Chapter Thirteen
Ginevra Bishop had never been a wallflower in her life. She was the girl who danced every dance, who flitted between groups of friends, who drank champagne until dawn. But as she stood in the corner of Malwyn Hall, nursing a cup of punch, she wished she could fade into the wallpaper.
She had made a fool of herself before Braithwaite.
She’d expected to see him at the party celebrating Leland’s newest book and braced herself accordingly, but the first glimpse of his tawny hair across the room withered her resolve to seek him out and pretend the fight outside St. M’s had never happened, that she had not admitted his constant dismissal wounded her.
But, alas, she had offered her vulnerability on a silver platter and doubtless proved to him she wasn’t suitable for this line of work.
Mercifully, Braithwaite was in conversation with a don Gin didn’t recognize and either hadn’t noticed her arrival or was ignoring her presence.
But the respite from his disdain would only last so long.
Braithwaite always seemed displeased about something, but he’d verged on hostile that night in the dark, the sparks in his gray eyes threatening to set everything ablaze despite the rain.
All month he’d made her feel like deadweight to their investigation, and his refusal to acknowledge her industriousness on the case did hurt deeply, especially measured against his own indifference.
Watching him linger with the irrelevant don while Watkins and Hughes were both present was agony, and Gin tapped the toe of her black pumps against the polished parquet floor to relieve her vexation.
How could he always find fault with her and yet leave his own marks so poorly watched?
But it was the obvious contempt when he’d used her title—the Honorable Ginevra Bishop—that had been the crushing blow.
She had realized then that no amount of effort would ever please him if he considered her a helpless debutante, and it was why he hadn’t bothered to train her better. She wasn’t worth his time.
Ginevra tugged her gloves smooth and lifted her chin.
She’d had quite enough of men telling her what to do, and Braithwaite would not stop her from proving her mettle in the field.
He had made it abundantly clear that she and this assignment were thorns in his side, so she wouldn’t pester him further.
If Braithwaite wouldn’t interrogate his assigned suspects, then she would.
Weaving through the crowd, Gin picked up a fresh glass of punch and sidled closer to the table where Dr. Watkins studied an array of photographs on display.
They had met once at a luncheon, and Gin liked the woman’s warm, even-keeled manner.
She was younger than many of the other female tutors and seemed to keep to herself, for her name was never mentioned in the senior common room drama that trickled down to students’ gossip circles.
But perhaps her solitary nature better concealed all those visits to Olenev’s shop.
The photographs Watkins studied were all of Leland, including his childhood, undergraduate days at Oxford, the army, and his author photos too.
The same smile pervaded them all: that smug self-assuredness that he was the most popular person in the room.
At Gin’s approach, Watkins nodded in polite acknowledgment before shifting away to the next table which housed Leland’s collection of published books.
“Professor Leland has had quite an exhilarating life,” Gin murmured.
“I had no idea he was a decorated war hero. It almost seems too remarkable to be true.” She was, in fact, very aware of his many medals after too many dinner parties with the man.
But Gin had often observed that other dons greatly enjoyed a dig at the charismatic Classics professor’s expense.
Watkins snorted under her breath. “Have you read his new memoir?”
“I have not.” This was true. Leland had sent the viscount and her stepmother several advance copies of his new book, The Many Lives of Michael Leland, and Gin had promptly donated hers to a charity shop.
The corner of Watkins’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Neither have I. And yet, if I had a pound for every story where he claims to have saved someone’s life, I should be a rich woman.”
“Come, Dr. Watkins,” a voice drawled over Ginevra’s shoulder. “That’s not fair.”
Ginevra stiffened at the familiar, grating tone. Slowly, she turned and acknowledged Donald Craddock with a cool but cordial dip of her chin that he ignored.
“Professor Leland saved many men in Vosburg when he unmasked Robert Crowne as a stool pigeon,” Craddock continued to Watkins. “The man’s a hero.”
“He certainly agrees with you,” Watkins said dryly.
The tale of Leland spiriting soldiers out of the Germans’ castle prison after unmasking a traitor among his men was one Ginevra knew well from the professor’s vivid retellings, though it did seem more implausible every time she heard it.
“He is very fond of that story, isn’t he?
” she said. “I might be able to reenact it myself.”
