Oxford Whispers

by Marion Croslydon

  Please, God, have him kiss me.

  But Rupert’s cell rang, returning them to the present. Without hiding his irritation, he took the call. Madison swallowed her disappointment. Hard.

  She couldn’t guess the content of Rupert’s conversation with an “Archie” as he limited his answers to “yes,” “great,” and a final “thank you.”

  She bit her tongue and didn’t ask who Archie was.

  “It was Archie Blake, our genealogist, returning my call. He’ll have a look at our second earl for us.”

  Madison’s throat tightened. “It sounds as if he told you a little bit about him in the meantime.”

  “As a matter of fact, yes, he did. Robert’s death created the first hiccup in my family history. His death nearly ended our line.”

  “He died …”

  Rupert looked at her askance. “The guy lived in the seventeenth century.” Turning his attention back to the cell still in his hand, he added, “He died in 1651, not even a year after his father, Godfrey, and left behind a struggle for the title.”

  “How did he die?”

  “I didn’t ask. Sorry. But his wife followed him to the grave quickly afterwards.”

  Madison pinched the skin of her right palm. What she’d heard already dashed any hope of Robert and Sarah living a long, happy life together. One year at best. She didn’t want to know more. But she had to.

  “He didn’t mention the name of the wife?”

  “She was a Lady Elizabeth something, from a Royalist family up north.”

  Madison brought her hand to her mouth to cover the gasp this revelation caused.

  The Cavalier never married Sarah. They were indeed the Romeo and Juliet of their time. Social and political divides had crushed any hope for their love.

  Unless Sarah died before she could marry Robert.

  BACK IN OXFORD, opposite Christ Church College, Peter paced along a hidden corner of St. Aldate’s. How long had he gone back and forth on the same stretch of pavement? He didn’t care. With all his muscles tensed, he kept his neck lowered, his head tucked down and his hands clenched into fists. The frozen gesture held his emotions in check. Always had, always would.

  His mumbling stopped when he turned his body toward the entrance gate of the college. When would Sarah be back from Magway? Since her return to Oxford he’d kept her on a tight leash. He had managed to scare her yesterday, when he made her fall from her bicycle. Today, however, she had evaded him. He could not prevent her from going on this journey with the nobleman.

  Peter stood straight, the cold wrapping his body in its November grasp. He pulled his jacket tighter around him as a barrier to the wind.

  The reality of this modern world interfered with the flow of his consciousness. The cars thundered by and the electric lamps shined an intrusive light on his face. But at its core, nothing had changed. He loved Sarah and he hated her. His emotions confused him, tore him apart.

  At last. They were here. The nobleman stopped his extravagant carriage, and Peter took a few steps away. He didn’t want them to recognize him.

  The fingers on his right hand dug into the palm of his left. What were they doing? Probably already “making out,” as they said nowadays. Peter did not expect better from sinners like them.

  Sarah stepped out of the car, as did Dallembert. He took her satchel from the trunk of his automobile and handed it to her. If only Peter could hear what they were saying … He leaned forward and his eyes focused on his prey.

  It was happening all over again. The arrogance of the nobleman melted when he looked down at Sarah. She comported herself well, feigning modesty, but lust radiated from their unconscious courtship. When Peter had proposed to her, Sarah had sworn to him her love for the Cavalier was real, overwhelming. She had no choice, she’d explained when he confronted her.

  Now, Sarah had found the Cavalier again. For the first time, they were reunited. Peter’s wandering spirit would not let that happen. Oxford would be the theater of their love once again, as it had been so many centuries before.

  Shutting his eyes, he winced at the burning fire of his jealousy. He had tried hard to forget, to seize the opportunities the capricious roll of fate had provided him.

  His attempts had all been in vain. He had always known that, one day, Sarah and Robert would find each other again. That one day he would again be wronged by their love. His fate was sealed a long time ago, on that dreadful afternoon in the clearing.

