Page 76 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

It was no small comfort to run into Sarita’s arms.

They sank to a stone bench on the veranda, and only then did Ginevra allow the flood of tears to overwhelm her. Sarita stroked her hair and did not press further for answers. When Iris arrived bearing tissues, Gin tried to daub her eyes without smearing her mascara. She hiccupped, choking on a laugh, and squeezed both girls’ hands.

“It’s all a great muddle, and I can’t explain—not yet. But I love you both,” she said fervently. “More than I can properly express.”

They fell silent again, and Ginevra sat supported between her best friends as they stared up at the grand house aglow in the darkness. Abandoning Chiseldon Park to Donald had felt like an abomination, but this revelation snapped the last great link Ginevra felt for the old house. She could let it go—she would let it go. And she would find what she needed elsewhere.

Ginevra sighed, squeezing both girls’ hands. “I suppose I should check on Sidney again before I retire. He seemed so dreadfully weak this morning.”

“I still can’t believe Professor Leland shot at him!” Iris exclaimed.

“I can,” Sarita said darkly.

“I hope the police have caught up with him by now…” Ginevra quieted as the butler exited onto the terrace. “Yes, Abbott?”

The butler made a polite cough. “Your dressmaker called, miss. He said there was a problem acquiring the fabric for a gown you ordered and requested you call him back at your convenience.”

The subtle note of wariness in his tone dried Ginevra’s tears. Abbott was skeptical of the caller’s identity but too well trained to argue, which meant it was likely the Rook’s cover story.

“Blimey,” Iris said. “What sort of dress needs a phone call this late?”

“He’s a darling old man who keeps appalling hours,” Gin said, trying to be lighthearted. “I should imagine he didn’t even notice the moon was out. Thank you, Abbott. I’ll ring him back before I retire, or he’ll fret over it all night.”

“I wish my seamstress were half so diligent,” Sarita said.

“Yes.” Ginevra forced a laugh. “It’s almost tedious.”

By the time she’d shuttled the girls to their bedrooms and slipped into her own, Gin’s nerves were stretched thin. She picked up the phone inside her private sitting room and placed the call with trembling hands.

This time, the Rook answered directly. “We can’t find Leland,” he began without preamble. “I’ve sent men to his lodgings, his office, the girlfriend’s London flat, and the nearby train stations. We found quite a bit of evidence connecting him to the leak, but the man has vanished.”

“You think he’s hiding?”

“I think he’s smart enough to try. But if we blink, he could disappear forever, and we don’t have the manpower to scour the country. Can you think of where he might have gone?”

“No, but I can rouse Sidney. He might have an idea.”

The Rook hesitated. “Is the lad all right?”

“I think so. He slept for a long time.”

The Rook exhaled softly. “Now is the time to make use of your social connections and gossip, Miss Bishop. Are there any friends with whom Michael Leland might take refuge?”

Ginevra’s skin prickled. Her stepmother, Sylvia, was certainly a friend of the professor’s. Would Leland try to come to Chiseldon Park? But if he thought Gin would tell her father, that might protect them from an unwanted guest.

This alarming idea, however, was immediately superseded by a weightier one that Gin knew in her bones was correct: Leland was chuffed about the house he’d acquired in Wiltshire. He was still prattling on about renovations at Donald’s party, which did not sound as though he’d yet made it a formal residence … but it might be an ideal temporary refuge if not well-known. Gin closed her eyes, mustering all her skills of persuasion. Correct she might be, but she anticipated resistance to her accompanying proposition.

“Sir, I think I know where Leland’s hiding. And Sidney and I can be there rather quickly.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

It should have been an easy drive to Leland’s country house, but the headlamps’ light barely cut through the dense rain that began to fall as Sidney and Gin left Chiseldon Park in one of her father’s cars. Taking the vehicle had been simple enough, but slipping out of the house without rousing anyone’s suspicions required a furtive route through the west wing and into the belly of the great house. Within fifteen minutes, they’d exited the kitchen, crossed the back garden, and stolen away into the night.

Though Gin insisted Sidney recline in the back seat, rest felt impossible for him. He kept his eyes trained on her profile in the driver’s seat—the line of her neck, the curve of her ear, the smooth waves of her hair—glad she was too focused on the road to catch him staring. It had been coming over him for some time now, of course: the realization that he was besotted with Ginevra Bishop against his better judgment. Most nights’ dreams were now tinged auburn and emerald, her mirth dancing on the edges of consciousness. There was no reason for a girl like her to give him a second thought. And yet, in the garden, when he had felt so absolutely at his lowest, she had surveyed the shadows inside him without judgment.

She also might be simply nice, Sidney thought morosely. If her heart belonged to Craddock, her friendship with Sidney—close as they had grown—was strictly platonic. But Plato was the last philosopher he wanted to invoke right now. He wanted to know if her skin still burned where their hands had clasped, if the fleeting kiss outside St. Mildred’s haunted her too.

Sidney shifted, uncomfortable though the plush seats were far nicer than any car in which he’d previously ridden, and tried to think of something other than kissing. Ginevra had been unusually quiet, but perhaps she thought he was asleep. He was half-afraid to break the deep, dark silence, but stewing in his own thoughts seemed the worst option. “Do you want me to drive?”