Page 17 of A Lady’s Guide to Subterfuge and Science

“Excellent,” Comerford said, and Kalila could swear that he sounded impressed. His next question was directed to a man with wavy brown hair. “Now, Dunn. How might we improve our colored dyes?”

*

Oliver had never been more delighted in his thirty-three years of living and, yes, he was including that one wild night six months ago.

This was not the Dameer Rafiq he had met two days prior.

The person he had met two days ago was a young man with blond curls and round, brown eyes. This Dameer Rafiq, however, was not that man. He had noticed almost immediately that something wasn’t quite right. The Dameer Rafiq who had run into him in the hallway was shorter, had lighter, larger eyes, a slanted nose, a small dent in the skin that covered the left side of that nose, and was quite obviously wearing a wig.

This Dameer Rafiq was the dark-haired woman that had opened the door of the townhouse. The woman Rafiq had called his cousin. It was like a Shakespearean comedy come to life.

He watched her now, exuding excitement as she argued with Timothy Dunn while Comerford watched in approval. What was she doing here? Why was she impersonating her cousin? What was happening?

“We’ll break here, men,” Comerford said, pulling Oliver out of his reverie. “We will resume in fifteen minutes.”

A low murmur broke out as the men talked to one another. Oliver lingered by the bench until Rafiq was finished speaking with Young.

“You’re enjoying yourself,” Oliver said. Rafiq turned to him, hazel eyes guarded. Could she really have expected him to forget those eyes? “Is this your first time attending something like this?”

She responded with a short, uneasy, “Yes.”

Oliver pulled his stool right up next to her, took a seat, and leaned forward. “About those comments—”

“We’ve no need to discuss them.”

“Indeed. I only ask that you satisfy my curiosity about one thing.”

He had to know.

“Very well,” she said, leaning away from him.

“This niche you keep describing—what is its purpose?”

The question caused her to brighten. She responded without a moment’s pause, words pouring out without the slightest bit of effort.

Good God. The papers were hers. A spark traveled up his spine and spread out to his limbs. Her response was—Christ.

“…they should take up different stains,” she concluded, face aglow.

“What kind of stains?” he asked, wanting only to hear her speak in that same fervent tone.

“Ones that do not yet exist,” she told him. “Surely we will discover something better than carmine.”

“Surely.”

“And incident light is not the only source of illumination.”

“No.” He shook himself out of his dreamlike state. “Still, Rafiq, your theories are completely imagined. How can you be so certain?”

You are doing what Comerford accused you of, a voice in his head said. He shooed it away.

“They’re backed by logic,” she snapped.

“And a tangled web of logic at that,” he shot back.

She scowled, and he had to stop himself from grinning. So this was the author who kept writing and rewriting those damned papers, who wouldn’t give up. Not the man he had met, but a bright, sharp woman.

He couldn’t believe his luck. He had been excited about this lecture series, but now he was electrified. This was going to be more interesting than he could have ever hoped for.