  No. He would fight this. He had won once. He could win again. Shaking himself from the powerful clutch of his memories, he saw a range of new possibilities. He would spy, he would befriend, he would lie, and he would kill. That prospect made him rejoice, brought him comfort. His fate was to demand and execute justice.

  Chapter 11

  I CAN’T BELIEVE HOW long it takes Davies to get us coffee,” Pippa hissed, glancing in the direction of the conference room’s exit. “The museum’s shop is a staircase away, and the seminar should start any minute now.” She turned her head back and nodded toward the stage. “Madison, your Doctor McCain is the sexiest panelist I’ve ever seen.” She moistened her lips with obvious appetite and squinted her emerald eyes.

  After her trip to Magway, Madison had hurried to meet Pippa and Ollie at the Ashmolean Museum, where Jackson moderated a symposium.

  “Chill out, missie.” Madison put a calming hand on her friend’s wrist. Pippa’s skin felt cold. “And I’m not talking about Oliver’s delayed coffee delivery. McCain’s my tutor, for God’s sake.”

  “Yeah, as if … You’re in Europe now. People are more relaxed about these things. Each time the two of you talk, sparks fly. He doesn’t fool me. The guy has a crush on you, and you on him. You’d be happier with him than with Rupert Vance.” Pippa shivered and wrapped herself in the coat that had been lying on her knees.

  What was this obsession with Rupert? Pippa had had plenty of other men since then. Madison wanted to defend herself, but Ollie arrived, his hands full of scalding paper cups. As they sorted out the drinks, a bespectacled academic signaled the start of the symposium. Silence reigned over the room.

  Madison didn’t welcome the ban on talking. Conversation kept her from lapsing into disturbing thoughts. Her emotions had blurred since coming back from Magway. She faced a mountain of unsettling questions, and distraction was the simplest way of dealing with them.

  In vain, she tried to focus on the panel. Although the speakers’ mouths opened … rounded … closed, the sounds didn’t reach her ears. Instead, her brain threw questions at her, questions she had no answers to.

  Were Robert Dallembert and the Cavalier the same person? She couldn’t mistake their physical likeness or ignore they had lived through the same troubled times. Those had to be more than coincidences.

  She shifted in her seat, straightened her legs and crossed her ankles. When Pippa gave her a sidelong glance, Madison forced herself to control her restlessness. She took off the silver ring she wore on her index finger and started fiddling with it. A present from her grandmother, a family talisman.

  Her thoughts kept on unraveling the implications of the Cavalier’s identity and his connection with Rupert Vance. Today, the stakes had risen. The characters in the painting had existed, she was sure of it. She had to track down Sarah and Peter, and find out how they had been connected to Robert Dallembert.

  RUPERT STRETCHED HIS battered legs. Today’s trip to Magway had been an excuse to miss training. Tomorrow the torture would start again.

  He glanced at his friends gathered around the wide table in his conservatory.

  The currant flavor of red wine tingled his tongue.

  “Rupert took some American white-trash to Magway today as a spot of charity work.” Harriet looked around the table with a derisive expression. All heads turned in Rupert’s direction.

  Rupert shifted in his seat, crossed his ankles and lowered his head. “I had to go there anyway. No big deal.”

  “A boy or a girl?” one of his fri
ends asked in a clipped voice.

  Rupert shifted again. He didn’t want to get dragged into talking about Madison, but Harriet had taken over the conversation.

  “She’s a grad student at Christ Church.”

  “Is she hot?” asked the same friend.

  Beautiful. Rupert was careful not to breathe a sigh or react at all.

  “A sweet little country bumpkin. Or a midget, depending on your taste.” Harriet brought her glass of wine to her lips, hiding her smile.

  Rupert’s spine stiffened. “Harriet, why don’t you find another victim to sink your teeth into? Madison is my study partner. That’s all there is to it.”

  His girlfriend grimaced as if her wine had turned into vinegar. Thankfully, she dropped the topic of Madison. He looked away, more than a bit surprised with himself. He hardly knew the girl, but, in a weird way, Madison was off limits. For him, but also for anyone else.

