Page 40 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

Braithwaite always seemed displeased about something, but he’d verged on hostile that night in the dark, the sparks in his gray eyes threatening to set everything ablaze despite the rain. All month he’d made her feel like deadweight to their investigation, and his refusal to acknowledge her industriousness on the case did hurt deeply, especially measured against his own indifference. Watching him linger with the irrelevant don while Watkins and Hughes were both present was agony, and Gin tapped the toe of her black pumps against the polished parquet floor to relieve her vexation. How could he always find fault with her and yet leave his own marks so poorly watched?

But it was the obvious contempt when he’d used her title—the Honorable Ginevra Bishop—that had been the crushing blow. She had realized then that no amount of effort would ever please him if he considered her a helpless debutante, and it was why he hadn’t bothered to train her better. She wasn’t worth his time.

Ginevra tugged her gloves smooth and lifted her chin. She’d had quite enough of men telling her what to do, and Braithwaite would not stop her from proving her mettle in the field. He had made it abundantly clear that she and this assignment were thorns in his side, so she wouldn’t pester him further.

If Braithwaite wouldn’t interrogate his assigned suspects, then she would.

Weaving through the crowd, Gin picked up a fresh glass of punch and sidled closer to the table where Dr. Watkins studied an array of photographs on display. They had met once at a luncheon, and Gin liked the woman’s warm, even-keeled manner. She was younger than many of the other female tutors and seemed to keep to herself, for her name was never mentioned in the senior common room drama that trickled down to students’ gossip circles. But perhaps her solitary nature better concealed all those visits to Olenev’s shop.

The photographs Watkins studied were all of Leland, including his childhood, undergraduate days at Oxford, the army, and his author photos too. The same smile pervaded them all: that smug self-assuredness that he was the most popular person in the room. At Gin’s approach, Watkins nodded in polite acknowledgment before shifting away to the next table which housed Leland’s collection of published books.

“Professor Leland has had quite an exhilarating life,” Gin murmured. “I had no idea he was a decorated war hero. It almost seems too remarkable to be true.” She was, in fact, very aware of his many medals after too many dinner parties with the man. But Gin had often observed that other dons greatly enjoyed a dig at the charismatic Classics professor’s expense.

Watkins snorted under her breath. “Have you read his new memoir?”

“I have not.” This was true. Leland had sent the viscount and her stepmother several advance copies of his new book, The Many Lives of Michael Leland, and Gin had promptly donated hers to a charity shop.

The corner of Watkins’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Neither have I. And yet, if I had a pound for every story where he claims to have saved someone’s life, I should be a rich woman.”

“Come, Dr. Watkins,” a voice drawled over Ginevra’s shoulder. “That’s not fair.”

Ginevra stiffened at the familiar, grating tone. Slowly, she turned and acknowledged Donald Craddock with a cool but cordial dip of her chin that he ignored.

“Professor Leland saved many men in Vosburg when he unmasked Robert Crowne as a stool pigeon,” Craddock continued to Watkins. “The man’s a hero.”

“He certainly agrees with you,” Watkins said dryly.

The tale of Leland spiriting soldiers out of the Germans’ castle prison after unmasking a traitor among his men was one Ginevra knew well from the professor’s vivid retellings, though it did seem more implausible every time she heard it. “He is very fond of that story, isn’t he?” she said. “I might be able to reenact it myself.”

Donald reached past Ginevra, forcing her a step backward, and grabbed a copy from the stack of Leland’s memoirs on display. “He tells it often because it’s brilliant, though the professor’s memory is abysmal regarding some of the details.” He thumbed through the book and presented a page to Watkins. “Like here: I tried to tell him all year this German word was wrong in the first version I read, and he still didn’t fix it. Didn’t you tell him like I asked?” he asked Watkins.

“I did not,” Watkins said, massaging her forehead in annoyance. “I keep a full schedule, Donald, and I am not Leland’s editor.”

Gin edged closer, studying the page. “Which word?”

Donald snapped the book shut in her face and returned it to the stack. “You’re right, ma’am, and I apologize. I shall remind the professor in time for a second printing.”

Gin arched an eyebrow. “I don’t remember you being so meticulous, Donald.”

“I don’t remember you paying attention to my habits,” Donald muttered out the corner of his mouth. He inclined his head to Watkins, smoothing away a grimace. “Till our meeting Monday, ma’am.”

With a cold glare for Ginevra, he stalked away into the crowd.

“Do you two know each other?” Watkins asked.

“Rather too well.” Gin gritted her teeth, watching Donald ooze across the room shaking hands with other Damocles Club members. “He wants me to marry him, and I refused.”

“Oh dear.” There was a flicker of cautious amusement in the don’s eyes. “He can be rather bullheaded. A couple of weeks ago, he nearly came to blows with someone in class over a disagreement about Caesar, of all things.”

Dogged about manuscript errors and passionate about assigned readings? Donald had insisted during the last proposal that he’d turned over a new leaf that year, but Ginevra had thought it mere posturing to win her over. Perhaps she had been unfairly dismissive. “Good heavens, That sounds terribly awkward to manage.”

“It wouldn’t have been the first time I’ve ejected students, though I can’t imagine Lord Donald would actually lay hands on anyone.” Watkins tucked an escaped tendril of curls behind her ear. “In that instance, Sidney Braithwaite would have swiftly trounced him, and I think he knew it.”

Gin blinked in surprise. Braithwaite had said nothing about this incident, but perhaps that had contributed to his mood the past month. She would sour too if she had to suffer through Donald’s presence for the sake of their assignment.

The soft squeal of a microphone made everyone in the crowd wince. At the front of the room, Dr. Neville stood on the small stage with papers fluttering down from his podium. He knelt and swept them together with trembling hands.

“You must excuse me,” Watkins said. “I think Dr. Neville needs assistance with his remarks for the evening.” She sidled around the room and approached the stage, picking up the loose pages that had reached the floor, and the crowd resumed mingling.