Carolyn soon returned, even more smug than before. “Gaby just told me the most marvelous news. You remember Gabriella Griseri, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Claire didn’t bother pointing out that Carolyn knew very well that she knew Gabriella.
“She just landed the most fabulous job,” Carolyn gushed. “Her own half-hour chat show on the BBC. Andy will be so proud.” She smiled at Claire as if challenging her to refute it. Her intent was so obvious—don’t you dare interfere with the happy couple!—that Claire didn’t even deign to acknowledge it. When she didn’t respond, Carolyn got back to business. “Where were we? Oh, yes, Alice Larkin’s supervisions. She was in charge of sixteen students. I’m going to assign three to Radha Patel, three to Toby Campbell, and the remainder to you.”
“Ten students?”
“You’ve only twelve at present. Others have taken on more than that at times.”
But not currently, Claire read between the lines. Carolyn Sutcliffe was assigning more students to Claire than to anyone else in the department. Another ten students would bring her total up to twenty-two. She’d be teaching so much that she’d hardly have time to research and write. Even with her current load, she hadn’t done much. She’d looked for the article that Derek Goodman had mentioned, but she hadn’t found it. And she’d gone back to the Wren twice to work with the diary. She’d copied everything but the last ten pages. She berated herself for not being more diligent when she’d had time. How was she ever going to find time now, with twenty-two hours of supervision and twenty-two papers to read every week?
“Is there a problem?” Carolyn asked in a way that made it clear she couldn’t care less if there was.
“I won’t have much time to do research.”
“I don’t see the need. You’re a temporary lecturer, not a research fellow.”
“I’m still a historian. I’m working on a paper about encryption in the seventeenth century. How am I going to be able to write it while supervising twenty-two students?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, but I hardly think it matters.”
The gloves were off, Claire realized. Obviously Carolyn Sutcliffe valued her friendship with Gabriella so much that she was willing to undermine Claire’s ability to do her job by trying to make it difficult for her to write a paper, maybe even by making it difficult for her to perform well as a supervisor.
“In any case,” Carolyn went on, “I believe that another of the fellows is writing a paper on the same subject, so it’s just as well for you to leave off.”
“Someone else is writing about seventeenth-century codes and ciphers?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Derek Goodman.”
Claire strode across the Backs toward Sidgwick, where Carolyn had told her Derek was lecturing. Her pace was brisk, her mind troubled. Was it possible that Derek Goodman had asked her to go out with him just for the opportunity to poach her work? It seemed absurd, but he was the one who’d told her that academics were ruthless.
In the past week since the kiss, she’d been avoiding both Andrew Kent and Derek, and she wasn’t looking forward to confronting him. She suspected they had been avoiding her too. On the Trinity College website she had found a paper entitled “Sexual Relationships between Junior and Senior Fellows” that spelled out all the possible consequences of such a liaison, and none of them were good. Perhaps all Andrew had had to do was mention “disciplinary action” to Derek and he’d stopped pursuing her. She spotted him emerging from the fog while walking across the Backs of Queens’ College.
“How could you?” Claire demanded as soon as she was within speaking range.
“How could I what?” Derek grinned innocently.
“You know very well what.” All the way from Nevile’s Court, Claire had been unsure of what she would say, but now that she was face-to-face with Derek Goodman her anger untied the knot in her tongue. “You stole my idea.”
He guffawed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Carolyn Sutcliffe just told me that you’re writing a paper on seventeenth-century codes.”
“And what’s this to do with you?”
“I told you that I was writing about it. You stole my idea for a paper.”
“Come on, now. Do you really think I need your help to generate ideas?”
“I showed you my notes from the diary I found. Are you saying that you thought of it before I did?”
“Of course I did.”
“If that’s true, why didn’t you tell me the night we went out to the pub?”
“I know better than to share my ideas with other historians.”
“But why would you want to write a paper on a subject that was just written about by some”—Claire paused as she tried to recall the word—“‘wanker’ at St. John’s?”
“Oh, that.” He shrugged. “I may have misremembered.”
“Misremembered?” Claire said incredulously. She was temporarily stunned speechless by the depth and breadth of his deception. “You made it all up, didn’t you? It was all a big lie, from the moment you asked me out to telling me that a paper like mine had already been written.”
“I think your imagination is working overtime, Dr. Donovan. Surely I’ve got better things to do than wine and dine junior fellows and press them for ideas. Anyway, ideas are easy; it’s the execution that’s hard. I don’t see that my paper and yours have anything at all to do with each other.”
“You mean you’re still going to write it?”
“Write it and publish it, I imagine. I’ve got a greater knowledge of sources, and I daresay I can churn out a paper much faster than you can. I know editors at all the journals. All I have to do is make a phone call and they’ll make space for anything I choose to write. And once my paper is published, no one will be interested in publishing yours.”
Claire felt as if she’d been knocked breathless. She’d heard of ruthless ambition before, but she’d never encountered anything like this. He’d made a preemptive strike to destroy the competition even before she’d had a chance to compete. And not only had Derek Goodman completely deceived her but he also showed no remorse for his behavior. “You can’t do this,” Claire said. “I’ll lodge a complaint with the vice-master.”
