Page 9 of A Lady’s Guide to Subterfuge and Science

Rosemary Booth had fled to Kent some twenty-three years ago, claiming the country air better suited her poor constitution. It was obvious to anyone with half a brain that she’d done it to escape the explosive fights she’d so often had with her husband. Every few months, William would decide that he missed his wife, make his way to Kent, and wreak havoc there. Upon his return to London, he would get drunk, declare his intention to never see Rosemary again, and sulk in the house bullying his son until some other activity or woman caught his fancy.

And so it went.

“Your mother,” William continued, finally shoving his coat at poor Hughes, “is a pathetic little mouse of a woman. Learn from my mistakes, boy. Never marry.”

“I won’t.”

It was only a half lie. Oliver had lived through seventeen years of violent arguments between his parents and wasn’t exactly keen on subjecting himself to the same misery. Oh, people always waxed poetic about love and marriage, but Oliver had enough sense to know it could all go horribly, terribly wrong.

Still, though, a stupid part of him sometimes reared its ugly, hopeful head, wondering if it could be different for him. But didn’t everyone experience silly flights of fancy that had them convinced that mediocrity and woe would somehow skip them over?

Don’t be a fool.

His parents had been a love match. His mother, a diamond of the ton, had gone and run off with a lowly luthier. She’d been lucky to have an uncle who had pitied her enough to give her both a generous allowance and Rosewood. Another stroke of luck had come to the Booths when William’s business had picked up with a momentum that had yet to slow down. Any violinist worth their salt played on his instruments, and any violinist who didn’t desperately longed to.

Much to his father’s eternal chagrin, Oliver had always struggled with music. William would force him to play for hours, the screeching of the violin leaving a ringing in the ears of anyone unfortunate enough to hear.

As for his parents, it would have made sense for them to live in perfect happiness, what with all the good that had rained down on them.

Except they hadn’t.

“I hope you weren’t up there tinkering with your slides.” William swayed a little as he marched to his study. “Why don’t you practice your violin? A much better use of your time.”

“Actually,” Oliver said, pleased that he had a genuine out, “I’ve somewhere to be.”

“Look at you!” his father crowed. “A busy man of the ton.”

“Hardly.” Oliver grabbed his coat and hat from Hughes and slipped out of the door with an appreciative pat to the butler’s shoulder. “I’ll see you at supper.”

He let out a long exhale on the steps that led to the house, dropping his hat onto his head and squinting against the bright sunlight. Digging into his waistcoat pocket, he produced the letter of acceptance Mr. D.R. had sent to the university. The participants of the lecture series had been asked to provide an address in case of emergency, which meant Oliver could get a head start on satisfying his curiosity about the elusive man who sent in those outlandish papers. His trip, however, was prolonged by the number of people who stopped to speak to him.

“How do you do, old man?”

“Booth! I haven’t seen you in weeks. Will you be at the pub later?”

“I’m heading to Bath in a few days—you’re welcome to come along.”

It wasn’t unusual, in all frankness. Oliver was an exceptionally popular man, mostly because he could be counted on for an exceptionally entertaining time. Men enjoyed his company, women vied for his attention, and life would be fine and dandy if he didn’t have to go home to Rosewood at the end of it all.

Well, he didn’t always go home. Indeed, plenty of his nighttime activities took place outside of the house. But he hadn’t found himself in the mood lately, which meant he always seemed to wind up in his own bed, frustrated and alone.

He’d have to remedy that soon.

Oliver arrived at a pretty townhouse and didn’t think twice about knocking at the door. People rarely protested his showing up without notice, and he was quite convinced Mr. D.R. would feel no different.

Taking off his hat, Oliver ruffled his sandy hair and pasted on his most charming smile. The door opened to reveal a woman with a heap of dark curls pinned atop her head. She stared at him, and so he stared right back. Her skin was a warm olive, her face drawn and angular. She had a full lower lip, and hazel eyes so huge that he was surprised he wasn’t able to see right into her soul. His gaze settled on a small, barely visible dent on the left side of her rounded nose. It was a near undetectable detail, but one the microscopist in him couldn’t help but notice.

As they stood there, he began to wonder at her piercing stare. Did she know him? Did he know her? God, he hoped he hadn’t—that they hadn’t—

No. Something about her told him he’d remember.

“I’m looking for a Mr. D.R.,” he said, interrupting her study of him.

She jolted back to life as if struck by lightning. Blinking several times, she spoke with brisk purpose. “May I ask who’s calling?”

He smiled at her. “Oliver Booth. I thought I’d stop by to introduce myself to Mr. D.R. before the lectures start. Might I come in?”

Then, without a second’s warning, the door slammed shut.