Oxford Whispers (9 page)

Chapter
18

THE HOME RUPERT had grown up in had disappeared after another round of renovation projects, orchestrated by Camilla, his father’s girlfriend. And with the familiar, sometimes rickety, furniture now gone, his mum had died for the second time.

Even tonight’s lounge music contrasted with the rhythmic Latino beats she’d played at full volume, all day long. He used to complain about it. Now he would listen to that music twenty-four/seven if it meant having her back alive.

Harriet and Camilla, ten-year-apart identical twins, filled the conversation with their empty words. His father and Camilla sat across from Rupert and Harriet on the cushioned furniture of the Vances’ London townhouse.

Still, Rupert preferred the sound of their chitchat to any of his father’s attacks. God knew Rupert had tried to redeem himself in Hugo’s eyes, even choosing his girlfriend to make his father happier with him. But Rupert was kidding himself. His father had always loathed him, and Laura Vance’s death had only intensified that feeling.

Keen not to interrupt the women, Rupert stood and stepped on the wooden floorboards toward the working fireplace. The flames made him feel welcome. Welcome inside his own family’s home.

Hugo’s silence was a bad omen. Leaning against the plush sofa, his father crossed one foot over the opposite knee, his powerful body scarcely contained within his suit. His relaxed posture threatened Rupert more than any shouting.

The storm broke.

“Let’s cut to the chase. You embarrassed me.”

An awkward silence settled within the eighteenth-century paneled room
. Both women lowered their heads, anxious to avoid Hugo’s anger.

Rupert had prepared himself for the confrontation since leaving Coach Bartlett’s military compound on the Iffley Road. Bringing his glass to his lips, he swallowed a mouthful of the sparkling
water. The bubbles didn’t make up for his usual alcohol anesthetic, now off limits.

“That party was a mistake, Father. I’ve done very well at the latest race. That’s what you should look at, not this incident.”

“Rick Bartlett called
me
.” Hugo emphasized his point by beating his chest with a finger, and repeated, “
Me
. The two of you have been discussing our relationship.”

“That’s not true.” Rupert hadn’t managed to say more than a few consecutive words to the coach.

“I don’t care about what you think. I have to babysit you now. You’re turning twenty-two.” The elder Vance’s eyes stared and held Rupert’s gaze without a single blink.

He gripped his glass and refrained from throwing it toward his father’s face. Hugo kept humiliating him over and over.

“Believe me, I would have preferred being kicked off the team than to have to report to you every week for the next three months.” Rupert held himself rigid, pent-up furor flushing underneath his skin. “You can’t stand the sight of me anyway.”

His father leaped out of his seat, but Camilla stopped his movement midway. She wrapped his waist within her thin arms and brought him back to the white sofa, caressing his hair, patting his shoulders. To Rupert’s surprise, her cooing paid off. Hugo relaxed and laid his palms over his thighs.

“Darling, let’s not spoil the evening. I’m sure Rupert understands how upset you are, but we should enjoy our good news tonight.”

Harriet had remained silent throughout the whole argument but jumped on the chance to deflate the bomb. For once, Rupert was grateful to her. “Please share the good news with us.”

Hugo shuffled, changed sitting position and cleared his throat. Rupert saw concern in the sidelong glance his father sent him. Something
really
bad was coming.

“I’ve proposed to Camilla, and she has accepted to be my wife.”

Rupert let go of his glass and it crashed onto the polished wood. He kept his hand open as if still holding it. Fascinated by the splinters spread at his feet, he focused on their glitter rather than the pain multiplying across his chest. Looking up, he found three sets of eyes fixed on him, questioning, probing.

“Mom died four years ago. Have you forgotten her?”

Camilla put her hand to her mouth and started crying. She was alive, enjoying life to the full, redecorating houses. His mother lay six feet under. Rupert didn’t care if his reaction was childish. The news was too damned painful.

“You have no sense. Look at what you’ve done.” Hugo handed a handkerchief to the blond at his side and she dabbed her nose. “In any case, you’re in no position to talk about your mother. We both know it.”

Rupert had two options: breaking down here and now and making a fool of himself, or getting physical. He launched himself toward the sofa and spread his elbow in a hook. Camilla’s scream froze him.

“Stop. The two of you. Stop.”

He looked down at her. Tears rolled over her cheeks. She wasn’t faking it.

“Rupert, I’m pregnant,” she murmured.