“Go right ahead. It’s your word against mine. Who do you think he’ll believe? A fellow who’s been with the college for fourteen years, or a temporary lecturer who’s been here less than a month?”
Derek smiled again, but Claire didn’t find it at all charming anymore.
The door to Andrew Kent’s set was at the top of E staircase in the Great Court. Claire raised her hand to knock, then hesitated. She had decided against going to the vice-master to make a formal complaint against Derek Goodman. If Andrew Kent could have a private word with Derek and tell him to lay off the writing of (and the stealing of, Claire thought darkly) her paper, then all of this could be handled very quietly, no fuss, no muss, no repercussions. Not that she was worried about what was going to happen to Derek, but she knew it wouldn’t look good for a new lecturer to make accusations about one of the fellows, no matter how true it might have been. The cards were stacked against her.
But how was Andrew Kent going to react? She lowered her hand. If he hadn’t seen her kissing Derek Goodman (the kissing debacle was how she thought of it now), she could have counted on his trust in her. They might not have known each other well, but certainly he knew her well enough to know she was not a liar. But now? What must he think of her?
Claire worried that she’d lost Andrew’s good opinion entirely. Maybe he was even sorry he’d hired her. After all, he hadn’t bothered getting in touch with her since the debacle, and he’d given her no opportunity to explain. Not that she was sure she could explain. What would she say? “I was just standing there innocently, and he kissed me”? Not exactly the truth. “I was feeling lonely and I let him kiss me”? Closer, but still not the whole enchilada. “I thought Derek Goodman was extraordinarily attractive
until I discovered what an underhanded snake he is”? That more closely approximated the truth, but how could she prove that there had been a devious motive behind Derek Goodman’s kiss?
Maybe she shouldn’t say anything to anyone. She could turn around, go back to her set, and pretend none of this had ever happened. She could supervise twenty-two students a week and try to find another subject for a paper—if she ever found time to go to the library again. Except it was so patently unfair. Even if it hadn’t happened to her, Claire would have been outraged by Derek Goodman’s behavior. It was simply wrong for an older, seasoned academic to charm, manipulate, and steal from one of his younger colleagues. And as he’d said, he’d been a fellow for fourteen years. Claire had a sneaking feeling that she wasn’t the first person he’d used in this way.
But did she really want to open this can of worms? What would Derek Goodman do once he found out that she’d told someone about his misdeed? Clearly, Claire decided, she should think on it a bit longer.
The door opened and Andrew Kent stood in the doorway, dressed in a brownish tweed jacket, similarly colored slacks, a tan button-down shirt, and a green tie. Not a bad ensemble for a man who sometimes dressed as though he were color-blind. He sported a new pair of glasses that reminded her of 1920s intellectuals, rather dashing in their vintage style, and his hair was mussed, as if he’d been running his hands through it. He was, in fact, the epitome of the absentminded professor, the sort who is sexy without being aware of it. At the moment she wished she didn’t find Andrew Kent so incredibly appealing. It simply made this particular encounter more awkward.
“Were you going to knock, or were you planning to stand there all afternoon?” he asked in a way that was not entirely welcoming.
It reminded her that Andrew Kent was not so much absentminded as acid-tongued. “I hadn’t decided yet,” Claire answered in an equally frosty tone.
“Why don’t you come in while you’re making up your mind?” Andrew said as he stepped back from the doorway.
His set consisted of only two rooms, a sitting room and an office. Andrew lived “out,” or off-campus, with his young son. Through the windows she could see across the Great Court to the chapel on the other side. She could also see the path leading up to the doorway of E staircase. Andrew had seen her coming in. Great, she thought, feeling foolish. He’d known she’d been standing outside his door the whole time.
Inside, the sitting room contained a pair of large leather chairs with tufted backs, and a few well-stocked bookcases along one wall. A collection of framed photographs covered the top of a mahogany side table. Most appeared to be of his son, Stewart, and they charted his growth from infant to the present, about ten years old, Claire estimated. He was a redhead, or ginger-haired, as they said here. Must take after his late mother.
“Is something wrong?” Andrew asked, closing the door behind them.
“What makes you think that?”
“One, you’ve never come to visit me before, and two, the unhappy expression on your face.”
Not for the first time, Claire wished that she weren’t so transparent. “I’m having a problem with one of the fellows.” She decided to sound out Andrew first before giving specifics.
“What kind of problem?”
“This other fellow is writing a paper on the same topic I’m writing on—only I’m pretty sure that he wasn’t writing it until after I told him about my own paper and showed him my notes.”
“Pretty sure?”
“Entirely sure.”
“Can you prove it?”
“No, but it’s true. I just spoke with him about it. He doesn’t even try to conceal the truth—he just said that he’ll write it faster and publish it first so that my paper doesn’t stand a chance.”
“Is it Derek Goodman, by any chance?”
“How did you know?”
“Let’s just say you’re not the first to have these sorts of issues with him.”
“Then perhaps I should go to the vice-master.”
