Hattie wiggled her fingers at her. “I study fine arts. I paint. Thank goodness for gloves, I have the most pitiful hands in England.”
No, that would be my hands, Annabelle thought. The calluses would not go away in a lifetime. “I’m honored,” she said, “but I couldn’t possibly fit in a sitting for a painting.”
“It’s due next term,” Hattie said, her round eyes growing pleading.
Lucie cleared her throat. “Peregrin Devereux,” she said. “Find a way to get to him.”
The girls exchanged uncertain glances.
“If we want something from Lord Devereux, we need to offer him something in return,” Annabelle said, starting with the obvious.
“We could pay him,” Hattie suggested after a moment.
Annabelle shook her head. “He will hardly want for money.”
“Young men always want for money,” Hattie said, “but you are right, it may not be enough for him to tattle on his brother.”
“Perhaps we have to find a way to get closer to Montgomery himself.”
“I think there is something that Lord Devereux might want,” Catriona said quietly.
Hattie leaned in. “You do?”
Catriona studied her hands. “His drinking society wants the key to the wine cellar of St. John’s.”
Hattie gasped. “Of course he would want that.”
Excitement sizzled up Annabelle’s nape. Oxford’s drinking societies were outrageously competitive, to a point that it had reached even the delicate ears of the female students. They said it was worth more than a first-class degree, and was as coveted as winning a tournament against Cambridge, leading the table of drunken debaucheries. Odd priorities, rich people had.
“But how do we get our hands on the key?” she asked.
Catriona looked up. “My father has it.”
Indeed. As a don at St. John’s, Professor Campbell would have all sorts of keys. Annabelle felt a rare grin coming on. Hattie looked like a cat about to raid the canary cage.
“Oh dear,” Catriona said. “We better make this worth it.”
* * *
The sun had set by the time Annabelle climbed the creaking stairs to her room in Lady Margaret Hall. There were only eight other students in her class, one of whom, namely Hattie, resided in the Randolph, so they were all easily accommodated in a modest brick house at the outskirts of town. Nothing at all like the Randolph. Still, a warm emotion filled her to the brim as she stood in the doorway to her chamber. The low light of the gas lamp cast everything in a golden glow, the narrow bed on the left, the wardrobe on the right, and, straight ahead, the rickety desk before the window. Her desk. Where she could sink into the myths of Greek antiquity and solve Latin puzzles. Her bed. Where she could sleep alone, without being kicked by a sleepy child’s foot or having the blanket stolen by one of Gilbert’s girls. All it took was a note on the outside of the door saying she was engaged, and the world remained outside and left her undisturbed.
She hugged her arms around herself tightly. What a gift this was, a room of her own.
She’d make the very best of it; she’d be the most diligent, appreciative student she could be.
But first . . . she groaned. First she had to help a group of suffragists infiltrate the home of the most powerful duke in England.
Chapter 5
November
Sebastian skewered Peregrin with a stare over the top of the letter that had accompanied his unexpected arrival at Claremont.
“You are failing your classes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have not paid this term’s tuition fee.”
Peregrin raked a nervous hand through his hair, leaving it hopelessly disheveled.
“I have not.”
So his attempt to train a feckless brother in financial responsibility by handing him his own account had failed.
“And this morning, Weatherly climbed up a freshly gilded rain pipe at St. John’s because you were chasing him with a sword?”
“It was a foil,” Peregrin muttered, “and Weatherly deserved it.”
Sebastian lowered the letter onto his desk, which was already covered in neat stacks of paperwork, all of them both urgent and important. He had not time for this. Peregrin was not stupid, and he was not a young boy; there was therefore no reason for him to act like a stupid young boy, but for a year now he had been acting exactly like that, creating problems that should by any logic not even exist.
“Were you drunk?”
Peregrin shifted in his chair. “No. A Scotch, perhaps two.”
If he admitted to two, one could safely double that. Drinking before noon. Well,