Page 13 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

“Fits the description the Rook gave me. I’ve been sitting here all morning, and he comes out every hour, on the hour, to stand there for a minute before going back inside. Like a cuckoo clock.”

Which is how Braithwaite had known Gin ought to be out of sight. “Thank you,” she said begrudgingly, “for losing your bet.”

Braithwaite’s gray eyes flicked toward her and then back to Olenev. “And there he goes, back inside. The Rook said he operates the place alone.”

Gin turned toward the window to better view the bookshop from her reversed position, but the pale reflection of Braithwaite’s face in the glass was much more interesting than the quiet storefront. The sharp planes of his face were a trifle softer than their first meeting, the shadows under his eyes less dark. He did not possess the polished charm of the Damocles set, nor did he carry himself like one of the boys whose fathers owned half of England. Braithwaite had been crafted from sterner stuff, as though Cumberland had lent God a craggy cliff from which to sculpt the man’s body and soul.

But there were more important matters at hand than decoding enigmatic men’s expressions. Gin tapped her nails against the table, annoyed she’d drifted from their task. “Are we sitting here all morning? Is that your plan?”

An elderly woman in dark tweed and a black pillbox hat emerged from the bookshop with a yapping dog on a lead. She crept down the pavement at a glacial pace, her feeble attempts to restrain the minuscule beast absurdly comical. Braithwaite picked up a pencil, jotted down something on the notepad before him, then sank back again.

“This is the job,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s not glamorous.”

“I wasn’t expecting glamour,” Gin said testily, “but I did expect more actual doing of something.”

Braithwaite’s reflection rippled toward her, and Gin braced for a lecture: She had asked to do this, he had the experience, et cetera, et cetera. Only she startled for the second time that hour when he said, “Fine. Let’s go, then.”

He was off his chair and out the door before Gin could grab her handbag, and she hurried to catch her partner and match his long stride. “Doesn’t the café offer the best view though?”

Braithwaite shoved his hands into his pockets and veered to cross the street. “From this side, but we could see what’s in back too.” His eyes cut down at her. “Is that doing enough for you?”

She ignored the sarcasm with a dignified sniff and increased her pace.

They passed through a narrow alley and entered a long car park that ran behind the row of squat buildings. Ginevra had not thought to count how many storefronts she’d progressed from Olenev’s shop, but Braithwaite led them directly to a back entrance marked with a brass placard: Books & Stationery. The small window beside the door was covered with a brown-and-mustard-striped curtain.

“Fewer places to conceal ourselves back here,” Gin observed. “But at least he isn’t likely to catch sight of us watching him.”

“Which also makes it more likely for a contact to make a drop.”

“You think so?” Gin wrinkled her brow. “If I were a secret agent masquerading as an innocent shopper, I would use the front door. Then no one could question why I was skulking round the back.”

Braithwaite gave her a considering look. “Perhaps we split up for the rest of the day, then. Do you want the front or back?”

There was nowhere to hide or loiter comfortably in the car park without raising suspicion. “Front,” Gin said. “Are you going to squeeze inside a rubbish bin?”

Braithwaite rolled his eyes and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his trouser pocket. “I’ll manage.”

“And how long can one pretend to smoke before that becomes suspicious…” But Gin trailed off, frowning at the bookstore. From the front, the building to the right of the shop had appeared vacant. On the back, however, a pair of empty milk bottles stood beside the door, and the window wore the same dreadful mustard-and-brown curtain as Olenev’s.

Gin nudged Braithwaite’s arm. “I don’t think that building next door is empty. It’s boarded up in the front but the back isn’t.”

His gray eyes took in the details at a glance, and a little furrow appeared between his brows. “Yeah.”

“What if it’s Olenev’s apartment? Shouldn’t we investigate?”

“It’s not what we were asked to do,” Braithwaite began in a soft grumble.

Gin crossed the car park before he could definitively object, ignoring the mumbled curses in her wake. Surely the Rook would have mentioned such a lead if Tolliver had already uncovered it. Braithwaite was not going to hum and haw his way out of discovering something useful.

The door was locked, of course, but to Gin’s delight, the window’s latch was broken. Gingerly, she swung out the twin panes and peered over the high windowsill on tiptoe. Beyond the ugly curtain lay a sparsely furnished room.

“Someone certainly lives here.” Gin bounced on her toes, angling for a better look. “There’s bread and water on the table.”

Braithwaite peered over her shoulder. “Good deduction. We’ll tell the Rook.”

“Nonsense,” Gin protested. “Boost me up.”

He stared down at her blankly. “It’s an unnecessary risk.”