Oxford Whispers

by Marion Croslydon

  She swiveled back to face him. “Are you going to hurt me? Are you serious about me?”

  Rupert shook his head. “I thought you knew.” His voice broke up. “I’d do anything for you. I know it sounds crazy because we haven’t been together for long, but you matter to me …” he fumbled for words, “so much. I’ve never felt like this about anybody else.”

  Madison wanted to bridge the distance between herself and Rupert. Her fingers tingled to caress his upper lip and the faint stubble on his jaw, her hands wanted to slide through his hair. Her knees were too weak to carry her forward. She moistened her lips.

  “I’ve never felt like this before either.” Her shallow breathing threatened to muffle her sentence. “I don’t care what they say.”

  All her life, she had worried about what people might think, about them gossiping, criticizing her family, her. She didn’t give a damn anymore.

  One step at a time, Rupert moved toward her. His palms cradled her face, and his mouth came closer to hers, but then he stopped. Instead of her mouth, he kissed her forehead, an innocent, gentle kiss.

  Frustration made Madison dizzy. She wanted to pull him closer. Shyness paralyzed her limbs.

  Rupert took her hand, intertwined his fingers with hers. They started strolling along the river’s thin ribbon path and reached the bench. Despite the moonlight, Madison couldn’t read the dedication plaque on it.

  She sat, and the stiff boards of the bench dug at her back. She didn’t care. However, a grimace on Rupert’s face told her he did.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked him.

  “It’s my legs.”

  “You’re training too hard.”

  “There’s one month left before the race. The competition is stiff, including that asshole Claus.” Madison offered Rupert a nod of understanding, but he glanced down at his fingertips. “I’m not sure I’m going to make it. My father will kill me if I don’t.”

  “What matters is that you do it for yourself, not for your father.”

  “I love it. I love the competition. I love the team spirit, but I’ll never be as good as he was.” Rupert’s shoulders hunched.

  “It’s time for you to get over that. Your father has become your favorite excuse for never being happy.”

  Even as she gave voice to her thoughts, Madison regretted the harshness of her words. She wasn’t in a position to pass judgment. Her own life was a total mess.

  Rupert straightened, and his hesitant smile turned cheeky. “I can’t bullshit you. Nobody, not even Monty, has talked to me the way you do.” His voice had become so soft it sounded like a caress.

  Animals—a squirrel?—darted through the dead leaves on the ground. The snow had melted from a couple of nights before. Water splashed, betraying the Cherwell’s nightlife. Madison shivered and pulled her coat tighter around herself.

  He took hold of her cold hands and brought them to his lips. The kiss warmed her fingers. Heat traveled down her arms to her chest and her belly, where a flutter tickled her inside. He leaned closer, and her heart missed one beat, two beats, then booted again in a rush.

  The world around her vanished at once. She heard no sound, detected no movement to distract her from the feast of her senses. His mouth opened hers. Their tongues tangled. In that touch, her sexual frustration, pent up over lonely nights dreaming about Rupert, over a lifetime of waiting for him, lashed out.

  While his lips teased her lower lip, he slid his hand underneath her coat and stroked her waist, moving down to her hip, her thigh, then up again along her ribcage. His fingers cupped one breast, arousing her nipples so that they pointed through the material of her shirt. They begged for a further touch.

  Madison moaned. She withdrew, memories of Tarquin invading the present, breaking the spell. The last time a man had touched her there, he had meant to rape her.

  In a rasp, Rupert said, “I’m sorry, Maddie. I’ll wait as long as you want.”

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, how I’m supposed to act.” She refrained from chewing on her fingernails again. She was afraid because she was starting late, she didn’t know how it was done, and she didn’t want to disappoint him. To make love with Rupert was so ultimate. “I’ve never dated anybody before. I mean, not really … When we got together before Christmas, I behaved really out of character. Now that we officially date, I start thinking too much and feeling self-conscious all over again.”

  “I don’t want a casual relationship.” A knot tightened in her throat. “I want more with you.”

  “I’m not sure what that means.” She braced herself for an indecent proposal.

  Rupert thought hard, then he answered, “To spend as much time as possible together, watching movies, going for walks, traveling. Before, it has always come down to one single thing for me with girls.”

  Madison had a pretty clear idea of what the “thing” was. “Sex.”

  He nodded.

  “But you’re attracted to me? I mean, like you were with the other girls.” She mumbled, knitting her fingers together, and avoided looking at Rupert. She had betrayed what she wanted the answer to be.

  He burst into laughter. “Let’s put it that way. Since the first time I’ve seen you, that time at the ball, my boxer shorts have felt far too tight. So don’t worry about that side of things.”

