Page 25 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

But engagement festered like a bur trapped against his skin.

Chapter Nine

It was not the first time Gin had regretted an impulsive decision. She regretted unleashing her father’s bulldogs on the vicar who, unbeknownst to her, had a habit of carrying hardtack in his pockets. She regretted kissing Donald Craddock at the ball for all the ensuing woe it had brought upon her. And she sometimes regretted lopping off her long hair as a debutante, but only in the height of summer when she wished she could pin the thick waves off her neck.

At the moment, however, she damn well regretted ever setting foot in the Blue’s office.

Gin stabbed at the typewriter, the sharp ping, ping echoing the clamor inside her breast. Why had she thought this a clever way to sleuth? She’d spent as much time toiling over the asinine article as observing Marion Kirk’s routine, and that suspicious meeting on the street corner made her eager to find out whom it was with—not agonize over whether or not she sounded ridiculous.

There was a gentle rap at the door, and Sarita sauntered into the room. “Far be it from me to stifle your creative pursuits, darling, but perhaps you should take a stroll. I’m concerned about your mental state if you don’t stop pounding away.”

Gin ripped the page off the typewriter, balled it up, and hurled it across the room. “That’s two of us.”

“As bad as all that?” Sarita leaned over her shoulder and picked up a sheet from the desk, but Gin snatched it away.

“Please don’t read it. It’s absolutely mortifying.”

“I’m sure it’s not. Perhaps a second opinion will be encouraging.”

Gin shook her head and grimaced. “I’ll beg for merciful lies when I need them, but I know you have your own work to be getting on with. It was I who blundered into the Blue’s office, and it is I who shall pay the price. I’ll let the typewriter rest for a little while.” She frowned at the page she’d saved from Sarita and crossed out the last line. “How on earth does anyone come up with something they even want people to know they wrote? This entire business is most humbling, and I don’t like it.”

“Don’t people sometimes use pseudonyms?”

“Like ‘Stockings Girl’?”

Sarita rolled her eyes. “Maybe something smart, or elegant. Or mysterious. I think people like a pen name that either represents a part of who they are or who they want to be.”

“Yes…” Gin trailed off, staring at the Lady Godiva tapestry. The Rook had said Cassius was the chosen name of their leak, which felt like the coy nod of a classicist. But Cassius was also the instigator of the plot to assassinate Caesar, the one who drew Brutus into the senators’ scheming. Could the choice of that particular Roman name be significant?

Gently, Sarita squeezed her shoulders. “I shall ponder brilliant alternatives, or I’m sure Tweety could come up with something cheeky.”

Ginevra shook off the reverie and flexed her arms toward the wall. “That’s an excellent idea. Thank you for the pep talk, dear. Never give up, never surrender, I suppose…”

Only Ginevra’s patience was to be further tested when she visited the Oxford University Chess Club. Observing Dr. Samuel Neville over the chessboard had seemed like an excellent idea when she proposed it to Braithwaite; Neville was another Classics don, and Ginevra did not feel disposed to add an unnecessary Latin or Greek tutorial to her schedule even for the sake of the investigation. Chess, however, was her forte. Anne Aster-Bishop had taught Ginevra how to ride horses, how to mend clothes, and how to dance; how to pour a cup of tea, how to tie marvelous knots, and how to eavesdrop upon people in the garden. Ginevra’s favorite ritual, however, had been their weekly chess matches, and ten years of practice had honed her skills well.

The club met in a high-ceilinged room painted a calming delphine blue with plush rugs of brown and green paisley that dampened whispers and footfalls. Long tables had been arranged in rows with boards and clocks set up between pairs of players, and Gin strode for the young man with a clipboard who oversaw the proceedings.

“Hello,” she said, “I’d like to play.”

Though barely taller than her, Clipboard sneered down his aquiline nose as though she were a pawn rather than a Bishop. “Have you played before?”

“Yes. Never in a tournament, but I’m quite good. My mother taught me.”

Clipboard jerked his chin at the farthest corner, where a game was already in progress between two men who looked as though they wished they were elsewhere. “You can start over there. You’ll play the loser.”

An older man, however, sat alone at the front of the room. He had thinning ash-brown hair streaked with gray, pale skin slightly mottled from too much sun, and thick, horn-rimmed glasses that overwhelmed his weak features. One hand propped up his chin as he studied the board before him, the other lightly tapping the table.

This, Ginevra realized with delight, must be Dr. Neville.

“Why not him?” she asked. “He needs a partner.”

“No,” Clipboard said coldly. “You must earn a game against Dr. Neville. You start at the bottom.”

He pointed to the corner with an air of finality, and Gin retreated, simmering with indignation. She had no doubt she could defeat this man and anyone in the room—but doing it quickly was going to be a problem.

Over the following three meetings, she deftly trounced each opponent, moving closer to Neville with each win. He had yet to acknowledge her presence, always intent upon his board or opponent when Ginevra arrived, but her brilliant run gained the others’ attention. By the time she’d reached her penultimate game, the rest of the club had abandoned their own matches and huddled around hers, placing bets in an undertone over how quickly she might win.

“A quid on fifteen moves,” someone whispered.