Page 98 of A Lady’s Guide to Subterfuge and Science

“But,” Comerford continued, sounding a touch impatient, “there’s such a thing as caring for one’s protege a little too much.”

If only you knew.

For a moment, Oliver did nothing but stare at Comerford as the realization of what a terrible waste of time this conversation had been dawned upon him. If Comerford wanted solid proof, then Oliver had no choice but to find some.

And he had an inkling of how he’d do so.

He stood, the motion abrupt. “Thank you, sir.”

“Leaving so soon?”

Oliver nodded. “I’ve said all I needed to. I’ll see you at tonight’s seminar.”

Comerford shrugged, turning to examine a diagram on his desk. “Very good, Booth.”

Oliver left the university as unmoored as he’d ever been. Gone was his shoddy replacement for a father figure. He thought it would hurt more, but as the door to Rosewood opened to reveal Hughes’s slender form, Oliver was able to hazard a guess as to why it did not.

When Hughes spoke, it was in a breathless murmur. “There you are.”

“What’s the matter?”

Hughes ushered him into the entryway. “You’ve a visitor.”

“A visitor?” Oliver repeated. “I don’t have time for a visitor. I have a seminar to ruin.”

“You’ll have time for this one,” Hughes said. “She’s in the parlor.”

Oliver knit his brow as Hughes led the way. Perhaps Kalila had realized that she’d wanted to join him at the seminar all along. But Kalila was not who he saw when Hughes opened the door, not at all. Instead, he was greeted with a sight he’d never thought he’d see again. It was a sight that was familiar to him—his mother, their resemblance to one another still unmistakable despite the lines that now graced her features. She stood by the window, appearing shorter than he remembered—or was it that he’d grown taller?—with her golden hair in an elaborate braided knot on her head. She wore a pink dress patterned with tiny roses, which he recalled as being her favorite flower.

When she finally noticed Oliver and Hughes lingering in the doorway, she raised a hand to cover her mouth. “Oliver?”

Oliver, unable to speak around the lump that had formed in his throat, only nodded. It seemed he was going to have to deal with all his familial issues at once whether he was ready to or not.

Rosemary looked over his shoulder, her face relaxing into a smile. “Thank you, Hughes.”

Hughes dipped his chin. “You’re most welcome, madam. I’ll leave you be.”

He left before Oliver could stop him, shutting the door and sealing mother and son in the parlor. It wasn’t a room that was used often and, as a result, was poorly furnished. The shelves on either side of the fireplace were only sparsely lined with books, and a chaise sat in the middle of the room, its placement awkward and careless.

“Let’s look at you,” Rosemary said, taking a step toward him.

Oliver remained still while she did so, grateful that he didn’t have to speak. The longer she looked, the more difficult he found it to reciprocate, something about her leaving him overwhelmed.

Well, not something. The simple fact was that she was his mother and that he was standing before her was enough to leave him unsteady. The open wound in his chest from Comerford’s rejection still lingered, and he wasn’t sure what to do with that, either.

“Handsome, just as I knew you’d be.” She came closer, and he flinched as she touched a finger to his nose. “What happened here? It wasn’t your father, was it?”

Oliver laughed roughly despite himself. “God, no. I got hit trying to break up a fight at the Blue D—”

He snapped his jaw shut. No mother wanted to hear about her son’s escapades at the pub, for God’s sake.

“The Blue Duck?” his mother filled in. “Is that place still standing?”

Heat rose to his cheeks. “It is.”

“Do you go there often?”

He grimaced. “Sometimes. It stays open late, so—you’re here because you received my letter, aren’t you?”