Donald reached past Ginevra, forcing her a step backward, and grabbed a copy from the stack of Leland’s memoirs on display.
“He tells it often because it’s brilliant, though the professor’s memory is abysmal regarding some of the details.
” He thumbed through the book and presented a page to Watkins.
“Like here: I tried to tell him all year this German word was wrong in the first version I read, and he still didn’t fix it.
Didn’t you tell him like I asked?” he asked Watkins.
“I did not,” Watkins said, massaging her forehead in annoyance. “I keep a full schedule, Donald, and I am not Leland’s editor.”
Gin edged closer, studying the page. “Which word?”
Donald snapped the book shut in her face and returned it to the stack. “You’re right, ma’am, and I apologize. I shall remind the professor in time for a second printing.”
Gin arched an eyebrow. “I don’t remember you being so meticulous, Donald.”
“I don’t remember you paying attention to my habits,” Donald muttered out the corner of his mouth. He inclined his head to Watkins, smoothing away a grimace. “Till our meeting Monday, ma’am.”
With a cold glare for Ginevra, he stalked away into the crowd.
“Do you two know each other?” Watkins asked.
“Rather too well.” Gin gritted her teeth, watching Donald ooze across the room shaking hands with other Damocles Club members. “He wants me to marry him, and I refused.”
“Oh dear.” There was a flicker of cautious amusement in the don’s eyes. “He can be rather bullheaded. A couple of weeks ago, he nearly came to blows with someone in class over a disagreement about Caesar, of all things.”
Dogged about manuscript errors and passionate about assigned readings?
Donald had insisted during the last proposal that he’d turned over a new leaf that year, but Ginevra had thought it mere posturing to win her over.
Perhaps she had been unfairly dismissive.
“Good heavens, That sounds terribly awkward to manage.”
“It wouldn’t have been the first time I’ve ejected students, though I can’t imagine Lord Donald would actually lay hands on anyone.” Watkins tucked an escaped tendril of curls behind her ear. “In that instance, Sidney Braithwaite would have swiftly trounced him, and I think he knew it.”
Gin blinked in surprise. Braithwaite had said nothing about this incident, but perhaps that had contributed to his mood the past month. She would sour too if she had to suffer through Donald’s presence for the sake of their assignment.
The soft squeal of a microphone made everyone in the crowd wince. At the front of the room, Dr. Neville stood on the small stage with papers fluttering down from his podium. He knelt and swept them together with trembling hands.
“You must excuse me,” Watkins said. “I think Dr. Neville needs assistance with his remarks for the evening.” She sidled around the room and approached the stage, picking up the loose pages that had reached the floor, and the crowd resumed mingling.
Gin sipped her punch in annoyance. Watkins was a much easier conversationalist than prickly Marion Kirk, and the moment had been going well before infernal Donald barged in.
Fighting with Braithwaite though … that was unexpected.
Sidney Braithwaite seemed much too brooding to put himself forward in a debate when he could glower in disapproval. Arguing required effort.
Though she absolutely did not care if he was still pottering around, Gin stood on tiptoe and searched for his face among the crowd.
She was both further annoyed and yet not at all surprised to spot him conversing with another don not connected to their investigation.
But at that same moment, Lewis Hughes was crossing the room, excusing himself through the crush of bodies as though he might leave the building.
Braithwaite continued to pay him no heed, and Gin exhaled in frustration.
After finding the paper clipping in Tolliver’s house about Hughes’s Dramatic Society debut, Gin’s curiosity had been piqued. She’d befriended a St. Mildred’s girl who sewed their costumes, and Molly had happily prattled on about theater gossip in exchange for help holding fabric and pins.
“Some didn’t like an American taking the role after John Armentrout’s injury,” Molly explained, “and some didn’t like him being so dark.
Only Dr. Neville—he’s overseeing the production, you see—pointed out Hughes playing a Roman is more reasonable than a freckled Englishman.
So Hughes got the part, and good for him, I say. ”
Gin had mulled over this tidbit all week.
Braithwaite had been surprised to see Hughes in Watkins’s class and traveling from Olenev’s shop to Tolliver’s cottage.
And now he was working on a play with Dr. Neville?
The American simply might be one of those people with a finger in every pie, but the overlap with other suspects was curious.