Excerpt 1 – The Case of the Sexy Shakespearean by Tara Lain
Blaise said, “I’m so sorry, Dr. Lewis. I just don’t have good sense sometimes. I never should have put you in such a terrible position. I apologize from my soul.”
“N-not your f-f-fault.”
“Yes, it is. I completely overstepped my bounds. I feel like I know you, and I acted inappropriately.”
Llewellyn took a breath. “Y-you tried to make me f-feel comfortable.” He spoke slowly and got most of the words out. He didn’t want Blaise to take the blame.
Blaise smiled softly. “Yes, I did.”
Anne stepped closer. “Please don’t go until I’ve had a chance to tell you why I came.”
He met her gaze, and his whole stomach clenched. No. No way. “I—I—”
“Please let me tell you. You must know that Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford, is one of the people most often named as the true author of the works of Shakespeare.”
Blaise looked up at Llewellyn. “He is? I thought it was, like, Marlowe or Bacon.”
“No, no.” Anne waved a hand dismissively. “The Earl of Oxford has long been regarded as the most likely candidate to have written both the sonnets and the plays.”
“Yes, he’s one of the top candidates, if you believe such things.” The voice came from the sidewalk beside his car, and Llewellyn looked up to see George Stanley, Van Pelt, the Echevarrias, as well as the whole crew of dinner guests, with one or two defections, gathering there.
If I drive away, maybe I could just go to North Dakota and hide for the rest of my life? He swiped a hand over his face. Right, they love gay freaks there.
Anne frowned. “Not one of them, the most prominent among them, as I’m sure Dr. Lewis will agree.” He said nothing, and she didn’t seem to care. She was on a roll. “It’s been a dream of my family to investigate the earl’s position in this mystery for some time.”
I could run. Forget the car.
“That’s why I’ve sought out Dr. Lewis. He’s renowned throughout the world for uncovering new evidence in some of the great questions of history.” Her voice rang out like she was in a Shakespearean play herself. “That’s why I want him to prove beyond a doubt that my ancestor, Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford, is the real author of the works of William Shakespeare.”
Llewellyn shook his head back and forth like a befuddled cow. “So many tr-tr-tried. C-can’t—”
She raised her voice even more. “And I’m prepared to present the university with a historical research grant of five million dollars in order to prove this claim. One million to go to Dr. Lewis and the rest for dedication of the history building to my ancestor, Edward de Vere.”
For a second the whole street—the whole world—went silent.
Someone—maybe Echevarria—murmured, “No.”
Then Van Pelt’s voice rang out. “Well, that sounds like one of the most exciting and worthwhile historical research undertakings I’ve ever heard.”
Running wasn’t enough. Maybe he should vomit.
