wretched come-out ball.” Proper debutante Miss Thomasina had been Tommy’s least favorite role. One she would not be reprising. “I feel sorry for Chloe having to be the Duchess of Faircliffe now, poor thing. I would never mingle with Polite Society for fun.”
Elizabeth’s smile was wicked. “Not for…anyone?”
Tommy popped an oyster into her mouth to avoid responding.
“She would,” Marjorie whispered to Elizabeth.
“I know she would,” Elizabeth whispered back. “If a certain someone asked her to.”
Tommy glared at them both, unable to snap I can hear you talking about me without likewise showing herself capable of responding to her meddling sisters’ impertinent opinions.
She ate another oyster instead.
Elizabeth and Marjorie exchanged smug grins, as if Tommy had bared her soul.
2
Today was Miss Philippa York’s very favorite day.
Thursday. The day of her weekly gathering of bookish-and-proud-of-it ladies, and a welcome respite to the monotony of being what her mother wanted.
Philippa strode into the large, sunny parlor that doubled as her private library. Her personal quarters were too small to house her collection, so this was where her friends met. Their conversations spanned a variety of topics, and it was always best to have the book one needed in easy reach.
Philippa adored everything about her collection: the differences in size, weight, colors, content, and of course, the inimitable smell of old pages. She loved the joy of acquiring a new volume she had not yet read, and she loved in equal measure the infinite comfort of rereading a cherished keepsake whose spine opened to all the best parts. She even loved spending a lazy morning reorganizing: this month, by color, next month by size and shape.
And yet…sometimes she longed for more.
Adventure. Excitement. Being part of a grand story in real life, rather than only on the pages of a book.
Striding quickly, Philippa verified that the two dozen plush bergères were arranged in the usual oval. Her guests would arrive at any moment and she wanted everything to be just so.
Philippa’s mother appeared in the open doorway. She cast a disapproving look about the carefully prepared parlor. “Remember, I shan’t offer your friends a formal tea until you take your duty seriously. They can stay for one hour, and not a moment longer.”
This was Philippa’s punishment for failing to marry the Duke of Faircliffe when she’d had the opportunity. Mother would never forgive her. Faircliffe was everything Mrs. York had hoped and schemed for all these years: a lord interested in her daughter.
And Philippa still held out hope that if she said and did the right things, her parents would come to appreciate her for more than the social connections her future husband would bring.
Though the Yorks’ textiles fortune marked them nouveau riche, they lived in a prominent town house on exclusive Grosvenor Square in fashionable Mayfair. Philippa’s father was an important MP in the House of Commons. Their family was highly respected within the beau monde.
Even Philippa possessed her own significant inheritance from her maternal grandparents.
The only thing they lacked was a title.
This was Philippa’s one job, and she had botched it. Her parents would remain unhappy with her until she corrected her misstep.
“No formal tea.” She gave a sharp nod. “I remember.”
Despite Mother’s displeasure, the sideboard contained libations and a tray of cucumber sandwiches. Mother was too irritated with her daughter to allow a more extravagant repast in the formal dining room, but nor could she have gossips claim that respectable Mrs. York had failed in her duty as a hostess. While Mother disapproved of some of the company Philippa kept, a few of the members were Important Ladies, and Mother would never dream of offending them.
Stricter parents would not have indulged Philippa’s interests at all. Her passion for books and learning was horribly unfashionable. Mother undoubtedly regretted allowing her daughter a truly generous five seasons to make her match.
And now Philippa’s time was up.
“One hour,” Mother repeated. “You’ll not have a single additional moment of amusement until you attract—and accept—a suitor your father and I both deem satisfactory. He must be a prominent figure in the House of Lords, or at least eligible. Your father needs stronger allies. This is your duty, Philippa. No more fun until you accomplish it.”
Philippa’s parents rarely agreed on anything…except this.
“No fun allowed,” she murmured. “I remember.”
It was difficult to forget, with the constant reminders.
Ever since Philippa’s come-out, most conversations with her mother centered on which lords were the most marriageable, and how Philippa should best go about catching one of them.
To be fair, her parents very much did their part. Not only did they try to be respectable and unobjectionable in every way themselves, but they had also granted their daughter a dowry large enough to purchase a small kingdom.
The problem was not a lack of offers. Philippa’s father scarcely had time to prepare his parliamentary speeches with the endless river of fortune hunters eager to spend Philippa’s dowry.
The problem was a lack of titled suitors. Her parents would have her marry a block of wood, as long as it possessed a coronet. A title in the family would lift everyone’s social status and provide much-needed connections for her father’s political career. The rest of the details were immaterial.
The other problem…was Philippa.
She did not wish to marry a man interested only in her money. Worse, Philippa was dreadful at flirting and liable to scare off a boast-worthy match before he could offer. Bad enough that she was a bluestocking, which repelled fashionable gentlemen at first whiff. She also had no taste, according to Mother. More precisely, Philippa had no interest in starting a romance with any man she’d ever met.
