Page 2 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

“Here you are! The viscount mentioned you were coming up, but I was disappointed to hear you’re not reading Greats. Modern Literature, is it?”

“Modern Languages,” Gin said. “German.” She retreated a step toward her things, wondering how quickly she might make her excuses and flee, and caught the stranger staring at her with a mixture of surprise and distaste. Gin narrowed her eyes in return.

“Ah, like your mother,” Leland said. “You look more like her every year, my dear.”

Ginevra had indeed inherited her mother’s green, dark-speckled eyes, and it was a compliment that under normal circumstances would have filled her with bittersweet pride. But now, keenly aware of all the stares their tête-à-tête was garnering, she wished a chasm would split the library and swallow her whole, damn the loss of centuries’ knowledge.

There was, however, no such respite from her humiliation. Leland noticed the man at her table and, to Gin’s horror, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Sidney! Do you know Ginevra?”

A muscle twitched in the man’s jaw. “No, sir. We’re companions of chance today.”

“Fortuitous indeed—Ginevra’s quite brilliant. You should apply to her for assistance, should you need it. Mr. Braithwaite here has just returned to Oxford after a year away,” Leland said to Ginevra. “I’m sure the lad is a bit rusty yet. Not much need for the Classical languages in Cumberland, is there, my boy?”

There was a defensive flicker in Sidney Braithwaite’s eyes before they cut toward Ginevra. “Is German much help with Latin and Greek?”

“No,” Gin said, “but six years studying the ancient tongues made me quite proficient. I’m sure, however, you won’t need my assistance under Professor Leland’s excellent tutelage.”

Braithwaite’s jaw tightened. Something warred in his eyes, but Ginevra did not want begrudging apologies from stiff-necked men. Genuine rudeness was much better than false politeness.

She glanced at her wristwatch. “I’m sorry, Professor, but I must be off. Lovely to see you again.”

“You too, Ginevra. It’s been far too long. You and your father must come visit—did you know I’ve bought a property near the Park? Just a cottage, of course. Merely somewhere to escape during the holidays. But won’t it be marvelous to be neighbors?” Leland waggled his fingers in farewell. “Do tell your father.”

Gin dipped her chin in a demure nod, swept past Braithwaite, and collected her things. She had no intention of mentioning the news to her father, nor speaking to him at all unless he called to grouse about her allowance again. She was going back to her rooms to brew a pot of tea, listen to music, and try to forget about this entire conversation until it was time for dinner.

On the way out, Gin returned the unread books to Mr. Tolliver. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “I shouldn’t have taken so many. Today proved a disaster, and my concentration was ruined.”

“No trouble at all, Miss Bishop. I should like a distraction from cataloging damaged books.” The librarian peered at her over his spectacles. “Is there anything else with which I can assist you?”

Gin’s tumultuous emotions were too much to divulge at the inquiry desk on a Monday afternoon, and she forced a smile. “No. I think German might be the bane of my existence. I studied Latin for ages and thought it would be nice to broaden my horizons beyond Romance languages.” She pinched her browbone. “Never again. Narrower horizons in future, I think.”

Mr. Tolliver smiled. “I have always found German exceedingly tedious, Miss Bishop, but I have great faith in your linguistic capabilities. Dr. Radcliffe has requested I order a new dictionary of modern German which might be of use…”

The librarian trailed off, frowning at the books Ginevra had returned. Absently, he picked them up and turned away as though he’d already forgotten their conversation.

“Thank you,” Ginevra called after him. “I should like to see the dictionary when it arrives.”

Mr. Tolliver startled, whirling back toward her. His face was ashen, his expression distant and wild-eyed.

“Mr. Tolliver, are you quite well?” Gin peered into the man’s eyes, trying to remember how one helped someone having a heart attack. “Can I fetch you something?”

The librarian blinked at her. He set down the books and patted at his vest until he withdrew a very small black notebook. “Please forgive me, Miss Bishop. Something from luncheon must have disagreed with me.” He picked up the pen from his ledger, his brow furrowing at the notebook, but then bestowed a professional, if distant, smile. “I’ll put your name at the top of the list for the dictionary. Good day, Miss Bishop.”

The trek from the Bod to St. Mildred’s grounds was a brisk twenty-minute walk, but the day’s sunshine proved false. A swiftly moving shower pelted Gin’s back as she ran down the path to her hall of residence, shielding her head with her bag. At her approach, a diminutive young woman with bottle-blond curls threw open the front door.

“I told you it was going to rain,” she chided as Gin clattered inside. “You and Rita never listen to me, but I’m part psychic.”

Gin shook the raindrops from her hair. “Part psychic?” she echoed, amused. “Which part, darling?”

“The part that makes sure to crow loudly when it’s right about something.” Iris Finchley smirked and crossed her arms over her yellow cardigan. “I’m making a cuppa. Can I bring it to your room? It’s so much cozier than mine.”

“Perhaps you are psychic,” Gin said, “for tea was next on my agenda.”

Iris made a small salute and ducked away to the buttery, and Gin climbed the southwest staircase to her room on the second floor. She toed off her damp pumps behind the door and dropped her satchel on the large green wingback by the window. It was one of the few furniture concessions she’d allowed her stepmother, who had burdened Gin with more decor than one young woman could manage. Many things had migrated to other St. Mildred’s girls on the sly, and Gin prayed Sylvia never questioned their disappearance.

What remained were Gin’s favorite items from home, including a narrow four-poster with an arched canopy, a record player cabinet, a small Turkish rug woven in peacock blue and crimson, and a tapestry of Lady Godiva that her grandmother had once tried to remove from Chiseldon Park for indecency. It was a bright, colorful nest of things that made Gin happy—the kind of happy she hadn’t felt in a long time before coming to Oxford.

There was a rap at the door, and Gin picked up two mugs from the windowsill as Iris sailed into the room bearing a Blue Willow teapot and a bottle of milk.