Chapter Three #2
Donald’s thin cheeks turned crimson, and he rose, snatching up his hat.
“You’ve always thought you’re better than me, haven’t you?
As kids, I found it amusing—silly little Gin, putting on airs.
” His voice lowered with a sneer. “But your father’s debts have crept up for years trying to keep the Park afloat.
Where do you think all that money came from, Ginevra? ”
A cold, brittle rage filled Gin’s veins at the shocking implication, and she squeezed the pencil to keep from hurling it at Donald’s smug face. “I would kindly ask that you leave. One of us, at least, is concerned about exams.”
Donald jammed the hat back on his head and straightened, re-buttoning his gray suit jacket with the air of someone abandoning a distasteful job.
“I’m not an imbecile, Ginevra. If you weren’t so damned prideful, you’d see that I’m not a terrible choice for a partner—but don’t expect another proposal to reject. ”
He stormed down the aisle, and Gin exhaled in frustration.
Trust Donald to ruin a productive revision session with marriage talk.
If he only used the meager sense with which God had endowed him, he might have deduced it wasn’t going to work, especially after the first two failures.
Was it possible to say no in more adamant terms?
Short of a notice in The Times, she really didn’t think so.
Exasperated, Gin leaped up and stalked toward the Selden End.
The way light filtered through the tall windows usually calmed her when she was overwrought from studying, and she loved to peruse the two stories of books and rest on the little benches before the shelves.
Today, however, even the pleasant reading room couldn’t soothe her nerves while the conversation continued to sting at her.
She knew Chiseldon Park needed repairs after the war, that it still needed updated plumbing in the east wing and new plaster in many rooms, and God knew what else.
Her father must have taken a loan. But it had felt like an abstract sort of problem—a problem for the person in charge of the estate, which had been made clear was not her.
Only Donald acted as though it was common knowledge that the viscount was pressed for ready cash.
Gin never discussed money with her father apart from his grumbling about her allowance.
Her mother had left a bequest that paid for Oxford, and Gin would receive the majority when she turned twenty-five in three years.
Her future was full of possibilities, and Gin wasn’t sure what she wanted to do—except absolutely not marry anyone at the moment.
Her parents’ tepid marriage had certainly not inspired her to seek a partner, and Tweety’s parade of sweethearts was an exhausting spectacle.
It was all quite enough to support the prudence of swearing off romance until Gin graduated Oxford.
No, for now, she was quite content to focus on her studies and daydream of a future beyond her father’s grasp.
She had seen so little of the world, the years she might have spent traveling Europe with her mother upended by the war, and she had thrown herself into the debutante whirl to escape her grief.
Oxford was the first real step Gin had taken toward something she wanted, even if she wasn’t quite yet sure what that might be.
Her practical side knew she could seek steady translation work in London, but her romantic side thought following an eccentric, nomadic writer as an interpreter sounded a bit more exciting.
Anything, however, would be better than remaining trapped under her father’s thumb.
With a sigh, Gin rolled her shoulders to ease the stiffness that had crept into them during Donald’s appeal and headed back to her seat.
She still needed to finish her translation, and it was going to take a great deal of willpower to refocus her attention after such an interruption.
The first step: banish from her mind any further thought of marriage.
The last thing she expected was to find Sidney Braithwaite lounging in Donald’s abandoned seat.
His tawny head whipped up, and he frowned. “What are you doing here?”
“I would have thought you of all people would recognize my things.” Gin shoved a few books into her satchel to make a point. “Or are they invisible to you personally?”
His eyes narrowed. “I got a message to meet here.”
“I’m sure you did,” Gin said icily. “I must remember that excuse the next time I wish to banish someone from my preferred table.”
Braithwaite pulled a crumpled slip of paper from his jacket pocket and tossed it to her. “See for yourself.”
Smoothing it, Gin read: Duke Humfrey’s Library, eleven o’clock, fourth table on the right.
“I thought it was Harold being Harold. I help him sometimes.” Braithwaite hesitated, then drew in his legs and pushed back the chair. “It was probably a practical joke. Sorry to bother you.”
But before he could stand, a man in a dark suit appeared at the end of the row. “I see you got my message. Very good.”
Braithwaite’s mouth fell ajar. There was a ripple of strong emotion in his eyes, an unease that reminded Gin of the Chiseldon Park hounds when they feared her father’s mercurial moods.
Only, Gin couldn’t imagine what about the person before them would inspire such a feeling.
He was a slight man, barely taller than her, with a sallow complexion and thinning hair that spoke of an insalubrious Victorian childhood.
But the jaunty angle of his black fedora lent an air of quiet sophistication to a man whom she would have otherwise never noticed.
Gin slid the last book into her satchel and inclined her head at them both. “I shall resign the field today, Braithwaite. Good day.”
But the man’s fingertips brushed the table beside her. “If you’d please stay, Miss Bishop, this meeting pertains to you as well.”
She stilled, bristling in surprise at her name on a stranger’s lips. “I’m sorry, have we met? I’m usually quite good with faces.”
“Not formally,” the man conceded, “but we have mutual friends.”
Braithwaite’s wariness had hardened to resignation, but this still left Ginevra puzzled. “If this meeting pertains to me as well, why didn’t I also receive a summons?”
“Because I knew you would be here, of course.” The man glanced up and down the empty aisle. “You chose a very quiet hour for your studies.”
“No one’s ever here at this time—” Gin cut off her explanation. There was something about the man that made her want to divulge every thought currently swirling through her mind. He had the measured confidence of someone who knew how to handle any problem.
When he gestured for her to reclaim her seat, Gin promptly sat.
“Thank you, Miss Bishop.” The man crossed behind Braithwaite and claimed the chair nearest the wall, removing his hat and leaning a gold-headed cane against his knee.
He clasped his hands upon the table and faced them both with the air of someone asking a great favor.
“I’m here on behalf of His Majesty’s government.
There is a matter on which we require some assistance. ”
A civil servant then—that made more sense than the other categories of men among Ginevra’s acquaintance.
He was far too businesslike for the aristocracy and far too well-dressed to be a don.
But government men were a peculiar breed that combined subtle, stealthy ambition with rigorous work ethic; they were far more modest than a businessman who might flaunt his success. “Are you from the Home Office?”
The man shrugged. “Something like that.”
“He works in intelligence,” Braithwaite muttered.
“Counterintelligence now,” the man corrected. “The Home Office requested my talents elsewhere, and I switched departments. You may call me the Rook,” he said to Ginevra.
“You two know each other.” It was easy to see now, especially given the distrust in Braithwaite’s eyes.
The Rook smiled. “Mr. Braithwaite was an asset during the war. I hoped he could be prevailed upon to assist this time, along with you. I have a few questions.”
Gin caught herself leaning forward, so intent had she become upon this curious man, and corrected her posture.
Her father regularly dined with peers and MPs, but the intelligence agencies were a mystery to her—as perhaps they preferred.
But between the Rook’s aura of mystique and Braithwaite’s skittish reaction, Gin’s curiosity was so piqued by the nature of their work that she would gladly offer all sorts of information for a glimpse behind the curtain. “Of course, however I can help.”
Braithwaite crossed his arms and shifted lower in the seat. “Be careful what you say around this one.”
At this, the Rook’s clasped hands tightened upon the desk, a tiny crack in his placid demeanor. “I was told you two found Mr. Tolliver, and I have some questions about his death—or rather, his murder.”