Page 44 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

“I’m sure you are,” Sidney said evenly, “but if you don’t mind, it will be easier for you to spot a tail if our friend tries again tonight. Now stop squirming, or I’ll drop you, and then you’ll fuss at me for bruising your backside.”

Sidney tossed her slightly, hiking his arms tighter, and bit back a snort when Gin yelped. The rush of cool night air gave him a burst of energy to get them out of the courtyard and onto the main path across Swithun’s grounds, and she finally threaded her arms around his neck with a warning glare: If he dropped her, he was coming down too.

Only Gin’s skirt was so damn fluffy that Sidney had underestimated the awkwardness of this exercise. It had been easier to drag men out of battle, fueled by adrenaline and panic, than walk with such a compromised field of vision. Sidney peered over the mass of fabric as best he could, but the proximity to Gin’s face kept recalling that whisper of a kiss outside St. Mildred’s. He had almost convinced himself he’d imagined the incident, especially after the angry aftermath. Only his skin had retained the memory of her lips no matter how many times he scrubbed his face that week.

Sidney cleared his throat. “Are you all right?”

“Just spiffing,” Ginevra said, her tone flat as paper. “Having a marvelous time. And you?”

Sidney released a low rumble of irritation, but the absurdity of the night—the moment—the weight of her in his arms cracked him open like a pickaxe to the chest. Apologies had tumbled through his head all week, but in every scenario, they were seated somewhere very public and very formal, somewhere with no danger of projectiles flying at his head. But nothing was going as expected since he’d agreed to work for the Rook again, and he should have known this apology would wreck every carefully constructed thought. He heaved with soft laughter, his amusement only growing at the incredulous look on her face.

“Is this funny to you?” she scoffed. “I expect you’re pleased that you’ve proved your point. I’m not to be trusted on my own, and I need you to save me.”

Sidney inhaled to clear his mind. “I want a truce.”

Ginevra reared back as far as proximity allowed and studied him with obvious suspicion. “What sort of truce?”

“The kind where you’re not glaring daggers at me all evening because I’m not doing what you think I ought to be doing.”

“Watkins and Hughes were right there, and you didn’t speak to them.”

“Because I was watching them.”

Her eyes narrowed, glinting in the dark. “And what sort of wonderful clues did you deduce with your observational prowess?”

Sidney shifted her weight in his arms. “I think Hughes knew who you were before your little stunt with the punch.”

She hesitated. “How did you figure that?”

“Because when Leland introduced you to his girlfriend, his face didn’t change at the mention of the viscount. Most Americans would be intrigued to meet a peer’s daughter, I think.”

“Are you a lip-reader? Surely you were too far away to have heard that.”

Sidney hesitated, but her insistent stare was sharper than a pinch. “You cringe in a particular way when your father is mentioned.”

Gin’s frame stiffened, and she looked the other way. “You haven’t met the viscount, or you’d cringe too.”

Sidney had no reply for this. His relationship with his parents was fraught enough, but they were good people. The edge in Ginevra’s tone held dark implications regarding her own father’s character, and he fell silent, hoping she would relax enough to continue talking. But she only shifted restlessly in his arms.

“Can you put me down?” she asked. “I’ve seen no sign of a tail, and I’d like to clean up my leg before these shoes are ruined.”

They were walking down one of the cobblestone roads that weaved between Swithun’s main buildings. On a side street, shouts and whistles raced in the opposite direction, and a few people emerged to follow. No one paid them any mind, but Sidney pushed farther into the shadows of a stone archway before he eased Gin to the ground. It was better for them both if nobody asked questions.

She removed the soiled pump and twisted around to peer at the wound on her leg. “Not too bad, though I’m glad I don’t have to pencil a stocking line over that.”

“Can I help thee?” Sidney stopped, the twinge of burr in his accent surprising him. He was so used to burying it at Oxford, to smooth away the parts of himself that made him stick out. Usually, his accent reappeared only around his family.

Ginevra, however, didn’t seem to notice. She opened her handbag and withdrew a handkerchief. “Would you dampen this for me in that fountain?”

Sidney jogged farther down the road and submerged the handkerchief in a small fountain carved into the side of another building. It was a much finer piece of fabric than the plain ones he owned and trimmed with delicate tatting. Carefully, he wrung out the handkerchief and returned to Ginevra’s side, but he ignored her outstretched hand. “I’ll do it, if you like. You can barely reach the wound.”

Her eyes were unreadable in the twilight, but she turned away. “One moment.”

It took Sidney a fraction too long to realize she was shimmying down the torn stocking. He feigned a sudden interest in the location of Venus and strained toward the sky until an amused cough signaled that she was finished.

Ginevra tucked the stocking into her handbag, angling the injured leg backward, and Sidney knelt at her side. Gently, he daubed the blood away from her calf. “Does it hurt?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure it will sting like the dickens tomorrow. I think a woman’s shoe heel inflicted it.” She pulled the rumpled silk scarf from around her neck with disgust. “What was that nonsense? I know plenty of people who don’t like the Damocles Club, but I’ve never witnessed anything like that. It was like—like bottled vitriol spewing forth. Why choose Leland’s party to make a statement?”