And just like that, his mother died for the third time.

PETER HAD FOLLOWED Sarah from her first step out of Christ Church College. He had occupied his hidden corner on the opposite side of St. Aldate’s. Thick snowflakes fell at a slow pace over Oxford, building obstacles between the two of them. Even at a distance, he was always on
the lookout for a stolen moment shared with her, when she thought she was alone. Once the holiday freed the students from their academic duties, she would fly away, away from him.

He panicked and walked faster. The prospect of their separation boosted his
pace, prodding him to narrow the gap. He wanted to share a life with her, an eternal life. But until then, this was all he could arrange. Peter had to bide his time.

She entered one of the common shops on Cornmarket Street. With a practiced, innocent demeanor, he spied on her perusing artfully presented items of clothing. If she spotted him, he would pretend to be shopping for the upcoming holiday.

When she headed back toward the exit, he stood next to the display of scarves she had rummaged through. Almost worshipfully, he caressed them, their silky feel a sweet reminder of her skin. He shook himself out of his daydream to find she had already walked away.

Back on Cornmarket, he tensed while he scanned the festive crowd, looking for her waif-like frame.
A nativity scene played out in front of him. He walked past it and caught a glimpse of her figure, hurrying toward St. Michael at the Northgate, the ancient church and graveyard.

He now knew Sarah’s destination. She would pass the Martyrs’ Memorial on her
right, then walk down Beaumont Street, and Walton Street. There, in Jericho, she was in foreign territory, outside the Oxford city walls. In the bohemian labyrinth of narrow streets and Victorian town cottages, she paced toward the nobleman’s house, away from him.

A ludicrous Father Christmas handed out lollies and balloons to hysterical children. Sarah slowed down, smiling at children singing Christmas carols, collecting money from house to house. How inspired Oliver Cromwell had been to ban those cheerful hymns. Christmas should be a solemn day, not a sparkling masquerade. He touched the corner of his mouth to control the tick twitching his facial muscles. They had arrived at the most affluent part of Jericho, where larger houses dominated backstreets of workers’ homes.

He had come here only a few days earlier, spying on a decadent party Dallembert had organized. He had seen how the nobleman had waited for Sarah’s arrival. The relief, the joy in the eyes of that young pup when he had noticed her presence, had been unbearable for Peter to witness. Their attraction had been palpable, and a surge of raw violence had threatened to overwhelm Peter’s pretense. He had nearly lost control.

Sarah knocked at the door of the imposing house, pushed her hair away from her face, and adjusted her coat. This was supposed to be a professional visit, for them to work on their latest assignment. Peter knew it was much more than that. Dallembert stood in the entrance, staring down at her. What was crossing his mind? No matter the thoughts and tremors, the nobleman would soon take Sarah away from Peter.

And Peter wouldn’t tolerate that.

Chapter
19

OUTSIDE, A BULKY blanket of snow covered Tom Quad, freezing the night in its splendor.

Madison had tidied her studio, and her suitcase stood by the door like a Christmas stocking hung on the mantle awaiting Santa’s treats. It would have to be patient, though. Her transatlantic flight wouldn’t take off until the next day.

Pippa had already deserted Oxford, thrilled by the prospect of celebrations, family to hug and holiday tidbits to graze on until after the New Year. Madison would miss her but not the tension between them.

As for Earl Boy, she had wished him the best of holidays and Godspeed after their last “work” meeting at his place. No doubt Harriet the Hun would keep him warm during those long winter nights in the old, cold, stone castle.

In need of a distraction for the evening, Madison stared through her bedroom window. The dark night offered no response. She slammed shut her laptop, and along with it the nerd inside her.

The image of a cozy, stuffy room crept into her mind, and mere minutes later, wrapped in her duffel coat and a large scarf, she left her room.

Knocking at Ollie’s door, she didn’t get any answer. Pushing down the doorknob, she stepped into his room. A quick glance inside was enough to see her friend lying on his bed, in a deep slumber.

Madison closed the door behind her. A smile on her face, she walked down the stairs, stepped outside toward Great Tom, and wished goodnight to the night porter as she went.

“You’re going out.”

Madison froze. She spun around to face Miss Lindsey’s angular features. The woman stood tall, her head tilting forward. Madison’s instinct was to shy away from the censor.

“I need to clear my head.”

Madison bit her bottom lip.
Gosh, stop justifying yourself the whole time
.

“It’s rather late.”