  Eager to find an escape, he stood and took some of the plates back to the kitchen. Rolling his shoulders to relax, he shut his eyes and took a deep breath. Sometimes Harriet managed to push him over the edge.

  There was a reason he’d chosen to live in a home he owned, away from the heart of university life. That reason was the exact opposite of feeling tied down. Dating Harriet satisfied his father—right pedigree and all—therefore he had to put up with her … as long as it got his father off his back. She was a good shag anyway, and he guessed it had to count for something.

  How would Madison be in bed? How would she feel underneath him?

  “Hey, mate, let me join you. Your girlfriend is annoying me.” Monty’s head appeared around the corner of the kitchen door, followed by his body.

  His housemate’s arrival startled Rupert, and he had to drag his mind away from some entertaining mental snapshots of Madison. In none of them was she dressed.

  Rupert accepted the apple Monty offered him. Giving it a tentative bite, he watched his pudgy friend with concern. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin a patchy color. No doubt Monty had been knocking down vodka shots since the break of dawn.

  “You’re safe, Harriet won’t attack you here. You don’t need to be scared of her, though. She won’t bite.” Rupert smiled at Monty’s frown and took a seat at the kitchen table. Since they’d boarded together at Eton, he had been Rupert’s only support.

  “I’m not so sure about that. She always looks like she’s about to jump straight at my throat. She doesn’t like me.” His friend sat opposite him. “She should be cast in one of those dumb vampire films. She’d win some big freakin’ Oscar, too.”

  “My bad influence is rubbing off on you, after almost ten years.” Rupert smiled.

  “You shouldn’t laugh.”

  Rupert threw away the apple half eaten and poured himself a glass of water.

  Monty continued. “You and Harriet have been together for a year already. That kind of girl has expectations. Watch out.”

  The thought of anything permanent with his spoiled girlfriend made Rupert squirm. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure. With my exams last week, I forgot to ask you if you saw your father after the race.”

  Rupert groaned. “He reminded me of the Vance heritage and what comes with it: Oxford Blue, first-class honors, the City, the world …” Monty already knew the story.

  “You might have a 2.1, and a Half Blue, but he’ll get over it. I’m more worried about what comes next, after Oxford. Your new ‘career plans.’” Monty added the quote marks with his fingers while saying the last two words.

  Rupert had never wanted to go into banking like his father and his grandfather. For him, that world had provided the perfect excuse for his father to bugger off from their lives.

  At a party in London, he had met a journalist for the Times. They had clicked, and after exchanging emails he had invited Rupert to meet some of his colleagues. They’d offered him an internship for the summer, something Rupert felt to be a real coup.

  “I don’t intend to talk about it anytime soon,” Rupert replied after a moment.

  Monty’s eyebrows arched. He stood and went to the refrigerator where he poked around for something extra, an act of foraging Rupert was very familiar with. But, as too often lately, Monty settled on another beer.

  “Don’t you think mineral water might do you some good? You’ve been at the pub all day.”

  Monty dismissed Rupert’s comment with a wave. “Shut up, Mother Teresa. Everyone can’t be a saint like you, spending their summers teaching the alphabet to orphans in Swaziland.”

  “Lesotho, actually. That’s where I went this year. Swaziland was for my gap year.”

  “They’re both in Africa, so that’s not too long a shot.”

  “I’m no saint anyway, but you really took drinking up a notch since last year.”

  Monty checked his watch and groaned. “I have to go to bed. Sleep is the best cure for a hangover.”

  Rupert shook his head. As Monty walked toward the stairs and his bedroom, Rupert’s mobile rang. He checked the caller ID. Lord Vance. Damn it.

  “Good evening, Father.” Tension threaded Rupert’s body.

  “I received a call from your dean this morning,” his father said. “I thought a quick conversation with you would resolve the matter.” Hugo Vance didn’t value smalltalk. Tonight’s call was no exception.

  “What did our dear Hector Crawford have to say about yours truly?” His father and Crawford, Christ Church Dean, had been friends since Eton.

