Page 18 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

Sidney looked down at the hand clutching him rather than meet her eyes. He recognized the pencil calluses, the ink stains, the tiny paper cuts from constant riffling through books. There were hours of study engraved in that hand, and her initial interest in taking the job was probably not from boredom at Oxford. Begrudgingly, he could admit he’d misjudged her on that point.

But it was the simmering pain in her confession, the brutal honesty about her father, that would not stop roiling through Sidney’s mind. He could not have shared all that with equal composure, and admiration for her resilience forced him to face the truth: He and Ginevra Bishop were very different sorts of people, but both were broken, brittle creatures with shadows dusting their heels. She needed his help, and walking away from someone with a real need was impossible for him.

A maelstrom of defensive emotions swirled, but Sidney shunted them to the back of his mind. He knew he was more than capable of tracking down the informant, and the money would be useful, much as he was loath to admit it. A break from squeezing in odd jobs, from long nights studying to compensate. This assignment simply added another layer to his regular routine, and it couldn’t go as badly as France. He could make sure Bishop didn’t do anything else stupid, didn’t end up like Amélie—

Sidney exhaled, cutting off the thought before her face could materialize. No, if he took this job, there would be absolutely no lingering in the past nor repeating old mistakes. He would become the Rook’s ideal agent, compartmentalized and cold, and keep his contact with Ginevra Bishop professional and brief—which was best, as he didn’t have the time nor capacity to train her properly. Despite the Rook’s appreciation of her charm, Sidney still thought her dynamic personality would be hard to restrain when needed. Hopefully, she would be content with simple surveillance, and he could focus on completing the job while keeping the storms at bay.

Sidney removed Bishop’s hand from his arm and rose before she could glimpse the turbulence within him. “All right then. We’ll do it.”

Bishop tilted her head to a wary angle as though she’d anticipated a longer fight. “Are you sure? I promise, I’ll do my part—”

“Yes.” Sidney reclaimed his jacket and hat from the neat pile he’d made on the ground. “We’ll call the Rook tomorrow morning. Telephone box on Pembroke Street by St. Aldate’s, nine o’clock.”

Her eyes lit with an anticipation Sidney hadn’t felt for anything in a long time, and his old wound twinged again. There was a good chance they would both regret this, and he only hoped he could avert a complete disaster. With a clipped goodbye, he exited the greenhouse before she could drown him in more questions. For that, he certainly needed a solid night’s sleep first.

But the bedrock of his world had shifted, tilting him toward parts unknown.

Chapter Seven

The Rook’s delight was palpable when they called to convey the contents of Mr. Tolliver’s notebook along with their intention to proceed.

“I appreciate your diligence in persuading Mr. Braithwaite to our cause, Miss Bishop,” he said. “From what Tolliver had uncovered, his Classics connections will be very useful. I don’t know how that detail slipped my mind.”

This earned an eye roll from Braithwaite, who held the receiver between them.

“And exceptionally good work, Miss Bishop, locating the final list of suspects.” There was a slight pause. “Am I right in presuming it’s best if I don’t know how you procured it?”

“Yes,” Braithwaite said. “We’ll be avoiding the bookshop for a little while.”

“I pulled it off splendidly!” Gin interjected, but Braithwaite batted her away and jotted down the Rook’s parting instructions. He hung up the receiver, and they exited into the quiet street.

Braithwaite turned to face her, hands slung low in his pockets. “I suppose we ought to work out a better plan than we had for Olenev’s.”

“Yes,” Ginevra said brightly. “I actually did a bit of reconnaissance last night.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Braithwaite mumbled under his breath.

Ginevra ignored this, turning to stroll down the lane as she numbered her discoveries. “Marion Kirk is on the paper with Tweety, and Dr. Neville is part of the university chess club. Those are two angles I could certainly work if you can handle Dr. Watkins and Mr. Hughes. No, don’t start,” she added when Braithwaite’s face clouded with objections. “We’re still working together, but we’ll cover more ground if we divide and conquer. I don’t need a nanny.”

He stared at her, brows drawn in a taut line as though weighing unseen scales, and then rubbed a hand over his face. “Fine. But keep me informed of your actions, and we’ll meet to debrief.”

“Once a week,” Gin countered.

“When I say we do,” Braithwaite shot back.

Unflinching gray eyes said there would be no wriggling on this point, so Ginevra shrugged and ceded the battle. “And shall we communicate via carrier pigeon?”

“Leave a message tucked under the bench outside St. Mildred’s, and put a rock on the seat so I know to check. I’ll pass by morning and evening and leave a reply if needed.”

“Seems terribly inefficient.”

“I’d rather the scouts not question why a girl keeps wanting messages slid under my door.”

“No sweethearts creeping about then?” Gin arched an eyebrow. “We could pretend to be lovers.”

“No,” Braithwaite said sharply.

Ginevra smothered a smile and refrained from further teasing. He was far too easy to needle. “So, Watkins and Hughes for you?”