Madison kept better control this time and remained silent. What she was doing with her time wasn’t any of the woman’s business. However Miss Lindsey didn’t share the same definition of privacy.

“When are you going back to the United States?” she continued, her lips raised in a sneer when she pronounced the last two words.

That woman is uglier than a mud fence.

Madison gave herself a mental slap for being so mean. She applied herself to being polite instead and kept her facial expression neutral. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning, very early. Ma’am.”

But Miss Lindsey kept on testing her charitable disposition. “You have been very lucky, very lucky indeed.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

The censor went on to answer the question. “Doctor McCain has made your stay here more than comfortable. He ensured that you had a room in the college. And now I understand that you’re working for him.”

Madison clenched her fists. She didn’t like what the woman was implying. She hadn’t slept her way into Jackson’s favor.

“I’m working hard, Miss Lindsey. If you don’t think I deserve what I got, you can share your concerns with Doctor McCain. But I don’t think he will give a damn.”

She nodded toward the bony woman and hurried along St. Aldate’s, eager to forget about the incident. She turned at Carfax Tower and trotted through the empty streets. Once or twice her feet slipped on treacherous icy patches, but she found her way to the Turf Tavern where central heating welcomed her.

She breathed in the lingering smell of ale and the comforting aroma of good, honest pub food. Soon spicy gumbo would replace toad-in-the-hole, but tonight sausage and mash was the
plat du jour
for the sparse clientele around her.

She noticed one client in particular. Although he had his back turned to her, she would have recognized her tormenter from any angle. Difficult to miss those broad shoulders curving above the bar counter anyway.

Damn, damn, damn. Why do bad things happen to good people?

Like a coward, she tiptoed back to the exit.

“Mizz LeBon, what a pleasure.”

Biting her lower lip, she had no option but to turn around and face him. “I was looking for a friend,” she lied, and she knew he knew it.

“I’m your only friend here, or so it seems,” he told her, then he added, surprising Madison, “I’d be happy if you join me.”

She looked around as if he had addressed the offer to some bystander behind her, and not her, goodie-two-shoes Madison LeBon. Perched on a barstool, he smiled at her confusion.

“I wasn’t planning to stay.”

“Come on. I don’t bite.”

She tried a smile and took off her coat. He led her to a table nestled in an alcove overlooking a courtyard. She laid her coat and scarf next to her on the cushioned bench.

“The house specialty is white wine with sausage and mash. You’ll love it.” When Madison reached for her bag, he added, “My treat. You saved my life.” And with a quirk of a smile that said “I would have made it without you,” he went to order.

Madison made a point of not looking at his long, muscular body curving above the bar where he stood. He made the low-beamed tavern seem as tiny as a gator in the roots of a mangrove tree.

From the corner of her eye she noticed the sideways looks he threw in her direction while waiting for the wine. She squirmed on the bench but urged herself to stay calm and collected. The dinner would be a test of her new resolution to remain detached where Earl Boy was concerned.

Bad boys were
so
not advisable for virgins. Whatever they wrote in romance books.

Holding a wine bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other, Rupert returned, poured her some wine and sat. “I would have thought you were already back in the States.”

“I fly out tomorrow.” She took a sip and let the crisp, buttery texture caress her tongue. “I’m surprised the leader of the it-crowd would stay behind once the curtain has fallen.”

He ignored her veiled criticism. “I had to finish my paper. McCain is on my
case twenty-four/seven.” He flicked his hand through his hair. “Let’s put it this way, I’m in no rush to go home anyway.”

Staring at the golden surface of the wine, he tilted his glass. “My father is getting married.”

“I take it congratulations aren’t in order.”

“No.” He fixed his bright blue eyes on hers, challenging her to ask more or maybe just begging her to. She didn’t have to, as the words started flowing out of his mouth.

“My father is getting married, and I’m about to become a big brother in the spring.”

She gave him a pondering look. “How is your mom reacting to the news?”

Raw pain spread across his face, and the mask shattered into pieces. He lowered his gaze and concentrated on an invisible point in the middle of the table.

No explanation required here. She had touched the open wound of the haughty, invincible Rupert Vance, and she could have beaten herself up for doing it. Laying her hand on his, the contrast in their size and strength struck her all over again.

“Tell me her name,” Madison murmured, as if fearful her voice might deepen his pain.

He pinched his lips together. In slow motion he lifted his eyes, and looking at her, he whispered, “Laura.” There was an echo in the name when he pronounced it.

