Page 63 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

“Yes, well, he’s decided your strong will would be good for me.” Donald’s lips curled with an ugly sneer. “So yes, Ginevra, here we are. Can’t you make this simple for everyone and accept?”

That he should ask again, after admitting he intended to sell the very bait intended to lure her into this trap, was audacious and infuriating. The whole arrangement had been odious after her father’s confession on the telephone, but the peeled back layers of each man’s greed now made Ginevra’s blood boil. The duke saw her as manacles to keep Donald on the straight and narrow, Donald saw her as pounds sterling to fund his prolificacy, and her father saw her as chattel to exchange for his pride. Not one of them cared for her choice or happiness in the question of marriage. She was merely a pawn to further their respective endgames.

“You’re a fool to think I would accept,” Ginevra said. “You might be free, but I would be chained to a snake—no, you are lower than a snake. You are a worm. I would crush you under my heel if I could and hope you’d feel agony the rest of your days.” She jabbed a finger into Donald’s chest, and he jerked backward. “I once thought we were friends of a sort, but I see now how mistaken I was. I’m only too glad your true colors were revealed before I could do anything stupid.”

“Ginevra,” Donald began, his tone annoyed as though placating an unreasonable child.

He grabbed for her hand, but Gin whirled on her heel and reentered the house, banging the door shut in his face. But a part of her remained on the balcony still, a sliver of her soul crushed by the weight of so much betrayal. It would be hard to face her father again knowing the full depth of what he had agreed to, and she hoped the duke would not return to Foxley Hall that night before she could escape. She needed time to analyze her feelings and prepare for her own counterattack with a solicitor—one who would hopefully destroy an easy transfer of ownership for Chiseldon Park.

Only Gin had forgotten about the party in those few moments on the balcony, and the cloud of smoke and men’s laughter disoriented her. She turned to the bar cart, desperate for something cold, but her trembling hands hesitated on the soda water. The Rook had said consuming anything was foolish, and the risk was not worth her momentary relief. Reluctantly, Gin clutched her hands behind her back and feigned some debutante poise while she regulated her breathing in the stuffy room. Marion Kirk needed to show her hand soon so this dreadful night could end.

The card games had paused, and the men now clustered around the study with drinks and cigarettes. Hughes and Leland stood by the hearth chatting with Oliver Whitby, and the American glanced her way with cautious curiosity. Gin had little desire to engage Iris’s editor or Professor Leland, but she remembered Lewis Hughes’s request to speak with her privately. That warranted her immediate attention, and she eased into the circle beside the American.

“I’m sorry for putting you off earlier. What did you wish to say?”

Hughes shifted away from Leland and Whitby. “Perhaps somewhere more private?”

“Bishop!” Whitby cried, his cheeks pink from champagne. “I wanted to tell you—your piece was sensational! Sen-sa-tion-al!” He trilled the word with a small hiccup at the end.

“A sensational piece on what?” Leland asked.

Whitby grabbed his shoulder. “Stockings, Professor! Miss Bishop told me she wanted to write about women’s ongoing struggles to purchase nylons since the war, and instead she wrote me a piece on why nylons should be abandoned altogether.”

Leland raised his glass to Gin. “How very scandalous.”

“It does seem rather absurd that society dictates we wear an article of clothing that is flimsy, uncomfortable, and above all, transparent,” Gin said flatly. “That one should have to closely inspect a woman’s legs to determine if they are even worn or not seems unbearably rude.”

“A job I would gladly sign up for,” Whitby leered.

“A job for which you are perhaps more qualified than running a paper,” Gin retorted.

Whitby’s face reddened at this, but Gin was spared further argument by the untimely reappearance of Donald. He loomed on the other side of Hughes, hands stuffed in his pockets with the air of an offended giraffe. Mercifully, he seemed as keen to ignore Gin as she was to ignore him. “Professor,” he said to Leland. “Can we finally discuss the corrections in your book for the second printing?”

Leland clapped his shoulder. “For heaven’s sake, it’s a party, Donald. Leave your notes on my desk, and someone will look at it.”

“I did,” Donald said stiffly, “and I found them in your bin the next day.”

“An oversight,” Leland laughed. “I will speak to housekeeping.”

“Let me through!” a voice rose above the frivolity, and the crowd surrounding the door parted. Dr. Watkins hastened into the room, tendrils of charcoal curls springing in all directions. “Leland, you’re needed downstairs. Marion Kirk has appeared.”

At Marion’s name, Gin’s pulse ticked faster in alarm. “Should we ring the police?”

“It’s under control at the moment,” Watkins said. “I should hate to ruin the party if we can get her to leave quietly.” She prodded Leland. “It would be good for you to come now.”

“Good Lord,” Leland grumbled. He patted his coat pocket. “Never fear—I came prepared this time. No more public appearances for me without added protection.”

Watkins harrumphed. “I doubt a weapon would do you much good in such a state. Now, come.” She shuttled Leland from the room amid his protestations she was wrinkling his suit.

“Marion bloody Kirk,” Whitby growled. “That woman nearly destroyed my paper.”

Donald stared at the door through which the dons had exited with a dull glower while Gin debated how quickly she might slip after them without anyone stopping her.

“I’m mighty curious, Lord Donald,” Hughes said. “What sort of errors did you find in Professor Leland’s book?”

Donald tore his eyes from the door, somewhat mollified. “Mostly little details in the Vosburg section, which is why he asked me to read the manuscript in the first place. He relied on me to keep him organized while we were imprisoned there, and he clearly still needs me.”

Gin startled. She stared up at him, convinced she had misheard. “You were in Vosburg? Surely not.”