Page 41 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

Gin sipped her punch in annoyance. Watkins was a much easier conversationalist than prickly Marion Kirk, and the moment had been going well before infernal Donald barged in. Fighting with Braithwaite though … that was unexpected. Sidney Braithwaite seemed much too brooding to put himself forward in a debate when he could glower in disapproval. Arguing required effort.

Though she absolutely did not care if he was still pottering around, Gin stood on tiptoe and searched for his face among the crowd. She was both further annoyed and yet not at all surprised to spot him conversing with another don not connected to their investigation. But at that same moment, Lewis Hughes was crossing the room, excusing himself through the crush of bodies as though he might leave the building. Braithwaite continued to pay him no heed, and Gin exhaled in frustration.

After finding the paper clipping in Tolliver’s house about Hughes’s Dramatic Society debut, Gin’s curiosity had been piqued. She’d befriended a St. Mildred’s girl who sewed their costumes, and Molly had happily prattled on about theater gossip in exchange for help holding fabric and pins.

“Some didn’t like an American taking the role after John Armentrout’s injury,” Molly explained, “and some didn’t like him being so dark. Only Dr. Neville—he’s overseeing the production, you see—pointed out Hughes playing a Roman is more reasonable than a freckled Englishman. So Hughes got the part, and good for him, I say.”

Gin had mulled over this tidbit all week. Braithwaite had been surprised to see Hughes in Watkins’s class and traveling from Olenev’s shop to Tolliver’s cottage. And now he was working on a play with Dr. Neville? The American simply might be one of those people with a finger in every pie, but the overlap with other suspects was curious.

Keen to take the measure of Lewis Hughes for herself, Gin hurried through the crowd until their paths intersected, producing a monumental crash that sloshed punch down the collar of her dress. She skittered backward, goose bumps prickling her chest as she surveyed the results of her impromptu plan. “Oh dear.”

Hughes stopped, aghast. “I’m so sorry, miss!”

He offered a handkerchief from his breast pocket and cleaned the floor with a second, and Gin scrubbed at her dress in vain. The stain across the leaf-green fabric was more vicious than she’d expected, but it was a worthwhile sacrifice. She pulled a silk scarf out of her bag and tied an elegant cowboy’s kerchief. “How’s that?”

He made an abashed grin, fidgeting with his gold-rimmed glasses. “Stunning. I’m sorry again about the mess. You’re very resourceful, miss—”

“Gin Bishop.” She extended a hand and smiled. “I think you’re the resourceful one with two handkerchiefs at the ready. My grandmother would be most impressed.”

“I do love to impress a grandma,” Hughes said, accepting the handshake. “I’m Lewis Hughes.”

“Well, I’m quite glad you and your handkerchiefs are here tonight.” Gin exchanged her empty glass for a new cup of punch from a passing server, pleased the man seemed in no hurry to attempt departure again. “What brought you to Oxford, Mr. Hughes? You’re American, yes?”

“What gave me away?” He made a deprecating shrug and fiddled again with his glasses. “Oxford’s one of the best schools in the world. Who wouldn’t want to be here?”

“Probably someone averse to weak tea and boiled cabbage.”

Hughes laughed at this, a warm, pleasant baritone. “The food is better back home, I grant you that. But the opportunity to take a class just like anyone else here? That’s worth everything.”

His voice caught on the last word, a betrayal of emotion that made Ginevra pause. There were several pubs in town that barred Sarita entry because of her skin color, and the girls relished leaving packages of horse dung—acquired from a sporting St. M’s girl who headed a local equestrian club—on their doorsteps. But to be denied an education was inhumane. Regardless of Lewis Hughes’s possible secrets, this sentiment was obviously genuine.

“Mr. Hughes!” Leland’s booming voice interrupted their tête-à-tête. He appeared beside Hughes and clapped the American’s shoulder. “How goes rehearsals? Has the Dramatic Society forgiven me for sending Neville in my stead?”

“Rehearsals have been smooth,” Hughes said. “Though between you and me, Dr. Neville doesn’t seem very comfortable onstage.”

Leland waved a dismissive hand. “Bless him, but my schedule simply wouldn’t allow it this year, what with the book releasing. It will be the first time I’ve haven’t played that role since I came to Oxford, and I know it disappointed everyone—” He stopped, catching sight of Ginevra, and his eyes brightened. “You came!”

“Of course,” Ginevra said breezily. “I wouldn’t have missed it.”

Leland beamed. “I’m so glad, I wanted you to meet someone.” He turned, drawing forward a woman in cornflower-blue chiffon who had been chatting with a don’s wife.

“Trixie, this is Ginevra Bishop—the Viscount Walsingdon’s daughter.” The professor patted the woman’s manicured hand. “You remember Chiseldon Park—that beautiful house near the cottage. We’ve started renovating that property near your father, Ginevra,” Leland continued, preening. “Want somewhere of our own to host parties once we’re married. Trixie’s old man has been most obliging with his London house, but we hate to impose.”

Trixie might have been a mannequin for the perfection of her makeup and hourglass figure, but there was something familiar about her. Sculpted waves of icy blond hair framed an elfin face and limpid blue eyes. “Oh yes, the Park!” she cooed to Ginevra. “We dined with your parents last month, Miss Bishop. Your mother has the most exquisite silver pattern I’ve ever seen.”

“The viscountess is not my mother.”

The cold words popped out before Ginevra could stop them. Though her relationship with her stepmother was cordial enough, Sylvia was always offering more maternal intimacy than Gin was willing to embrace, especially in light of her father’s hasty remarriage. Usually, she maintained neutrality when discussing family matters in public, and the way Trixie’s pink mouth buttoned up with delight made her curse her indiscretion. Trixie would relive this moment at future dinner parties with whomever would listen, and Gin should prepare herself for a nasty phone call about upholding the family name.

Leland, however, seemed not to have heard the remark. “Yes, the viscount wanted a word with Trixie’s old man, and I was only too happy to arrange a meeting. Such an obliging fellow—always delighted to meet his constituents. He advises the foreign secretary, too, and some think he’ll be tapped for the position next,” Leland added in an undertone meant to impress.

Of course—Gin knew Trixie’s face from London gossip rags. MPs’ daughters weren’t their usual fodder, but ones as fashionable and stunning as her were a rarity. Trixie had dated a string of film stars, racing drivers, and one of the King’s cousins. So how on earth had Leland caught her eye? Objectively, Ginevra realized he was a handsome man. He was nearly a decade younger than her father—closer to the age of her stepmother, who loved to fawn over him—only his personality so grated upon Gin’s nerves that the effect was spoiled. Still, there was no accounting for personal taste.

“British politics fascinate me,” Hughes said. “All the titles sound fancy, but members of parliament yell at each other like it’s a boxing match. And it’s strange to me that you don’t vote for the prime minister directly, and yet they can be in office so long.”

Leland laughed. “Perhaps, but it’s also easier for the party to oust them if needed. It’s simply a matter of accepting that those in power know better than us. We don’t all need a voice in running the country.”

“And many in America would agree with you.” A muscle twitched in Hughes’s jaw. “‘All the animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others,’ as Orwell said.”