  “He heard very disappointing reports about your commitment to the university’s academic life. I thought we agreed that you would straighten up your act this year.”

  “I’ve made it to the rowing team and I’m training hard. I can’t be all muscles and all brain at the same time.”

  “Don’t be smart with me, my boy. You will rectify the situation. You know my expectations.”

  A shuffling noise in the background carried over Rupert’s phone— Camilla, Hugo Vance’s latest conquest, demanding his attention. His father always had important places to go, important people to meet, and little time for his son. It had only gotten worse since Rupert’s mother died.

  “I have to go. We’re expecting you and Harriet here in London next weekend. Do not forget.” He hung up.

  Rupert stared at the phone. Like always, the conversation with Hugo stirred feelings of hate and need.

  Gritting his teeth, Rupert threw the phone against the wall.

  AFTER THE SYMPOSIUM, panelists and audience members gathered in the Ashmolean Dining Room, converted into a cocktail area for the occasion. The rooftop restaurant overlooked the City of Spires. Madison scanned the room, while making a meal of the fatty sausage rolls.

  Pippa was snuggled against a radiator, deep in conversation with Ollie. As always, she did all the talking, but this time “Fidgety Ollie” stared back at her without moving a single facial muscle. They seemed to be getting along. Good.

  Was Pippa actually flirting with Ollie? He didn’t seem her type but, hey, she was a bit of the ‘anyone in pants’ sort of girl. Anything that distracted her from her interest in Earl Boy was fine by Madison.

  Taking her eyes away from them, she observed Jackson in the opposite corner of the crowded room. An ass-kissing English girl from history was sucking up to the professor. Jackson wore his usual polite demeanor, but kept glancing at Madison.

  Unease made her shuffle her feet. Pippa might be right about his romantic interest. Too many events troubled her life at the moment for her to want to dig into her feelings for her tutor. But she trusted him, of that she was certain. And he was super hot.

  The sickening feeling of sausage-roll overdose forced her to get away from the buffet table. With no one else to talk to, Madison opted for a secret exploration of the closed museum and sneaked out of the restaurant. It had been a long day, and she desperately needed to get away.

  Walking though the deserted rooms, she looked first at the Greek Minoan potteries and antiquities on
which the Ashmolean had built its reputation. Leaning over the glass-encased displays, she admired the fine terracotta sculptures, the jewelry and the figurines. But antiquities had never been her cup of tea, so she decided to explore further.

  The arrow signaling a special exhibition led her through silent corridors. From time to time, she stopped and checked that no over-zealous security guards were on her trail. So far, so good.

  When she stood at the exhibition entrance, her heart skipped a beat.

  She now remembered seeing posters around Oxford with the same pencil views of Venice’s Grand Canal. But her mind hadn’t registered the title then.

  It did now.

  The Pre-Raphaelites and Italy.

  While she had never heard of the Pre-Raphaelites and William Shakespeare Burton a month before, now they were all over the place.

  Madison was about to step across the red cord marking the entrance to the exhibition when she heard steps. An eerie shadow flickered on the wall of the corridor. She was not alone.

  Chapter 12

  HER HEART POUNDING, Madison jumped over the rope and hid behind the wall. Peeping around the entryway, she checked to see who was coming. Right. Left. No faint noise or shadow anymore. She placed her hand over her chest and breathed.

  Around her the room was dimly lit, but she could still distinguish the paintings and the plaques with short descriptions on the walls underneath. Bending closer, she dove into the romantic world of historic Rome, Florence and Venice.

  After her research at the Bodleian, the artists’ names were familiar: Dante Gabriel Rossetti. John Robert Inchbold. Edward Burne-Jones. She recited their names out loud, lulled by the melody.

  “Humm.”

  A short cough came from right behind her. Shutting her eyes, she worked on her most innocent smile. She pivoted while scrambling to explain her intrusion.

  Jackson McCain stood a few steps away, his hands in his pockets. Madison let out a sigh of relief.

  “You know you’re intruding on private property.”