Page 1 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

Chapter One

OXFORD UNIVERSITY, NOVEMBER 1950—MICHAELMAS TERM, WEEK 4

Ginevra Bishop was a young woman who excelled at sneaking about. In her first month at Oxford, she had used this to her advantage for raiding the buttery at midnight and evading eagle-eyed proctors when she forgot her academic gown. But as Gin entered the Bodleian Library, her satchel of assignments clutched to her side, she knew this afternoon would tax even her considerable skills. She needed to be silent and swift.

She needed to steal a spot to study.

The hush of a thousand books sleeping on their shelves was a sobering kind of quiet, and Gin tried to mute the click of her heels as she proceeded down the entrance hall. She could have studied in her room at St. Mildred’s College, of course, but there was something still too new about her college quarters, like a shoe that had not yet molded to the shape of her foot. She preferred the bland comfort of an unfamiliar background.

Unfortunately for Ginevra, the ambitious fervor of a new academic year still lay upon the Oxford student body, with everyone guarding their tables and carrels more keenly than girls guarded their beauty regimens. After a futile turn through the Bodleian’s myriad rooms, Ginevra stopped at the inquiry desk in despair and leaned across the polished counter.

“Mr. Tolliver,” she stage-whispered, “any idea where a desperate German student might study in peace?”

The elderly gentleman looked up from his ledger. His soft brown eyes and thinning white hair were unremarkable, but he possessed a warm, pleasant disposition that drew students to him with their woes. He had proved a patient ally in Ginevra’s quest for research materials during her first month at Oxford; she especially appreciated that he didn’t tut at her for inattentiveness while navigating the Bod.

Mr. Tolliver peered over the top of his spectacles and nodded at a cluster of jocular young men departing the library. “They were holed up in Duke Humfrey’s all morning. I suggest you move in posthaste.”

Ginevra rapped the counter in jubilation. “You’re an angel, Mr. Tolliver. An angel.”

The librarian waved her away, a hint of a smile betraying his amusement, and Gin dashed to the old wing of the library as fast as her black pumps would carry her, now heedless of the clatter. Breathless, she found a vacated table nestled between the stacks beneath an Elizabethan woman’s portrait and dropped her satchel in triumph.

Her spot thus claimed, Gin pulled out the list of books she wished to consult for the German exercises on which she was embarking. It required yet another sinuous trip throughout the reading rooms, and her stack grew with alarming rapidity as she trotted up and down the stairs. Laden with spoils, Gin carefully descended to the main floor and returned to Duke Humfrey’s Library. The books, however, so hampered her field of vision that she nearly collided with several students and hastened to reach safety. When she spotted the Elizabethan portrait from the corner of her eye, she turned in relief and released the stack upon the table before her arms collapsed.

“Excuse me,” a voice snapped.

The tower of books scooted to the right, leaning precariously, and Gin leaped to save them from toppling over.

A man glared up at her, one arm protecting the notes she had just disturbed. He had a handsome face—wide cheekbones with high apples sloping to a square jaw, ruddy skin with light freckles, and long, pale lashes that matched his tawny hair. But his gray eyes darkened like an oncoming storm at Brighton Beach. “Do you mind?”

“Do you mind?” Gin retorted. “This is my spot.” She leaned over and lifted her satchel from the chair beside his. “These are my things.”

“You can’t claim a table and scarper off,” the man scoffed. “Not when the place is this full. I’ve been here a quarter hour.”

“I was gathering books—” Gin stopped, trying not to grind her teeth, and drew a soft inhale. “Why don’t we share the table? There’s ample space if you’ll shift down.”

“Fine,” he said, shuffling his papers aside, though Gin had seen girls relinquish the last pair of nylon stockings at Harrods with more grace.

As she preferred not to sit near such a dragon, Gin scooted her chair closer to the wall and opened the topmost book of the stack. But the man’s obvious irritation at her presence made it difficult to focus on her note-taking now. She studied him more than the open book before her, his clothes in particular piquing her interest. The dark pin-striped suit seemed brand-new, but the ivory shirt cuff was worn and the narrow necktie nearly ten years out of style. At first glance, he appeared quite smart, but the details betrayed concessions to pocketbook constraints.

Still, that was true of many people. The war had sucked the lifeblood out of England, demanding sizable sacrifices of both youth and pounds sterling, and doubtless this man was a similar casualty. He didn’t seem much older than her own twenty-two years, but there was a careworn quality to the firm set of his lips that said he’d already seen much in life about which he’d rather not talk.

Gin caught herself and dragged her attention back. She was doing exactly what she hated from others: observing, assuming, judging. She knew nothing of this man nor his life, and he was simply trying to study, same as her. She grimaced at her blank notebook and tried to refocus.

At the same time, however, the man’s eye snagged on Gin’s face, and a delicate flush crept up his cheeks. Too late, she realized he must think her displeasure was aimed at him.

“I was scowling at myself, not at you,” she murmured.

The man turned a page. “All right then.”

But the frigid manner with which he reapplied himself to his notes said it was not all right, and Ginevra’s mood soured the longer she observed the stiff set of his shoulders. She pushed back her chair. Perhaps a breath of fresh air would help her regain her equilibrium—even better, perhaps he would have left by the time she returned. Gin rose, ignoring the annoyed glance from her companion, and turned toward the Selden End.

“Good lord, Ginevra Bishop!” boomed a cheery voice.

Ginevra whirled. There, halfway down the aisle, was none other than Professor Michael Leland.

She’d known he taught at Oxford, of course—the man couldn’t last one of her stepmother’s dinner parties without mentioning Swithun College a handful of times—but had thus far managed to evade her father’s tiresome friend. Leland was the sort of person more occupied with his next statement than his companion’s reply, yet he had built a name for himself inside academia for his pith and flair. “The Jewel of Oxford,” Gin had once seen him called in a particularly fawning column in The Times. Less gracious dons grumbled that Leland’s fame was more due to his looks than his substance, for a thick head of dark hair and a dimpled chin set him apart from the usual assortment of crusty, dowdy Classics tutors.

He was accompanied now by a group of bright-eyed students on what appeared to be a tour of the Bod, but he peeled away from them and strode toward Ginevra, his black gown rippling behind him. He grabbed her hand before she could even offer it, his gold molar winking at her as he beamed.