The dancers stumbled as more of them tried to stare.
“Obviously it’s my book,” Northrup said peevishly. “My great-great-et-cetera-grandfather, Sir Reginald Northrup, penned every stroke of that illuminated manuscript by hand. He was the most revered Elizabethan scribe, and the most important artist to all of us here today.”
“More important than Sir Walter Raleigh?” Tommy barked. “More revered than William Shakespeare?”
“Was Sir Reginald half as intelligent as the great Captain Northrup?” Philippa lifted the cover of the manuscript and pulled out the cipher she had created. She held the paper out toward Northrup. “As you have reminded us all on many occasions, you are the cleverest man in the room. Can you tell me what this says?”
He snatched the paper from her hand and stared at the grid of symbols, then flipped to the side with the map, then back to the side with the perfect square in neat rows and columns.
“It’s gibberish,” he said in disgust. “Didyouwrite this?”
“Yes, I did,” she replied. “In cipher.”
Damaris broke through the refreshment line as planned. She set a basket at Philippa’s feet and held out her hand to Northrup. “May I see it, Uncle?”
“Who cares what it says?” He shoved the paper into his niece’s palm with enough force to crumple it. “I am busy speaking to other men. Can’t you bluestockings entertain yourselves elsewhere if you cannot entice a man to dance?”
The dancers who were too far away to hear edged closer. Their steps no longer matched the reel but were a blatant attempt to come within earshot of what appeared to be the most exciting moment of the night.
“May I?” Damaris asked.
Philippa handed her the manuscript.
Damaris flipped through the pages with astonishing speed, pausing only every half second or so to glance at the wrinkled cipher.
The violinists lowered their instruments because no one was left on the parquet to dance. They, too, inched closer to watch.
Damaris closed the book and handed it back to Philippa, then shook out the parchment and began to read. “‘Northrup is a liar and a fraud. If he had created this cipher, he would be able to read it.’”
“Let me see that,” a masculine voice boomed out.
Everyone turned as one of Northrup’s colleagues edged his way to the front. Not a colleague—his commanding officer, Brigadier-General Boswick.
The brigadier-general took the page from Damaris’s hand respectfully and produced a quizzing glass from his pocket.
“We made alterations to the cipher before sending it into the field,” he explained to the crowd. “But the core principles are the same. If I could see the manuscript?”
Damaris handed it to him.
His gloved hands treated the volume with obvious care. He consulted Philippa’s cipher before turning to this page and that with deliberate precision. At last, he closed the manuscript.
“What does it say?” called Lady Eunice from somewhere behind them.
Philippa grinned. Her friends no doubt already guessed what it must say.
The brigadier-general cleared his throat. “It says…‘Northrup is a liar and a fraud. If he had created this cipher, he would be able to read it. With love, Damaris, Philippa, Agnes, and Katherine.’”
Gasps rippled through the ballroom.
Northrup’s face mottled. “Who the devil are Agnes and Katherine?”
“One is your great-great-cousin, many times removed,” Philippa said. “And the other was her…companion.Theywere the artists who illustrated the Northrup manuscripts. Your ancestor had nothing to do with it.”
“Theyare the ones who are nothing,” Northrup thundered. “I’ve never heard those names before!”
“Is that why you destroyed your family Bible?” Philippa asked. “In an attempt to erase all evidence of Agnes Northrup, the true heroine in your family?”
“I…” Captain Northrup spluttered. “How did you…”
