Free The Venusian Gambit by Michael J. Martinez Page B

but principals and tutors desired their afternoon tea just as much as any other Englishmen.
    Yet despite the possibilities of the day, the hour and the weather, there was a decided lack of actual tea in Oxford these days, for it was that the Royal Navy found itself blockading the very nation it served—now occupied by Napoleon’s forces.
    And that, more than the lack of tea, and certainly more than the educational ambitions of the students remaining at Oxford, was the reason few were upon the streets. The patrols of French soldiers garrisoned throughout Oxfordshire were headquartered here, and those patrols primarily consisted of Napoleon’s Corps Éternel —those soldiers alchemically reanimated after their untimely passing to serve the nouveau régime.
    So it was, then, that one young tutor walked purposefully through the near-abandoned streets, passing only a spare few students and a carriage or two. A column of blue-coated soldiers marched down Catte Street, but he paid them no mind, for it was a common enough shortcut between Broad and High Street. However, he turned to watch them go on past Hertford College, where he taught, for it would not be meet for them to become overly curious as to goings on there.
    Especially when the goings on at the Bodleian Library—conveniently enough, across Catte Street from his very lodging—were far more interesting of late.
    Satisfied that Hertford held no interest for the French this day, the young man continued on, entering the King’s Arms public house. He smiled to the tavern keeper, who gave a broad wave in return—and a short, curt nod. There was no one to worry about within. All was well, and his compatriots awaited him down the stairs.
    The tutor smiled slightly and took the glass of wine left for him upon the countertop, then proceeded to the back of the room, opening the door leading downward to the cellars. A faint glow from a small room therein gave him light enough, and he entered to find he was the very last to arrive.
    Again.
    “So kind of you to join us, my lord Count,” a young woman said with a smile and no little sarcasm. She wore the clothing of a servant girl, one of many who attended to the needs of students and tutors alike. She did not, however, wear the bearing of such a woman. Intelligence shone from her eyes, and her face, framed by dark brown hair, bore determination upon it.
    “I apologize to all,” said Philip, the second Count St. Germain, returning the smile. “I had a most promising student come to me with the potential for an alchemical experiment in the mentis school, and I felt it wise to dissuade him from undertaking it without revision, lest his brains ooze from his ears.”
    Another young man, dressed in the more colorful robes of Trinity College, frowned at Philip. “If he were a Frenchman, then let his brains melt, I say.”
    “He was not, Mr. Lloyd, I assure you,” Philip replied tersely. Alfred Lloyd was the scion of a prominent London banking family, and as such conducted himself with a great sense of ownership of all about him. He was also studying Classics, which to Philip’s mind, was a profound waste of time and energy. However, Philip found Lloyd to be a true English patriot, despite whatever other shortcomings he possessed, and they were among the few members of Oxford’s secret resistance—a group of students and townsfolk dedicated to harassing the French as best they could. Philip knew there were other such groups spread throughout England, engaged in clandestine efforts to thwart England’s invaders.
    “Gunn and Mathers will be along in a few hours,” the woman said. “I can help Toby upstairs for a time, then inform them of the latest when they arrive. So shall we begin?”
    “Of course, Lady Elizabeth,” Philip said. It was, of course, due to the presence of Lloyd they referred to each other so formally, for they had known one another for a decade, since Philip was a teenager who had just lost his father,