Andrew shook his head. “That’s not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re new here and he isn’t. Because he’s a Trinity graduate and you’re not. Because you’re American and he’s English. Because you’re a woman and he’s a man. There, I’ve just said all of the politically incorrect stuff—I suppose I shouldn’t have, but unfortunately it’s all true. If he refutes your claim, you might not get a fair hearing.”
“He said it would be my word against his.” Claire paused, feeling overwhelmed. Of all the things she had imagined going wrong in her new job, she had never imagined this. “So what can I do?”
“What is it you want?”
“I just want to be able to write the paper.”
“And publish it?”
“Hopefully, yes.”
Andrew picked up his cell phone and punched a few keys. “I’ll put this on speakerphone.”
Claire heard the phone ringing at the opposite end, then Derek Goodman’s voice. He didn’t bother saying hello. “I told you, I won’t sit on another damned committee, Andy.”
Andrew ignored his insolent manner. “Do you have a minute, Derek? I need to talk to you.”
“A minute, but no more,” he said with a sharp laugh. “I’m timing you.” Interesting how obvious Derek’s rudeness was when it was not offset by the charms of his person.
“Dr. Donovan tells me that you’re writing a paper very much like hers, on the subject of—?” he looked to Claire.
“Seventeenth-century codes and ciphers,” she answered.
“Seventeenth-century codes and ciphers,” Andrew told Derek.
“Is that so?” Derek replied snidely. “I beg to differ. She happens to be writing a paper that is very much like mine.”
“She said she showed you her notes.”
“Rubbish. It’s complete fiction.”
“Why would she lie about this, Derek?”
“Could be any of a number of reasons. Number one of which is that she asked me to come up to her set and I said no. Hell hath no fury and all that.”
Claire gasped at his bald-faced lie.
“Somehow I don’t think that’s the case, Derek,” Andrew said.
“For Christ’s sake, how am I supposed to know why? All I can tell you is that she’s lying. We went out for a beer and had a snog, which you may recall, Andrew, as you so rudely interrupted us. We never even discussed work.” He paused. “And I see that our time is up. Don’t call me again unless it’s about something important.”
Andrew closed his phone and returned it to his pocket. “Charming as usual. Well?”
At first Claire was too stunned to say anything. Finally she blurted, “He’s the one who’s lying. It wasn’t like that at all—I never asked him to come up to my set.”
“I understand that Derek is, er, difficult,” Andrew said, “and that this is a difficult situation, but I’m afraid there’s not much I can do without some kind of proof.”
“That’s it? He’s ‘difficult,’ it’s a ‘difficult situation,’ but there’s nothing you can do? Derek Goodman is a shameless liar and a thief to boot. You might have at least warned me about him. That’s if you’d ever bothered to speak to me.”
“Oh.” Andrew seemed at a loss for words. “I’m sorry about that.” He looked down at the floor. Was that guilt or embarrassment in his expression? “I’ve been really busy.”
“Too busy to make me feel welcome?” Claire asked. “Just why did you hire me, anyway?”
“Because you’re a fine scholar and I thought you would be an asset to the school.”
“That’s the only reason?”
“Of course that’s the only reason.”
Of course. Why had she ever thought there had been something more? Her imagination had run away with her. Andrew Kent was a senior fellow and she was, for all intents and purposes, a junior fellow. There were rules about that. Rules that Hoddy had already told her Andrew would never transgress
.
“If you can come up with proof that you were writing on this subject first and showed him your notes,” Andrew said, “I promise I’ll have him brought up before the disciplinary committee. In the meantime, the best advice I can give you is to steer clear of him.”
“Avoid him? That’s all you’re going to say?” Claire huffed as she turned toward the door. How could Andrew Kent be so uncaring, so indifferent? “I’m sorry I bothered coming here.”
Chapter Fourteen
5 November 1672
THOUGH THE KING remains at Hampton, the courtiers have returned to Mademoiselle de Keroualle’s. Her drawing room has come to life again, with the chandeliers, the candelabra, and the palatial fireplace ablaze. A maidservant, this one a quick-limbed girl of no more than thirteen, leads Hannah past the bewigged men at the card tables, engrossed in high-stakes games of Basset, and a few who lounge on the furniture, talking and taking snuff. By the time they reach the end of the hallway, the withdrawing room’s light music of harp and viola has faded away, along with its steady drone of animated voices. When the maid ushers her into the mademoiselle’s bedchamber, she is reminded of the drowsy, enchanted silence of the previous night. The only sounds that disturb the stillness are the hiss of the wood fire and the swish of the maidservant’s skirts as she hurries from the room.
The curtains are drawn open, revealing two large windows with an expansive view of the wide, gray river and the lowering sky. Slow and stately, barges and boats glide up-and downstream. The room itself is extravagantly designed, rather more so than Hannah realized last night. Everything in it—the curtains, the chairs, the custom-made Aubusson carpets, the paneled walls decorated with gold filigree—is tinted in shades of rose. No doubt in sunny weather this is a flattering color for Mademoiselle de Keroualle, but in the cold light of an overcast autumn morning it takes on a bluish-gray hue, which Hannah cannot help comparing to the bloodless pallor of a corpse’s lips.
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