Not that she was naïve enough to believe in a love match. This was business. Her family’s future depended on Philippa’s marital success.
According to both parents, the best thing for all parties was to let the elder generation secure an impressive, titled suitor. All Philippa had to do was say yes and I do when instructed, and her parents and the groom would live happily ever after.
“I was thinking,” said Mother. This was never a good sign. “I could limit your access to this parlor only to the days when your reading circle is in session.”
“What?” Philippa burst out in unconcealed horror.
Her personal sanctuary—and the books it contained—was her only escape.
She moved in front of the glass case containing her prized collection of illuminated manuscripts, as though blocking them from her mother’s view would likewise erase their existence from her mother’s mind.
Philippa fully intended to sneak a few volumes to her bedchamber before Mother locked her out of the parlor.
“You already forbade further literary acquisitions until I am back on the marriage mart,” Philippa reminded her. “It is not my fault that the new season won’t begin until Parliament reopens in January.”
“Humph.” Mother looked unimpressed with this logic.
Mother was always unimpressed with logic.
Philippa was just relieved to have fourteen-and-a-half more weeks of glorious spinsterhood.
“Perhaps your weekly reading circle should become fortnightly until you’ve an acceptable lord on the line,” Mother said.
“Again,” Philippa said as patiently as she could. “It is astonishingly difficult to fish for lords when London has yet to stock the lake. The season will begin in three months. Surely that’s soon enough to—”
Voices sounded down the corridor.
Philippa relaxed. She adored her witty, clever friends. Being limited to a mere hour of their company once a week was punishment enough. Losing a single minute more was unthinkable.
“They’re here,” she said. “May we please continue this discussion another time?”
Her mother’s expression could best be described as disgruntled, but the excited voices were already drawing closer.
Philippa and her mother had not heard the rap of the knocker, because Underwood took his post as butler seriously. He held the door open for all ladies before they reached the threshold. After four-and-a-half years of weekly reunions, the ladies did not require any guidance to the familiar parlor.
Having all her friends descend upon her at once was the best moment of Philippa’s week, and her mother was literally blocking the path.
“Very well,” Mother said. “But only because Lady Eunice has arrived.”
Philippa gave a tight nod.
Mother had long made it clear that titled guests like Lady Eunice not only outranked Philippa in society, but were also more important than Philippa in her own home. Thus, the reading circle continued to happen because Lady Eunice wished it to happen.
Not because it brought happiness or comfort to Mother’s sole offspring.
Mother stepped from the doorway into the corridor and let out a squeal as though she had just noticed the sounds of guests approaching.
“Why, Lady Eunice, don’t you look stunning today? I believe we have a bottle of your favorite Madeira. And Miss Kimball, how was your sister’s wedding? Oh, that’s just lovely. In you go, in you go. I must post myself at the door to greet the next guests.”
With that, Mother fluttered down the hall and out of sight.
Philippa’s friends bounced into the room like tumbling marbles. About two dozen ladies occasionally attended the reading circle, but her five closest friends never missed a meeting. It was all Philippa could do not to hug each of them tight.
Today, Lady Eunice was exquisite in a long-sleeved day dress trimmed in seed pearls, her auburn hair impeccably styled with face-framing ringlets. At the word “Madeira,” she headed straight to the sideboard.
Pink-cheeked Sybil, the group’s queen of lists and schedules, pushed her spectacles up her button nose and reviewed her notes before determining which cake she was allowing herself to indulge in today.
Gorgeous Florentia was next, with her beautiful light brown skin and a spray of freckles across her nose and apple cheeks. She pushed her springy black ringlets out of her face and peered about the room, assuring herself all was as it should be.
Gracie dashed into the room with windswept hair and wrinkles in the Mameluke sleeves of her mint green dress, yet still looked stunning as always. She pointed at the clock in the corner and crowed with delight.
“What? Miss Gracie Kimball arrived early to an appointment?” Florentia clutched her hands to her bosom. “Pinch me, for I fear I am dreaming!”
“I’ve been on time ever since we’ve been limited to a single hour,” Gracie protested.
The others gazed at her in silence.
“Mostly on time,” Gracie amended. “I would have been early last week, were it not for a certain flirtatious Mr.—”
“Shh,” Philippa whispered, tilting her head toward the open doorway. “If Mother hears flirting took place at an event I failed to attend…”
They’d caught her mother listening through the keyhole on multiple occasions.
Gracie lowered her voice. “Sybil, you have the chart. Are we meant to be speaking in French or Latin?”
“Greek,” said Florentia.
“Classic Greek,” Sybil corrected, shaking a finger at Florentia. “None of your hijinks, young lady.”
Florentia affected an angelic expression and widened her eyes innocently.
