Page 9 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

Braithwaite pulled a crumpled slip of paper from his jacket pocket and tossed it to her. “See for yourself.”

Smoothing it, Gin read: Duke Humfrey’s Library, eleven o’clock, fourth table on the right.

“I thought it was Harold being Harold. I help him sometimes.” Braithwaite hesitated, then drew in his legs and pushed back the chair. “It was probably a practical joke. Sorry to bother you.”

But before he could stand, a man in a dark suit appeared at the end of the row. “I see you got my message. Very good.”

Braithwaite’s mouth fell ajar. There was a ripple of strong emotion in his eyes, an unease that reminded Gin of the Chiseldon Park hounds when they feared her father’s mercurial moods.

Only, Gin couldn’t imagine what about the person before them would inspire such a feeling. He was a slight man, barely taller than her, with a sallow complexion and thinning hair that spoke of an insalubrious Victorian childhood. But the jaunty angle of his black fedora lent an air of quiet sophistication to a man whom she would have otherwise never noticed.

Gin slid the last book into her satchel and inclined her head at them both. “I shall resign the field today, Braithwaite. Good day.”

But the man’s fingertips brushed the table beside her. “If you’d please stay, Miss Bishop, this meeting pertains to you as well.”

She stilled, bristling in surprise at her name on a stranger’s lips. “I’m sorry, have we met? I’m usually quite good with faces.”

“Not formally,” the man conceded, “but we have mutual friends.”

Braithwaite’s wariness had hardened to resignation, but this still left Ginevra puzzled. “If this meeting pertains to me as well, why didn’t I also receive a summons?”

“Because I knew you would be here, of course.” The man glanced up and down the empty aisle. “You chose a very quiet hour for your studies.”

“No one’s ever here at this time—” Gin cut off her explanation. There was something about the man that made her want to divulge every thought currently swirling through her mind. He had the measured confidence of someone who knew how to handle any problem.

When he gestured for her to reclaim her seat, Gin promptly sat.

“Thank you, Miss Bishop.” The man crossed behind Braithwaite and claimed the chair nearest the wall, removing his hat and leaning a gold-headed cane against his knee. He clasped his hands upon the table and faced them both with the air of someone asking a great favor. “I’m here on behalf of His Majesty’s government. There is a matter on which we require some assistance.”

A civil servant then—that made more sense than the other categories of men among Ginevra’s acquaintance. He was far too businesslike for the aristocracy and far too well-dressed to be a don. But government men were a peculiar breed that combined subtle, stealthy ambition with rigorous work ethic; they were far more modest than a businessman who might flaunt his success. “Are you from the Home Office?”

The man shrugged. “Something like that.”

“He works in intelligence,” Braithwaite muttered.

“Counterintelligence now,” the man corrected. “The Home Office requested my talents elsewhere, and I switched departments. You may call me the Rook,” he said to Ginevra.

“You two know each other.” It was easy to see now, especially given the distrust in Braithwaite’s eyes.

The Rook smiled. “Mr. Braithwaite was an asset during the war. I hoped he could be prevailed upon to assist this time, along with you. I have a few questions.”

Gin caught herself leaning forward, so intent had she become upon this curious man, and corrected her posture. Her father regularly dined with peers and MPs, but the intelligence agencies were a mystery to her—as perhaps they preferred. But between the Rook’s aura of mystique and Braithwaite’s skittish reaction, Gin’s curiosity was so piqued by the nature of their work that she would gladly offer all sorts of information for a glimpse behind the curtain. “Of course, however I can help.”

Braithwaite crossed his arms and shifted lower in the seat. “Be careful what you say around this one.”

At this, the Rook’s clasped hands tightened upon the desk, a tiny crack in his placid demeanor. “I was told you two found Mr. Tolliver, and I have some questions about his death—or rather, his murder.”

Chapter Four

When Ginevra Bishop stormed up with mutiny in her eyes, Sidney thought someone had played a practical joke. He did not usually answer a summons from persons unknown but well knew Harold’s haphazard manner, as did the Swithun lads who loved a good laugh. It was only when the Rook materialized that the full gravitas of Sidney’s miscalculation dropped upon him: This wasn’t a joke. He had let down his guard and walked straight into one of his nightmares.

Goose bumps prickled Sidney’s flesh. He interlaced his fingers over his abdomen and focused on breathing steadily, ignoring the tide of memories beginning to rise in the back of his mind. He hadn’t seen the Rook in six years, and it hadn’t been a cordial parting.

“Murdered?” Bishop recoiled, a hand flying to her red lips in shock. Her eyes darted toward the aisle as though to assure herself the exclamation had been unheard. “But it was a heart attack,” she continued in a whisper. “We were there.”

The Rook tutted. “Even a heart attack may be induced, Miss Bishop.”

“With poison, you mean,” she murmured. “How horrible.”