Page 38 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

Sidney ignored the sarcasm. “I saw Watkins and Neville both go inside, so it was worth it.”

“We already knew they visit the bookstore. The Rook told us that was criteria for this list of suspects.”

“And I like to verify. What if they only want to browse in peace, far away from students?”

“And do they?”

Sidney hesitated. “I can’t answer that yet. Both slipped in and out pretty quickly, though.”

Bishop’s dark lashes fluttered in dismissal, and Sidney decided to return fire.

“So, did you find something worth telling the Rook or not? Your message wasn’t clear.”

Bishop’s attention became riveted upon the wet pavement. “I’m still working that out.” After a few beats of strained silence, she added stiffly, “Can you translate Russian?”

Sidney stopped and stared down at her, heedless of the rain streaming down his collar. “What exactly did you find?”

“A letter,” she began, her brow knitting together, “in one of Dr. Neville’s books. Though he mentioned Russian chess partners when we played, so perhaps it’s merely from a friend.”

“He’s got a foreign pen pal, and you didn’t tell me?”

“It doesn’t read like anything important,” Bishop protested. “The parts I have translated seem like an account of the weather and what’s growing in the garden.”

Sidney bristled with irritation and resumed walking, leaving Bishop and the umbrella behind. He was trying his best not to scowl, he really was, but for someone so eager to take on this job, her lack of discipline was going to drive him mad. The least she could do was follow simple directions.

Bishop forced herself back to his side, and Sidney gritted his teeth. “What were you expecting to find?” he asked. “Thanks for all the confidential information you’ve passed? Codes aren’t always strings of gibberish.”

“I know that.” Bishop’s chest heaved with indignation. “Which is why I asked for the Rook’s number.”

“You didn’t ask,” Sidney retorted. “You gave me a hypothetical.”

Bishop’s eyes flashed with an anger darker than the rain-drenched night. “Then please forgive me for a weak attempt at humor to soften the humiliation. It is very difficult to ask for help from someone who doesn’t want to offer it—”

A faint crack on the path behind them made Sidney’s neck prickle. He half turned, brushing Bishop’s shoulders as though dispelling raindrops, and caught a faint smudge of movement on the edge of the lamplight. Someone had stopped walking.

“I think we’re being followed,” he said quietly.

Bishop stiffened, but he felt her resist the urge to turn around. “For how long?”

“I don’t know. I only just now heard them.”

“So they might have seen us leave Tolliver’s.” Bishop cursed under her breath. “Right, this way.”

She led him around the high wall encircling St. Mildred’s that looked daunting for an after-hours climb compared with Swithun’s obliging ivy-covered exterior. But a brisk walk brought them to an orchard adjacent to the college where the wall’s texture changed. Instead of the high, smooth masonry near the front gate, thick stones were stacked and mortared like loaves of bread.

“Much easier to get a foothold here,” Bishop said, “but it helps to have someone boost you up—and catch you, of course, in case of disaster. Do you think our tail is still watching?”

Sidney knelt and retied his shoe, surveying the shadowy grove. There were too many places to hide—but then he saw it. A streetlamp on the main road reached far enough to cast a perfect outline against the wall: Someone hid behind a tree only twenty paces away.

“Seven o’clock,” he whispered, rising.

“How am I supposed to know which direction is twelve? I’ll never spot them that way.” Bishop exhaled in exasperation. “Right. Hold still.”

She flung her arms around Sidney, and he froze, unsure of his role in her plan. But when she kissed his cheek, brushing the edge of his lips, the night melted away in a rush of jasmine-tinted rain that made his head spin.

He had kissed enough girls before the war to feel proficient in that department, and he’d certainly thought about it often enough with Amélie. But it had been years—years—since that tantalizing rush of heat had pooled under his skin, and the faintness of Bishop’s touch only made him want more. Sidney’s hands found her waist, and she didn’t swat him off. For a fleeting moment, her arms tightened around him, and Sidney angled his head deeper, dipping toward the curve of her neck.

Bishop’s breath nipped his ear. “They’re gone.”