Oxford Whispers Part 7

The currant flavor of red wine tingled his tongue.

"Rupert took some American redneck 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 friends 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 b.u.mpkin. Or a midget, depending on your taste." Harriet brought her gla.s.s 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?"

His girlfriend was sipping her wine and she grimaced as if the 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-limit. 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, therefore he had to put up with her ... as long as it got his father off his back. She was a good s.h.a.g 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 gla.s.s 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 spoilt 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-cla.s.s 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 father's father. For him, that world had provided the perfect excuse for his father to b.u.g.g.e.r 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. d.a.m.n 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.

"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 c.o.c.ktail 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, snuggled against a radiator, and Ollie were deep in conversation. As always, the bubbly girl 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 anything that distracted her from her interest in Earl Boy was fine by Madison.

Taking her eyes away from the couple, she observed Jackson in the opposite corner of the crowded room. An a.s.s-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 on 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 museum and sneaked out of the restaurant. It had been a long day, and she had a desperate need 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 gla.s.sed-in 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 Ca.n.a.l. But her mind hadn't registered the t.i.tle 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."

"I couldn't resist. The Pre-Raphaelites ..." She waved at the paintings.

"Your favorite subject at the moment." He glanced around the room. "Thank you for your report on G.o.dfrey Dallembert, and all the pictures. I checked my emails after the seminar and it was already there. You work quickly."

"I went overboard with your digital camera. I kind of convinced myself I worked for the CIA."

"Much appreciated." He stared at her in a way she couldn't interpret. "I'd like to know about Magway Manor, and if Mr. Vance behaved himself." His voice failed to hide his disdain.

Not sure what he meant by "behaved," Madison stayed on neutral ground. "He was polite and helpful."

Her tutor hesitated, his lips pursed, a frown wrinkling his forehead. "He knows Oxford very well, so I hope he can help you find your way around."

"It's all going fine with Rupert. He's cleaning up his act." Her taking up the defense of Earl Boy surprised even Madison.

Jackson turned his attention toward one of the paintings. Maybe it was his proximity or her having chewed over the same thoughts too long, but the words jumped out of her lips.

"I know who the Cavalier is, I mean, was ..."

The history professor turned to Madison. His raised eyebrows prompted her explanation.

"Robert Dallembert, G.o.dfrey's son and therefore second Earl of Huxbury."

Jackson didn't look convinced. "How did you find out?"

"I saw his portrait at Magway. The resemblance is striking, and the time and place match."

He reflected on her words for a few seconds, his eyes fixed on an invisible point underneath the painting. "What about the girl and her fiance?"

Her fiance. The word resonated in her.

"I don't know anything about them, but Robert married within the aristocracy, not among the Parliamentarians. He died young and childless."

She must have betrayed her disappointment because Jackson laid his hand on her shoulder. Shock shot a freezing jolt through her bloodstream. No Superman moment this time, but the experience was swoon-provokingly intense.

Jackson removed his hand, and she made it back to the exhibition room and being good old Madison LeBon. Phew. The guy had quite an effect on her.

"You care so much about this painting," Jackson commented, as if nothing had happened, "You've made it personal. Why?"

Pure academic interest. Lifelong pa.s.sion for the Pre-Raphaelites. Fascination with the English Civil War.

"I dream about it all the time."

His handsome face didn't show any reaction. He must think she was totally whacko. "Tell me about those dreams."

Dreams. Visions. My belly is ripped apart. I can't breathe anymore. I'm dying.

"Nightmares." A wave of embarra.s.sment flew over her, and heat burned her cheeks.

He frowned but remained silent. Maybe he was prompting her to say more.

"I feel that I know these characters, that we have a special bond. It comes from my grandmother, and the women in my family before her. Mamie practices voodoo. Magic amulets, calling the dead and all that."