Page 12 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

“If you’ll help me,” the Rook said, “I’m prepared to compensate you both for your trouble. Does that appeal to you, Mr. Braithwaite?”

“I don’t need money,” Sidney said—a lie, but he would rather take a second bullet than let Ginevra Bishop know how hard up he actually was. “I told you in France I was done. I won’t be bribed back into this.”

“The point of a carrot,” the Rook said, growing annoyed, “is to motivate you. I don’t like this situation any more than you do, Mr. Braithwaite, but we have reason to believe our informant will visit Olenev’s bookshop around luncheon tomorrow, and I’m under orders to secure new eyes to replace Tolliver in case they do appear.”

“Then throw in one of your other agents,” Sidney said, crossing his arms. “Or do they ignore your cryptic messages?”

The Rook’s demeanor grew icy. “It is my job, Mr. Braithwaite, to know who is best suited to which assignment, and someone who knows Oxford, who is already installed at the university, will arouse less suspicion if you’re questioned. Either Mr. Tolliver uncovered the informant’s identity or was on the verge for them to risk murdering a beloved librarian, and they will probably be exceedingly wary from now on. We are far too close for me to throw in just anyone.” He sank back. “Surely you can appreciate my predicament. I should much prefer to have an eager volunteer, but time is of the essence, and you two are my first choice.”

“What about me?” Bishop interjected before Sidney could protest again. “If Mr. Tolliver thought I had potential, then I’d like to see if he was right. I’m sure I could work alone.”

Sidney was quite sure she could too; Ginevra Bishop could probably unearth a whole ring of spies with her enthusiasm for meddling.

But the Rook shook his head. “I don’t think I can allow that. Mr. Braithwaite is correct that the job is not without risk. It would be better if you worked in tandem, and his prior experience in this area is invaluable.” He picked up his cane and shifted it between his hands. “I could perhaps rearrange a few things, but slipping in a new agent poised equally well will take time. I assure you, Miss Bishop, I have considered all angles and come to the same conclusion: You and Mr. Braithwaite are my best option.”

The Rook studied him with that infuriating, knowing look Sidney remembered all too well, and he did his best to remain stone-faced in turn. Only he couldn’t stop the onslaught of unlocked memories. Soldiers rounding the corner. Amélie screaming at him to run. The bullet tearing through his side.

Sidney straightened his jacket to hide a flinch, but the flick of the Rook’s eyes said he had failed, and the pity there dug into him like thorns. He remembered being as eager as Bishop when approached about intelligence work while deployed in France. Active combat had been ugly, but he quickly found he enjoyed blending into the background, encrypting and decrypting messages, and lying with composure when needed. That side of warfare better suited his skill set, and he flourished—until he met Amélie.

She was a clever, quick-witted Frenchwoman and one of the Rook’s spies inside a chateau commandeered by the Germans. Their weekly meetings quickly became Sidney’s favorite part of the job, especially sharing cigarettes with her about the chateau grounds while passing information. Though usually dressed like a farmhand, hair stuffed up in a soft cap, Amélie possessed the kind of beauty that would have started its own wars in the ancient world. It would have been unprofessional—and stupid—to act on any of the lovesick fluttering that made Sidney eager to bask in her company. But sometimes, when she looked at him slantwise on a golden evening, there was a mirrored yearning in her eyes that tempted him to dream of peace.

It was a look that haunted Sidney after the Germans dragged Amélie away to her death.

For years her screams had echoed through his bones, taking a heavy toll on both body and soul. He had withered at home after the war, toiling in the mines beside his father until he was numb and drinking himself to sleep every night. When the ex-serviceman’s grant to Oxford offered him a new path, he used that lifeline to pull himself out of the doldrums hand over fist. His life wasn’t perfect, but it was better. And he dared not sacrifice his progress if returning to that world would bring back the nightmares.

But Sidney could offer his own measly carrot if it would get the Rook to leave him be.

“I’ll tell you both now, I won’t change my mind. I don’t want to work for you again,” he said to the Rook, “and I can’t afford to fall behind in school. I already work one job on the side because some of us earn our own living.”

Bishop shot a searing glance that Sidney ignored. It was harsh, perhaps, but true. Girls like her always had ready pocket money and fathers with an open checkbook. “What I can do,” he continued, “is watch the bookstore for you tomorrow and tell you who visits. But that’s it, and that’s final.”

The Rook raised a hand from the table to forestall Bishop’s protest. “I accept. I shall search for a permanent replacement, but I appreciate this immediate help now.” He rose and re-buttoned his jacket, removing a slip of paper from his breast pocket. “Call that number when you’re done and tell the woman who answers that you need to order more crumpets. She’ll connect you to me directly.” The Rook tipped his hat. “I look forward to your report.”

He whisked down the aisle as silently as he’d arrived, leaving Sidney and Bishop seated side by side with the telephone number between them. The air felt charged with a new conversation she wished to begin, but Sidney focused on the book spines in front of them. He did not think he could bear any more of her scrutiny in that moment; not with his turbulent emotions still threatening to surface. He’d rather she thought him a heartless cad than realize how terrified he was of making another mistake in the field.

At last, Bishop cleared her throat. “You do surprise me, Braithwaite, and I can’t say that about many people.” She tucked the piece of paper inside her book and rose. “Till tomorrow then.”

Chapter Five

On a quaint street in south Oxford, Ginevra peered over her cat-eye shades at Grigor Olenev’s bookstore. It was a Tudor-gabled building between a barbershop and a boarded property, and a lackluster display of encyclopedias and etiquette manuals lay behind its grimy front window. This, however, had not deterred a regular stream of patrons that morning, most of whom carried bags into the store and returned with nothing. But in the forty-five minutes Gin had perched on a nearby bench, nibbling at a cheese-and-pickle sandwich and noting descriptions of those who entered, she had seen no one she recognized from the university—including her supposed partner.

Gin rewrapped the sandwich and tucked it inside her handbag. It was her own fault for assuming Braithwaite would be easy to spot, but surveying all the nearby alleyways proved more difficult than she’d anticipated. Restless, she sauntered away from Olenev’s until she’d progressed a good fifty feet and lingered before a cobbler’s window. It was still an excellent angle for observation but less obvious to anyone who might be watching from inside the bookstore.

A bell jingled at the next shop, and Gin cast a cursory glance to the side, but she startled when it was Sidney Braithwaite who emerged. His knit polo shirt revealed far more musculature than his usual buttoned-up attire, and his tawny hair glinted softly in the morning sunlight. It was enough to make Ginevra acknowledge that he was quite a handsome man, but the eyes sharp with annoyance quickly popped that impression. He jerked his head for her to follow and retreated back inside, and Gin hastened after him.

The building proved to be a café. It was a tidy, sparse place with clean-swept boards and no frills, but the soft tinkle of spoons hitting china and the smell of strong-steeped tea swept over Gin in delicious waves. Braithwaite was already seated by the small front window, facing Olenev’s, and Gin slid onto the chair opposite. But the full force of his assessing gaze almost made her leap back up.

“How long were you going to sit on that bench?”

“How long were you going to hide in here?” Gin retorted. “If you knew I was out there, why didn’t you fetch me?”

“I wanted to see what you’d do.” Braithwaite sank back in the chair and tipped his head toward the window. “I also bet the Rook you’d get made within an hour, and I lost that bet to help you out. You’re welcome.”

Ginevra stiffened at the cheek of the man. But Braithwaite’s attention was focused over her shoulder, and she turned toward the bookstore.

A tall, heavyset man with rolled shirtsleeves and suspenders had stepped outside.

“Is that Olenev?” she asked.