Page 8 of A Lady’s Guide to Subterfuge and Science

“Indeed,” Kalila agreed dryly. She turned her head back to Amelia. “How could this turn out to be wildly romantic?”

“You’ll be surrounded by intelligent, well-read gentlemen,” Amelia said dreamily, dangling one leg off the edge of the chaise. It was clear that she’d abandoned her previous attempt at being the voice of reason. “And you’ll have the most intimate conversations—they’ll think you one of their own, you see—and, at the most inconvenient time, you will be revealed to one of them and he’ll fall immediately in love with you, fascinating creature that you are.”

“The point is to not be revealed,” Caroline muttered, almost poking Kalila in the ribcage with a pin.

“Exactly,” Kalila said. “Still, it has the makings of a fine novel, Amelia. You should write it down.”

Because it certainly won’t be happening to the likes of me, she thought. Kalila was in London for scientific purposes. And besides, her last romance had ended in a poor and rather eye-opening fashion. She was in no hurry to relive any part of it.

“I should, shouldn’t I?” Amelia chirped, though everyone in the room knew full well she wouldn’t. “We really must find you a wig, Kalila.”

A maid stuck her head around the half-open door, her mouth dropping open at the sight of Kalila on the crate. She quickly rearranged her face into the picture of perfect composure. “A Mr. Dameer Rafiq has come to call, miss,” she said, and Kalila couldn’t tell if the quiver in her voice was due to shock or held back laughter.

“Do let him in,” Caroline said, actually poking Kalila in the side this time.

“Careful!” Kalila squeaked. Once the threat of the sharp end of Caroline’s needle had been thwarted, she paused to think on Amelia’s suggestion. “I didn’t think about a wig.”

“I can pop down to the wigmaker’s,” Amelia offered. “I’m sure he has no shortage of curly blond wigs.”

“What’s this about wigs?” Dameer asked, strolling into the room. The women froze, and Dameer’s eyes darted between Kalila, who was being fitted into a linen shirt, Caroline, who had a mouth full of pins, and Amelia, who had at least one of her ankles bared for all the world to see.

“Hello, Dameer,” Caroline said, a pin falling out of her mouth.

“Oh, no,” Dameer said. “No.”

“Oh, yes,” was Caroline’s calm reply. “Now be a dear and come hold this pincushion for me.”

Chapter Four

Oliver stood in a well-lit room at Rosewood, intently focused on scratching a diamond-tipped stylus against a glass slide. His spectacles—the bane of his existence—threatened to slip off his nose as he leaned forward.

Polypodium Phegopteris. O. Booth, 184—

Just as he made to engrave the last “4”, the thunderous sound of a slamming door rumbled through the house. The stylus tripped across the glass, ruining the etching. Oliver sighed, removed his spectacles, and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Hughes knew better than to go around slamming doors, which could only mean one thing.

“Oliver!”

Oliver froze and began to wonder if he might escape from the window. The sound of the door scraping open caused him to flinch, relief quickly taking over when he realized it was only Hughes.

“I am sorry to interrupt you, sir,” Rosewood’s elderly butler said, “but you are being summoned.”

“Is that what that racket was?” Oliver asked, forcing a wry grin onto his face.

Hughes sighed, his expression soft and sympathetic. “Your father has returned from Kent.” He paused before continuing. “Shall I make excuses for you?”

Good old Hughes, Oliver thought. He knew the butler—his constant companion these thirty-three years—was looking to make his life easier, but it was all rather pointless. Rosewood wasn’t big enough to hide in, which meant Oliver would have to brave his father sooner or later.

“That’s all right,” Oliver said, the words colored with false cheer. “I have somewhere to be, anyway. And besides, I’ve had more than enough practice dealing with him.”

“And, might I say, are very adept at it,” Hughes said as they left the room and walked down the stairs. Together, they found the source of the noise that had ruined Oliver’s careful etching: William Booth, who stood by the front entrance to Rosewood, his cheeks ruddy from drink. Hughes moved to stand next to him, waiting to receive his coat.

“Hello, Father,” Oliver said coolly. “I’m surprised to see you back so soon.”

He wasn’t, of course, but this was the song and dance he put on every time his father reappeared.

“That,” his father hiccupped, “is the last time I visit your infernal mother, Oliver. Do you hear me? The last time.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Oliver said, knowing full well it would not be the last time.