  She giggled, then looking at him in all seriousness. “Give me some time… and sorry for the boxer shorts.”

  “I’m getting the next size… and I’ll give you as much time as you need.” He dropped a light kiss on her cheek and asked, “Shall we?”

  Disappointed, she responded, “Shall we what?”

  “Go and watch a movie.” He checked his watch. “We should be able to make the ten o’clock show. Hopefully nobody we know will have the same idea.”

  Madison stood and extended her arm toward him. “Okay, but I choose the movie. There’s this rom-com I really want to watch.”

  He grimaced, but he took her hand. “I’ve heard relationships are built on compromise.”

  Chapter 37

  MADISON ENTWINED her hand in his, while his other hand clenched his car keys inside his jeans pocket.

  It was just his luck that the policeman who had led the investigation into the car crash four years ago was now a chief inspector in Oxford. If anything, it was a sign that the time had come. Payback time.

  “It’s the only way for you to be happy,” Madison had repeated during the drive that morning to the police station. Maybe. Opening his mouth could also be a sure way to end up in jail. And in jail there would be no Madison.

  She stood by his side. To remind him she was there for him? To block his escape? He winked at her and widened his stance, faking a confidence he didn’t have. He had to do it. He had no future, they had no future if he couldn’t man up and face his responsibilities.

  To bury any idea of flight he tried to pay attention to the world around him: the bulletin boards hanging on the gray walls, the fake plant and grimy plate-glass windows overlooking the reception area. The smell of leftover breakfast meshed with those of printer ink. Disturbing. Rupert chewed on his mint gum with more energy.

  “Mr. Vance, you asked to see me.”

  Rupert looked down at the short, bald man standing in front of him. His mouth went dry.

  The man attempted to fill the awkward silence. “I’m Chief Inspector Crawley,” he said in a pronounced cockney accent. He extended his hand and Rupert shook it. Madison introduced herself. The policeman gestured toward chairs at his desk, and they sat opposite Crawley.

  Rupert’s muscles tensed, and he laid his hands flat on his lap to relax. After swallowing hard, he started, “Thank you for taking the time to see me. You probably don’t remember me, but—”

  “I do remember you, Mr. Vance.” Inspector Crawley’s blank expression contradicted the edge in his voice. “Although, thanks to your father’s pressure, I never had the chance to talk to you directly. A car crash, night time, heavy rain, four years a
go. You were badly injured and stayed in hospital for several months. Your mother …” His voice had softened.

  “She died that night.” If Rupert wanted the truth, he had to tell the truth. His mum died before the medics arrived at the scene, while her son lay unconscious next to her.

  “Why are you here?” Crawley asked, his brows drawn together to form a single line.

  “I want to know the truth.” He cast his eyes downward, searching for the strength inside him. Madison grasped his hand again. “Did I kill my mum?”

  The inspector’s cheeks reddened, and he threw his hands upward. “Why are you coming up with this now? I tried to talk to you at the hospital. I wanted to hear your version of the accident.” He folded his arms across his chest. “The Earl of Huxbury came down on me like a ton of bricks.”

  “Was my father trying to cover something up? Did he stop you going after me?”

  The man made a half-twisting smile and started to explain. “If I thought you were guilty of something, I would have gone after you. And your dad and his stuck-up friends from Eton, or whatever, could have gone to hell.”

  It took Rupert some time to register what Crawley had said.

  The guy didn’t think he was guilty. So why had his father lied about keeping Rupert out of jail, out of the tabloids, and all that bullshit? The ringing of the phone and beeps of walkie-talkies brought him slowly back to the police station.

  “So you think I’m not responsible for what happened?”

  Rupert had meant to ask a question, but it sounded more like a plea.

  Crawley shuffled in his seat. “You were the one driving so, of course, you had some responsibility. You might have been careless or not paid enough attention, but the bottom line is that there wasn’t any trace of alcohol or drugs in your system. The accident happened on a descending slope, in heavy rain, at night, and the road was very slippery. You were an inexperienced driver.”

  Rupert nodded. Flashes of that night played out in front of him. He shut out the memories.

  “Rupert.” Crawley’s use of his first name demanded his attention. “You drove carelessly, not recklessly. As a result, you lost your mother, and you were stuck in a hospital bed for months. So, however bad your driving was, you paid for it dearly. Don’t you agree?”

  Crawley’s phone rang, and the interruption startled Rupert. While the policeman took the call, he turned toward Madison, whose unwavering eyes stared back at him.

  “I’m sorry, guys. I’ve got to go.” Crawley had stood and was getting dressed for the cold February day. “Duty calls.”

  He grabbed some of his belongings and came in front of Rupert. He extended his hand once again. Rupert stood and accepted the firm handshake.