Philippa’s heart warmed. She loved that her friends weren’t just bookish, but unabashedly so. Between them, the ladies spoke several languages and boasted a comprehensive understanding of many subjects. Speaking of sensitive matters in code was no problem at all.
While Philippa’s obsession centered on physical manuscripts, other friends reveled in the knowledge that books contained. Botany, medicine, forging armor, currying leather—topics for which men had clubs and livery companies and Royal Societies, but from which women were banned altogether.
Females’ poor, delicate brains could not possibly withstand big, actual thoughts.
Philippa longed to be included. So she’d created her own society. A sisterhood of women as curious and intelligent as any man.
And instead of dedicating themselves to any one thing, they covered hundreds of things. Every month featured different books. It might be a delightfully torrid novel, a detailed tome on the inner workings of the Leyden jar condenser, or the latest theories and applications of chemistry.
These were the best and cleverest women of Philippa’s acquaintance. The friends had become a family. She would do everything in her power to keep the group together.
Even marry the fusty old titled bore her parents selected for her.
3
Must be the right place,” quavered an ancient voice from the doorway. “This room smells like old books and expensive wine.”
Philippa was pleased to see Chloe and her unruly, white-haired great-aunt Wynchester enter the parlor. One might presume Philippa and Chloe would be on acrimonious terms because Chloe had stolen the duke Philippa was supposed to marry.
One would be wrong.
Philippa was eternally grateful not to have to wed a man whose ambivalence to their union matched her own. The new Duchess and Duke of Faircliffe had wanted to marry each other.
If Philippa ruled the world, that would be the only requirement for marriage.
“Do you want to know a secret?” Gracie whispered, her eyes bright and shining. “I’m to be an aunt!”
Cries of delight and congratulations filled the parlor.
“I cannot wait until it’s me,” Gracie said with a happy sigh. “Just think. A husband…a wedding night…a house full of babies…”
None of those ideas sounded appealing to Philippa.
She knew that made her strange, even among a group of lady outcasts. They were ladies, and many women wanted certain things. Such as being pawed by the same man for eternity, or filling a peaceful house full of crying babies.
It was fine to want those things. Why wasn’t it also fine not to want them?
“Don’t worry,” said Florentia. “At the rate you’re flirting, you’ll find yourself at the altar soon enough.”
“I hope so,” Gracie said. “That’s why I do it.”
It was also a fair part of why Philippa didn’t do it. Not only was she horrid at the art of flirting, she had no interest in the inevitable outcome. She could look at a person and objectively acknowledge his attractiveness, but no manly face had ever inspired a passion any more profound than a pretty flower or a beautiful sunset.
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.”
“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.
Philippa’s collection contained only one illustrated volume of Sir Reginald’s collected tales of English chivalry. The complete four-book set was rare to find. The binding on the volume Philippa owned was barely hanging on, which was how Damaris had first got the idea to—
“Oh no,” Philippa breathed. “Not your cipher!”
Damaris nodded miserably. “My cipher.”
Four years ago, Damaris had brought a family heirloom to the reading circle: a bright, colorful volume collecting dust in her uncle’s library. Leaves and pomegranates and flamboyant swirls decorated the gilded cover. The exterior edges of the pages likewise illustrated with half-moons of abstract swirls amid fruits and ivy. The interior was absolutely stunning. Though the style was identical, Philippa’s was a different volume, and in poorer condition.
Damaris created a cipher, using her uncle’s rare manuscript of chivalric tales as a base. She taught the code to the others, only for the group to lose interest when it proved impossible to decipher without having the illuminated manuscript at hand to use as the key.
“When we stopped using the cipher, I hated to see something so elegant fall into disuse. I showed the idea to Uncle Northrup and explained how it was uniquely suited to Sir Reginald’s quartet of chivalric tales, due to their astonishing uniformity, as well as the abundance and variability of—”
“English, you said,” barked Great-Aunt Wynchester.
“Yes. Thank you. I explained to Uncle Northrup as best I could and said the Crown might be well served by encoding messages in such a fashion. Uncle didn’t seem to think much of my suggestion or my cipher, and that was the last we spoke of it. He left for the battlefield again less than a week later. I forgot all about it until this morning.”
Chloe lifted the lid to the wicker basket dangling from her arm and handed Philippa a folded broadsheet. “This is the article.”
“Front page,” Philippa said as she unfolded it. “Not the scandal columns.”
“It ought to be a scandal,” Sybil said fiercely.
Philippa shook out the clipping.
Indeed, CAPTAIN NORTHRUP IS A HERO was printed across the top of the first page.
“It’s not fair,” said Lady Eunice. “He plagiarized his grand idea.”
“Since it was Damaris’s grand idea,” said Sybil, “it should be Damaris’s credit. And viscountcy. And royal celebration on the first day of the season.”
“We shan’t allow this theft to stand.” Philippa turned to Chloe. “Your family has a long hist. . .
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