Diana Curran had marched in front of a panel of academics alone, baby Emma strapped to her chest, and delivered a blistering PhD defense. She had left destined for one of the brightest careers in her field. She would not have been afraid of a few questions at an interview.
Nerves thrummed in Emma’s belly. By the time she turned into the forecourt of the Science Department, she felt her pulse in every part of her body. Emma followed the signs to a corridor lined with plastic chairs, and shed the waders. A single poster stuck to a glass door read “Colefax-Lee Foundation Interviews: Wait Here.”
The lines of seats were empty. The other candidates were running late, she supposed. Emma chose the chair nearest the door, hid the waders underneath, and waited.
Purposeful steps echoed down the corridor. Emma’s head jerked up.
The cool, oval face was one Emma knew well. At least by sight.
Julia Colefax-Lee’s eighteenth birthday had been captured in lavish detail inTatler.Her mother, it was rumored, was a paternal cousin to Princess Diana. Her godmother was a former lady-in-waiting to the queen. She had emerged from Swiss boardingschool with the expected poise and accomplishments. She had also acquired a gracious smile that made those in its path feel included and special—however quickly its giver hurried away afterward.
Like Emma, Julia belonged to Gabriel College. Emma had seen her returning to her room, surrounded always by a cloud of girls with hand-painted highlights and whippety torsos. They had never spoken.
The cool gaze took her in with a hint of surprise. “You’re not here for the foundation, are you?”
“Th-the interview?” Emma stammered. “Yes.”
“Mmm.” Julia’s gaze was dancing somewhere above Emma’s shoulder. “Well. I’m sure the rest will be here soon. The other interviewers are running a little late too.”
Emma couldn’t coax her eyes away from Julia’s dress, an exquisitely tailored confection of cream silk. It looked as though it had been designed for the boardroom of a California tech company. Emma darted a look down at her own plain white shirt and sole pair of smart trousers. They had seemed lovely in her room.
A redhead charged into the corridor, a sodden umbrella streaming in her wake.
“Jules! Bloody nightmare getting here. And Venetia nowhere to be seen, of course.”
Julia sighed. “I’d wanted to wait for her, but—there! Beautiful girl!”
The object of her raptures stalked down the corridor, not visibly moved. She had a perfectly symmetrical face, delicately pointed chin, and long blond Alice in Wonderland hair. Not a drop of water clung to her skintight leather dress or the red bottoms of her boots.
“God, the taxi driver took forever. Well, if we’re doing this, let’s get it done.”
Centuries of boredom oozed from that one small voice.
“Of course, darling. Let’s set up. We’ll leave some time for the candidates to arrive.”
The door swung shut, leaving Emma alone in the corridor. She unclenched her fingers and muttered her way through her opening paragraph once more.
But before she reached the second sentence, she realized the glass door was not soundproof. She could hear every syllable of the girls’ conversation. And—if she twisted in her chair at just the right angle—she could see them.
On the other side of the door, Julia sat in the central interviewer’s chair, sipping a sparkling water. Venetia had propped her feet on the table. Imogen Baldock was pacing in front of them, red curls bouncing, breathless with news.
“You will not believe who’s here.”
“Who?”
“Three clues. St. Dunstan’s College. Supposed to be racing his family’s yacht around the world this year. Most beautiful boy in the University. Comeon,darlings.”
“Not Jasper Balfour?” Julia sat bolt upright. “Back?”
Imogen chuckled. “Oh, he’ll be sure to scandalize half the University before term’s out. But you have to admit, things would have been dull without the divine Jasper.” She perched on the table and swung her legs. “Perhaps I’ll have a crack at him myself this year.”
She added, under Julia’s wry glance, “Well, the demigod will have to fall in love one day. And why not with me?” She grinned. “Or the thousand others in the queue, yes.”
“That’s old news, surely.” Venetia half closed her eyes. “Apparently, his father wasn’t overjoyed about his only son taking a year off from the University to go yachting around the world—”
“—or maybe he wanted the yacht for himself,” Imogen cut in, “to impress that film actress he’s been seeing on the side. My dad’s friends with him. He let that slip.”
Venetia Kent rolled her eyes. Imogen’s father owned a stable of the country’s most slanderous scandal sheets. Gossip ran in the family.