She didn’t want to stir his pain, but he looked like he needed to talk. “Tell me about her.”

“She could be so funny. Nowadays, I remember the end. It’s been four years since she … passed away. I know I should give my father a break and accept he’s moving on with his life. But it’s tough.”

A waitress brought the food and interrupted his thoughts. Before she lay the dishes on the table, Madison unclasped her hands from Rupert’s. Her body temperature dropped by at least ten degrees. Fahrenheit.

Instead of shutting down, Rupert released the gates of his memory: their summer holidays in Magway, their
Gone-With-the-Wind
afternoons, Laura’s tears when he boarded at Eton.

Madison relived these moments through his eyes, with his laughs, and the edge threatening to crack his voice. She wanted to protect him and take his pain away.

RUPERT LEFT THE table to order coffee. They had almost finished the bottle of wine during dinner. Well, Madison had done most of the drinking since Rupert was on a no-booze diet. He had lapsed, though, pouring himself one single, tiny glass.

“Enough about me, tell me about this Dixieland of yours,” Rupert suggested, sitting back at their table.

By reflex Madison shut down. Years of practice had trained her to ditch questions about her family.

“Come on, Mad Hatter, I’ve bared my heart to you. You don’t want to embarrass me. Share your dirty little secrets.”

“I don’t know what you might find interesting,” she volunteered, her breath catching in her lungs. But the alcohol in her blood softened her discipline.

“Everything.”

Eeck
. She knocked down a couple more sips of the chardonnay. “I never knew my father. He left before I was born.” She leaned over her glass, as if searching for her reflection in the straw-colored liquid. “Didn’t want anything to do with us, I guess.”

“Welcome to the club. My father stayed—that’s my problem.”

She blurted out the words. “My mother owns the town bar, my aunt is a nun, and my grandmother is the parish voodoo specialist.”

Rupert’s whistle ended in a cheeky laugh. “I say. Can’t compete with all that.”

“My grandmother was born in the thirties, just before the war.” Madison was on a roll.
“Her own mother was an African-American who got knocked up by a Berthier.” Realizing her parish’s nobility wasn’t world famous, she explained, “They’re aristocracy in Pierre Part.”

Her love for her Mamie, for the bayou, for this dysfunctional family of hers rushed to her heart.

“And I take it Pierre Part is where you come from. I’ve no idea where it is.” His contrite frown brushed at her now.

“About one hour’s drive from Baton Rouge, but until not that long ago the town was cut off from the rest of the state. We used to be fishermen, surrounded by water.”

Madison wanted to paint her home in the most vivid colors, make him fall in love with the sticky, burning Louisiana air. “We still speak Cajun at home. Well, Mamie does. My mother fakes mostly.” She could hear her Southern drawl creeping back into her speech pattern as her vowels elongated.

“Feeling homesick, are you?” Rupert teased her by pushing at her hand. His body shuffled on the seat, and in doing so his legs shifted until they surrounded her own denim-clad thighs.

The possessive touch caused her body to tingle with awareness. She didn’t want it to stop there, either. She wanted to be held by him. Just like at the party when he’d rescued her from Claus. To be kissed by him.

Rupert’s legs put extra pressure on hers. Their eyes locked in a challenge. Heat exploded in the lower part of her anatomy.

Determined to cool down her desire, she forced herself to speak. The flow of words was slower than it had been before. “Without my aunt Louise, I would never have left Pierre Part.”

“She must be the nun.”

“Yes, an Ursuline. She teaches in their school in Baton Rouge. That’s where I boarded.”

“You boarded? Just like me. We both grew up away from our families.”

They fell silent for a moment, the alcove sheltering the memories of their childhoods, their legs brushing softly against each other. The wine made the blood in Madison’s veins rush, and she relaxed back against the cushion, staring through the window at the falling snow. Rupert’s eyes were fixed on her, but she didn’t dare return his gaze.

A voice inside her head screeched,
What’s going on here?
She shifted on the bench. Before losing it, she had to leave. Her heart demanded she stay.

“I’d love to go out and take some fresh air.” Could Rupert read her thoughts?

Leaving was the rational plan, the safe plan, just not with him.

But for once in her life, Madison had decided she did not want to be rational. Or safe.

Sarah hadn’t wanted that for herself either. Madison stared into Rupert’s eyes, and she saw why Sarah had risked everything for her man.