Ah well. Well well well. That explained Her Majesty’s chagrin, but who, he wondered, who could have pushed the matter all the way to Buckingham Palace, and so quickly? He realized then that the small pause had told the queen all she needed to know. Her face was pinched and furious. He really was slipping.

“My involvement was private, not a political matter,” he said.

She gave him an icy glare. “And far be it from us to concern ourselves with our subjects’ private matters. We do not, especially not when they are a personal disappointment to us.”

She reached for her bell.

“Ma’am, these women were treated like criminals and kept in conditions entirely unsuited for females.”

She looked at him as though she did not know him at all. “Do you propose we encourage their agenda? You of all people should know what happens when you let a woman run loose—she knows no moderation. The female heart is a violent creature. We advise you to think wisely from now on where your loyalties lie, Montgomery, what kind of world it is you want. If the esteem of your queen is no motivation for you, at least have a care for your ancestral seat.”

The cold tinny sound of the bell rung out. He was dismissed. He had been warned off, and insulted.

What troubled him most was that he didn’t truly seem to care.

“Rusticated?” Hattie sounded thunderstruck.

Lucie and Catriona seemed lost for words entirely. The tiny sandwiches on the tiered platters before them were forgotten, as was the bottle of champagne Hattie had ordered to her apartment to celebrate the completion of Helen of Troy last night.

“Yes,” Annabelle said, “but they’ll reinstate me soon.”

She had moved out of Lady Margaret Hall this morning, and her trunks had already been deposited in a tiny lodger’s room in Mrs. Forsyth’s two-down, one-up in Jericho.

“This is ridiculous,” Hattie stormed, “and it’s all my fault. Stay with me here; Aunty will be happy to have you around.”

“We have a guest room,” Catriona said. “Father probably won’t even notice your presence.”

“I have a cot we could put into my sitting room,” Lucie offered.

“Please,” Annabelle said, “that’s very generous of you, but don’t you see? If I am sent down because I’m a blight on the college, I can hardly be seen associating with any of you.”

“That’s true,” Lucie said crisply, “which is why you should stay with me. I have no reputation to lose.”

Catriona and Hattie had fallen quiet.

The lavish room felt stuffy and constricting.

She came to her feet. “Lucie, I know you think you’re a black sheep, but do you really want to attract such negative publicity for your cause?”

Lucie’s delicate face set in determined lines. “You can hardly expect me to just turn my back on you. You wouldn’t have been imprisoned if it weren’t for the cause, which I obliged you to support, so I’m responsible for this. Stay on in Oxford. Stay with me. We will weather this together.”

These crumbs of hope were almost worse than a clean slate of desolation.

“Lucie, the Oxford suffragists are all ladies of quality. If word about me gets out to their fathers, you will have a problem.”

An angry furrow formed between Lucie’s brows. “Leaving a comrade behind would be terrible for troop morale. This could have happened to anyone.”

No. No lady of quality would have thrown a punch.

“We aren’t soldiers,” Annabelle said. “We don’t take arrows for our comrades. We are women, and they measure us by the pristine condition of our dresses and reputation, not our bravery. Trust me, upholding troop morale will be easier for you when I’m gone.”

She left her friends in stunned silence and walked right out of the Randolph Hotel into the cold of a drab morning. She pushed on across St. Giles to the arched wing doors of St. John’s, where she had one thing left to do.

Jenkins was ensconced behind his desk, elbow-deep in a stack of papers. His hair stuck up on the left side of his head, as if he had tried to forcibly tug one of his brilliant thoughts from the depths of his mind. The sight of organized chaos in his study was so heartbreakingly familiar that it took every ounce of her strength to not begin to cry.

“Miss Archer.” Jenkins took off his glasses and blinked. That, too, was a gesture she found saddeningly familiar.

“I did not realize I had called for your assistance today.”

“May I come in, Professor?”

“Please do.”

Only when she had taken her seat did he glance back at the now-closed door, frowning. “Where is that noisy chaperone of yours?”

“I’m afraid I have to resign from my assistant position,” she said.

Jenkins’s features sharpened, and she knew he had left Greek antiquity behind and was present. In as few words as possible, she told him about her circumstances, save the part about Sebastian.

“That is a conundrum,” Jenkins said when she had finished. “A foolish circus, but hard to rectify under the circumstances.”

She gave a nod, feeling a last spark of hope extinguish.

Jenkins put his glasses back on and leaned back in his chair. “Well, I can’t let you go. Your work is too good.”

She gave him a watery smile. “Thank you,” she said. “I shall miss my work here very much.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Do you wish to continue working as my assistant?”

“Yes.” She said it without hesitation. Oh, if only there were a way. The mere thought of slinking back to the bleakness of Chorleywood made her want to howl.

“And would you like to stay in Oxford?” Jenkins asked. “It could become quite unpleasant for you for a while.”

“It is my greatest wish to stay,” she said. “I just don’t have an option to do so.”

“You do,” Jenkins said. “You could marry me.”

Chapter 28

Marry me. Marry him? Marry Jenkins?

“I seem to have rendered you speechless,” Jenkins remarked. “I suppose the correct way of saying it is ‘Miss Archer, would you honor me with your hand in marriage?’” He tilted his head expectantly.

“This . . . comes as a bit of a surprise,” she said weakly.

“Does it really?” he asked, bemused. “The possibility must have crossed your mind at some point.”

Much as she cared for him, it hadn’t crossed her mind. He was of course a brilliant man, and an eligible bachelor, too, not too old and with nice teeth and a good set of shoulders. But normally, a courting phase preceded a proposal.

Then again, he had taken her to a concert. He bickered at her in old Latin twice a week and he fed her apples. Indeed, his proposal had probably been a perfectly foregone conclusion to any bystander. How had she not expected it?

“I have contemplated proposing to you for a while,” he said. “I want to take you on the excursion to the Peloponnese, and this would be the most expedient way of doing it.”

“Expedient,” she echoed.

He nodded. “Imagine the breach of propriety otherwise. And no chance in Hades would I take your Mrs. Forsyth along.”

“Professor . . .”

“Please,” he interjected, “hear me out. Miss, you are a rare find for a man like me. People are either intellectually capable or agreeable. They are hardly ever both. You are. You are the best assistant I’ve ever had. Furthermore, like myself, you don’t seem keen on children, when most women are. I’m aware my standards are unorthodox, which, I assure you, is the sole reason for my bachelorhood; I am otherwise perfectly capable of providing for a wife. And my name would shield you from this nonsense that is presently making life difficult for you; in fact, you could continue with your work as if nothing had happened.”