Page 22 of A Lady’s Guide to Subterfuge and Science

“Fine,” she said, pulling his focus to her person once more. “I’ll join you.”

He smiled at her, and the rosiness in her cheeks deepened. “Wonderful.”

Dunn cocked his head as Oliver rejoined him at the bench. “What was that about?”

“We’re going to The Blue Duck,” Oliver said, taking a seat.

“We are?”

“We are now.” Oliver pulled his microscope toward him. “Hand me that slide, will you?”

Two hours later, Comerford released them from 107. Oliver herded the men together in the entryway of the university before leading them two streets down to the pub. Talbot, young, bright-eyed, and energetic, vibrated with the excitement of having been invited out with the lads. He deserved it, Oliver thought, after Jennings’s snide comments.

Oliver threw open the door to The Blue Duck with a dramatic flourish. “After you, gentlemen.”

Rafiq was the last to enter, and Oliver followed close on her heels. He watched as she took stock of their surroundings, her curiosity evident. The walls of the establishment were constructed of dark mahogany panels inlaid with a mesmerizing, dizzying array of tiles and cut glass. The room was milling with patrons, and a cloud of smoke hovered perpetually over the heads of those partaking in the Duck’s offerings. Truly, it wasn’t the most respectable of places, and fights had been known to break out every so often, but Oliver enjoyed the glamorous seediness of it. Rafiq did not appear scandalized in the slightest. Instead, she seemed to absorb the room with terrifying swiftness before turning to him.

“Do you come here often?” she inquired. Her nose wrinkled, as if she regretted allowing herself the question.

Oliver gave her a wicked smile and tapped his poorly mended nose. “Where do you think this happened?”

Rather than appear shocked or sympathetic, she asked, “Did you deserve it?”

Oliver laughed, pleased that his Lady Impostor never missed a beat. He lowered his voice as Talbot excitedly led them to the billiards room. “What’s important is that someone got to it before Jennings did.”

He could have sworn that she bit back a laugh at that. She shook her head in mock reproval. “Such professionalism in the Society.”

“Best of three, Rafiq?” Dunn proposed, gesturing to a billiards table. Oliver felt a twinge of annoyance at the interruption, but stepped back all the same. This had to be part of what she was here for, no? Not just the opportunity to champion her theories, but for a taste of freedom.

Or so he’d convinced himself. He watched carefully, expecting her to blunder. She studied Dunn with sharp, focused consideration before mimicking his movements to close perfection. Oliver’s brow wrinkled in bewilderment. How did she do that? And would she have had him fooled along with the others if he hadn’t seen her in all her feminine finery before the lectures had started? He liked to think himself a little more observant than that, but it was becoming clear to him that Rafiq was nothing if not a highly accomplished mockingbird.

Leaving her to it, Oliver went to the bar, wondering what new-to-her drink he could offer to Rafiq. Jennings accosted him as he reached the smooth mahogany counter, and Oliver cursed underneath his breath.

“What are you doing?” Jennings demanded, beady eyes glinting in the low light.

“Buying a drink,” Oliver said. “Was that not obvious to you, master microscopist that you are?”

“I mean with Rafiq.”

Oliver bit back an annoyed sigh. Andrew Jennings was endlessly suspicious of everything and everyone. His father had paid a pretty sum for him to be a permanent member of the Society, and Oliver missed the days when it had been only himself and Dunn under Comerford. Jennings was obsessed with gaining notoriety as a scientist and was beyond desperate to publish. It wasn’t that he cared about science, exactly, but rather that he was dying for the public to regard him as something of a genius.

A genius who couldn’t even get half a paper by Comerford without having it torn apart. An oxymoron if Oliver had ever encountered one.

“I can’t imagine what you mean,” Oliver said, feigning innocence. Jennings was the last person he would betray Rafiq’s secret to. The two men struggled to get along more often than not, their personalities constantly clashing. Jennings despised Comerford’s fondness for Oliver and the fact that Oliver had managed to get a paper or two in the quarterly journal.

Oliver, meanwhile, hated Jennings for being a slimy, self-serving rat.

“You’re forever whispering to one another,” Jennings said. “Are you looking to be second author on his paper?”

That, Oliver had to laugh at. “Second author? On Rafiq’s paper? Don’t be ridiculous.”

I hardly understand what she’s on about on the best of days.

“No? It would elicit quite a reaction if it ever made it into the journal.”

“Indeed.” Oliver brushed by Jennings and alerted the barkeeper to his presence. “And all accolades would be Rafiq’s.”

“What accolades?” a voice questioned.