Page 21 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

A meeting—that’s what she’d told Whitby. But who scheduled meetings on street corners under cover of darkness? Only a person with something to hide, Gin thought with grim delight. She walked back down the road, threading through the people bustling home for supper, and sat on a bench across the street from the chemist. Gin leaned over to fiddle with her shoes, pretending to search for a pebble in the heel.

“You can’t hide forever—” Kirk’s angry voice wafted through a lull in the traffic. She leaned against the storefront, her shoulders outlined in the streetlamp’s glow, and beyond her, a smudge of shadow shifted. But it was impossible to identify anything useful about her companion, and the steady putter of cars absorbed their conversation.

Too late did Ginevra notice Braithwaite approaching her bench, his fedora tipped low on his brow.

He sank down beside her and leaned back, hands deep in his pockets. “Going into the lion’s den for your first outing wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” he said without greeting.

“Not here. Marion Kirk is right over there.”

She nodded across the street, and Braithwaite tensed. Without preamble, he rose, tugging her up with him, and steered them behind a nearby telephone box. He peered through the walls of grimy glass. “What’s she doing?”

“Meeting with persons unknown. She left the Blue’s office right behind me and went straight there.”

He glanced down at her. “And how did you fare in the lion’s den?”

“A little curious sniffing, but no one ate me.” Ginevra hurried on, quite sure her partner would say bumbling into an opinion piece was hardly discreet. “But now I’m desperate to know who’s over there with Marion Kirk. Seems awfully cagey, the way they’re hanging in the shadows.”

Braithwaite looked back across the street and stiffened, swearing under his breath. “She’s gone.”

“What!” Gin whirled beyond the booth, hoping the clouded glass had merely obscured her, but neither Kirk nor the shadowy figure remained beneath the awning. “Where the devil did she go?”

The smart clip of heels on pavement was the only warning before Marion Kirk swooped upon her like a great bat of the night.

“Were you following me?” Kirk demanded. “Did Whitby send you to spy on me?”

Gin recoiled as the other girl advanced, looming nearly a head taller. “Heavens, no. Why on earth would he do that?”

Kirk’s angular face lengthened with a sneer. “Journalism is a cutthroat business, Miss Bishop, and our esteemed editor will try to use you however he can. Insipid opinion pieces are the tip of the iceberg.” She needled a finger into Gin’s shoulder, prodding her back a step. “Don’t try to steal others’ confidential sources, no matter what Whitby might ask. I’ve spent years working on some of my stories, and it’s bad form.”

“I wasn’t,” Gin gasped, retreating. “I promise—”

She backed into Braithwaite’s chest, and his hands slipped under her elbows, warm and firm and steadying.

“Ready for dinner?” he asked, his tone light and conversational. Ginevra was not aware he possessed such an easy manner, and the other woman’s fiery attack was only half responsible for Gin’s hasty nod of shock.

Kirk’s glittering eyes shifted to Braithwaite and narrowed with faint recognition. Her lips pursed in annoyance, and she withdrew. “My apologies,” she said stiffly. “Enjoy your evening.”

Braithwaite raised an eyebrow at her with cool nonchalance, and he steered Ginevra down the pavement with a firm hand between her shoulder blades.

“I knew you weren’t cut out for this,” he muttered. “No, don’t glare at me now. I’m sure she’s watching us.”

“I was doing just fine before you showed up.”

“You sat on a bench right across from your mark. How long did you think that would work?” He exhaled a low rumble of irritation. “You’re welcome for getting you out of that interrogation.”

“You didn’t give me a chance to try.”

Braithwaite scowled as though about to retort, and Gin walked a little faster to dodge it.

They turned right at the next street corner, and he dropped his hand from her back, shoving it straight into his pocket. Gin was relieved Kirk’s gaze no longer burned on her neck, but the absence of that faint pressure against her spine made her feel like an untethered kite. She was keenly aware of the imbalance in their experience on this assignment, and she didn’t want Braithwaite to nanny her. But she would have liked a real partner, even one whose gray glower made her feel trapped in the undertow of a rushing stream’s current.

“This is my turn,” Braithwaite said, peeling away at the next street. “Let me know when you’ve made contact with Neville.”

“Of course.” Gin gave a clipped farewell and continued briskly down the lane, willing herself to feign professional nonchalance. Inside, however, her modest satisfaction with the day crumbled like a sandcastle, destroyed by the waves before anyone had a chance to admire it.

She would make him admit yet just how capable she was.

Chapter Eight