The Devlin Diary by Christi Phillips Read Free Book Online

salad, a third party to a passionate dialogue about cricket, in which she comprehended very few words except for jolly good, fancy that, and bugger off, the last of which they said with startling frequency.
    Dessert was served along with dessert wines and coffee, and the master, Sir Gerald Liverton, Lord Liverton of Loos, K.B.E., F.R.S., F.B.A., O.M., M.I.5, stood up to address the assembly and introduce the new fellows. Claire had already been informed by the junior bursar that as a temporary lecturer, she would be acknowledged last. She took a sip of sauterne and, with only the slightest twinge of anxiety (she’d already downed three glasses of wine), waited her turn.
    “Whatever happened to old Ossery?” Professor Residue leaned across Claire and inquired of Professor Hammer in a loud whisper.
    “The old bugger’s standing for MP.”
    “And last,” the master said, “please welcome Dr. Claire Donovan, who comes to us from Harvard University, where she has just earned her doctorate in history.”
    “Not old Ossery! The man doesn’t know his arse from his elbow!”
    “We have the great privilege of Dr. Donovan’s company for the next three terms, during which she will supervise and lecture in history in her chosen area of study, early modern Europe…”
    “That’s never prevented anyone from becoming an MP before,” Hammer chuckled. Residue joined in, his hand waving wildly about. This time, the port splashed directly on Claire’s dress: directly on her beautiful, expensive, never-before-worn copper-colored satin gown, dead center between her breasts.
    She looked down at the spreading stain. Should she use her napkin to dab at it? Her hand went to her lap, then froze. It hardly seemed appropriate to dab at one’s own breasts on such an occasion, and in such august company. It was bad enough to be completely paralyzed as to what to do, but then Claire discovered something worse: when she looked up from gazing down at her cold, wet, wine-colored chest, she found that everyone seated nearby was also gawking at it. Andrew Kent’s eyebrows rose with mild shock; Carolyn Sutcliffe’s pursed mouth barely suppressed a smirk.
    As the master’s voice faded away, Claire heard the applause and knew she must stand up to be acknowledged. As she rose from her chair she could feel one hundred and fifty pairs of eyes turn to stare at her; she could feel the wine spreading like a bloodstain across the strapless bodice of her gown, its deep rubicund hue matching the color that must surely be rising in her cheeks. This was the moment she’d been imagining for months now: a dream come true, she thought ruefully.
    Somehow she’d never imagined it quite like this.

Chapter Five
    First week of Michaelmas term
    “S TOP LAUGHING, M EREDITH,” Claire said. The sound that issued from her cell phone was bright, twinkling, and occasionally punctuated by an uncharacteristic snort. Uncharacteristic for Meredith Barnes, anyway. The assistant dean of Forsythe Academy, a preparatory school in Claire’s home town of Harriot, Massachusetts, was tall, slender, glamorous, and almost completely unflappable. A deep, sexy laugh, yes; Claire had heard that plenty of times. Or even a light, lively giggle, bubbly as sparkling wine. But never a snort.
    “It isn’t funny,” Claire added, even though she knew quite well that her protests were having little impact. “It nearly ruined my dress. It would have been ruined except that the first dry cleaner I took it to said they had lots of experience getting wine stains out of expensive fabric. Apparently it happens all the time here.”
    Snort.
    “You’re not making me feel any better.” It wasn’t the first time Claire had provided an occasion for her best friend’s amusement. How come it never happened the other way around? Meredith never seemed to attract the sort of odd and embarrassing situations that Claire did.
    “I’m sorry.” Meredith’s laughter settled down into a few