Page 70 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

“No,” Gin said quickly—decisively—ignoring the flutter in her chest. She glanced at her partner, willing him to wake up, and floundered after a stratagem to navigate this conversation. If Hughes knew Tolliver’s death wasn’t natural, then he probably knew quite a bit more. Sidney would know how to make the American give up information without dropping his own.

Though, she realized with a flare of inspiration, it was rather like the art of society gossip: No one asked the real questions but danced around them with humor and suggestion, circling ever closer to the heart of the matter. And gossip was one of her strengths.

“So are you a private detective?” Gin asked. “Or do you tail people for fun?”

“Detective would be far more fun than the reality. I’m a student, same as you, but a friend asked me to help with a little problem I think we both share.”

“Oh.” Gin feigned surprise. “Do you also struggle to find nylons?”

The corner of Hughes’s mouth twitched. “I understand you might not want to trust me, Miss Bishop, so I’ll put my cards on the table first if that eases your mind. The United States has eyes everywhere, including the Kremlin, and information keeps turning up over there that originates from an informant at the university. That’s kind of weird, right?”

“Very,” Gin said demurely.

“It seems the Security Service has been tight-lipped about their own operation to find the leak, so a friend with American intelligence asked me to poke around in an unofficial capacity. I worked for the OSS during the war, so this isn’t my first dance with spies.”

Hughes was the American equivalent of Sidney, Gin realized with a pang of surprise. But she kept silent, nodding to show she was following.

“They’d already tagged Grigor Olenev as KGB,” Hughes continued, “so when I noticed Tolliver hanging around the store a few too many times, I wondered if he was my man. But after he died, I realized I had the wrong end of the stick and missed my opportunity to connect with the Security Service.” He rubbed at his jaw, wincing. “If I’d known there were two more agents in the field, I might have spent less time chasing my tail.”

And they might have had an ally this whole time, Gin thought ruefully. But when she met Hughes’s keen gaze, she realized he was after more than allies: He wanted information.

“Forgive me for being direct, Miss Bishop,” Hughes continued, measuring his words, “but I would love to know if you two have made any headway.”

Ginevra hesitated. She might not have Sidney to guide her, but she did have her intuition—and it said Lewis Hughes might be the only person she could trust inside Foxley Hall while her partner slept. Slowly, she nodded. “Tonight has been quite illuminating. It would seem the past is doomed to repeat itself.”

“Leland?” Hughes cocked his head to the side as though recalculating figures. “I never saw him visit Olenev, but they could have used another spot for dead drops. How did you figure it out?”

“A fortuitous clue from Mr. Tolliver.” Gin sighed, smoothing at the wrinkle that would not leave her forehead. “A clue which we almost misinterpreted in the wrong direction entirely.”

“Well, my hat’s off to you two, and Mr. Tolliver, may he rest in peace.” Hughes peeled off his wire-framed glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Leland though … damn it, I should have considered him sooner after meeting that girlfriend of his. He was likely stealing information from her dad who works with the Foreign Office.”

Gin was glad Sidney was not awake to feel an idiot twice over for missing this clue. They hadn’t considered the Trixie angle at all. “I don’t understand why Leland would turn to treason again,” she said bitterly. “He’s one of Oxford’s most popular dons. Surely, he doesn’t need the Soviets’ money after the success of his books.”

“Some people can’t resist the thrill of getting away with something—thinking they’re untouchable. Using the code name Cassius, for instance.” Hughes made a rueful laugh. “I joined Dr. Watkins’s seminar and took the role in Julius Caesar because I wondered about a connection to the informant’s code name. Funny enough, Leland has played that role in the Dramatic Society’s productions over the years. Neville only replaced him this time because of his publishing obligations.”

“The cheek of the man,” Gin muttered. “He truly felt he was hiding in plain sight.”

“Leland has always struck me as a man with a large ego. Treason might come more naturally to people like him.”

“And murder.” Gin’s hand crept up to Sidney’s, clasped upon his stomach, and she squeezed. Poor Mr. Tolliver had pieced together Leland’s history of deception too late to save his life, and this assignment might have taken Sidney’s as well if the bullet had landed a few inches to the right. Whatever Leland’s reasons, they could never justify his actions.

“Thank you for telling me, Miss Bishop,” Hughes said softly. “Don’t worry, we’ll find Michael Leland.”

Donald’s voice rose in argument from the hallway, and Ginevra’s skin turned to gooseflesh. A part of her couldn’t fathom why Donald hadn’t immediately called the police, and yet another part knew exactly why he’d hesitated. Donald could be horrified at what Leland had done but also wish to wash his hands of the whole affair—particularly his role in the unmasking and all the scrutiny it might bring upon the household. Families like the Duke of Allingham’s didn’t want their names in the paper for this reason. If Donald looked the other way, someone else could handle it while he receded into the background and avoided more of his father’s ire.

But Ginevra was not about to let that happen.

“I appreciate your candor, Mr. Hughes, and shall consider what you’ve shared. If you don’t mind helping me now, would you please fetch my friends? I don’t want to stay here tonight after all. I should feel much safer somewhere I can command a telephone without fighting Donald Craddock.”

“Are you sure?” Hughes asked. “I could probably find you a safe house, if you prefer, but it might take a little while.”

Gin shook her head, her stomach churning with emotions she didn’t wish to examine. “No, I have a much better idea.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Sidney awoke to find himself drowning in blood.

He remembered bright light—Ginevra’s hand—a bumpy ride through the night, lolling on a shoulder that smelled of jasmine. But he was now in what appeared to be a very large, very soft bed, two qualities that immediately ruled it out as his narrow excuse for a mattress at Swithun. Crimson bed-curtains pooled around each of the four bedposts that accounted for the blood, but Sidney’s pulse continued to pound. He pulled back the layered blankets and eased off the bed to find a pair of fur-lined calfskin slippers waiting for him that probably cost more than any of his everyday shoes. It was then he realized he was wearing white pajamas with pale blue stripes. He snatched up the robe on the end of the bed. If he had awoken in an enchanted castle, it should know he needed breakfast.