  “I respect what you’ve done today, son. Your father would never have the guts to stand up and be a man like that.”

  The policeman left, but Rupert didn’t move.

  Madison struck his forearm with one hand, while rubbing his back with the other.

  When Rupert talked, he could hardly articulate. “Thank you, thank you for giving me the courage to come here today.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Why are you crying?”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “It’s happy crying. Don’t worry.”

  He knew what she meant. He leaned toward her and rested his forehead on her shoulder. Four years of guilt started to lift from his shoulders. Now the grieving could start.

  THE OXFORD & Cambridge Club was as Madison remembered it: masculine and as old as the hills. It hadn’t changed.

  She was the one changed.

  She was amoureuse, in love. Hook, line, and sinker. That put pepper in the old gumbo.

  Shaking herself, she returned her attention to Archie Black, who stood at the club’s mahogany bar ordering drinks. He was so tall he could have hunted flying geese with a rake.

  Two days earlier he had phoned Madison and told her about an “intriguing” detail he had discovered in Robert Dallembert’s life. Could that detail be Sarah?

  So here she was, in London, on a Sunday evening about to share a whiskey with the Vances’ genealogist after a weekend when she had been closer than ever to losing her virginity. A weekend spent at Rupert’s townhouse, a fair amount of it lying on his king-sized bed.

  Smelling the inside of her wrists, she breathed in the scent of his cologne. Her fingertips caressed her lips, where he had kissed her goodbye. She was already suffering from “Rupert withdrawal.”

  Professor Black sat back on his cushioned chair, the same one that overlooked The Mall, as on their first meeting. She brought the drink to her lips and let the peaty taste tease her tongue. She liked whiskey, but in her heart nothing could beat Mamie’s Old New Orleans Cajun Spice Louisiana Rum.

  Black interrupted her flight of thought with a blunt statement. “Robert Dallembert followed in his father’s footsteps and sired an illegitimate child. I have confirmation of the rumor.”

  Madison’s eyes narrowed, and she shook her head. Robert had been too much of an honorable man to sleep around and seed bastards all over England. Unless …

  Unless that child was Sarah’s.

  Hope simmered in Madison’s heart.

  “I found a letter addressed to the earl, dating back to August 1651, before Robert’s death at the Battle of Worcester.”

  “After our conversation last month, my curiosity was tweaked, and I thought I would research further into this rumor of a love child, the one I mentioned to you. After all, it could have challenged the claim made by Robert’s half-brother upon Robert’s death. But the child in question ended up being a girl.”

  A baby girl, a tiny little girl.

  “Who wrote the letter?” Madison tapped her fingers against the engraved glass of her whiskey tumbler.

  “A certain Mrs. Anne Alspeth, from Norwich.”

  Not Sarah.

  Madison squeezed her eyes shut and felt her mouth sinking downward. Robert had seduced married women throughout the whole kingdom. Poor Sarah. She probably ended up marrying Peter out of a broken heart.

  When Madison opened her eyes again, a manila folder lay on Archie Black’s knees. One of his eyebrows rose, the asymmetry betraying his concern at Madison’s reaction. The dude must think she was a whacko.

  The professor removed a second folder from inside the first. He offered it to Madison, and she opened it. Buffered, acid-free paper separated the brittle pages of the letter.

  “Based on the information provided by this Mrs. Alspeth, Robert’s daughter was three months old at the time the letter was written,” Black revealed.

  Madison was about to flick through the pages to see for herself, but the lanky man cleared his throat and stopped her midway through her movement. He extracted light cotton gloves from the pocket of his tweed jacket and offered them to her.

  She put them on and reverted her attention to the letter. Mrs. Alspeth’s handwriting was neat. Madison studied the second leaf.

  Again, Black interrupted her before she could read the document. “She seems to apologize profusely first and ask for his forgiveness. She reassures him about the child’s welfare and promises to take good care of her.”

  “Why would she apologize? She also signed the letter to her lover, to the father of her child, in a formal way, Mistress Alspeth. It’s stiff even for those times, even for an Englishwoman.”

  He ignored her question. “She was on the Parliamentarian side of the political stage. At least her husband was …” His mouth shaped itself into a knowing smile.

  “Have you found out who her husband was?”

  “Well, I researched the matter a little more, on my own time. As I said, I was intrigued.” Black pushed his glasses back to the peak of his nose. “Alspeth is a rare surname. I managed to get a copy of the parish register in Norwich, recording dates of birth and death. This is what I found. It goes back to the late 1650s.”

  He removed yet another document from his manila folder, but this tim
e it wasn’t an original, just a scanned copy. Madison took the paper, and her eyes focused on the lines highlighted in fluorescent yellow.

  The genealogist summarized what she read out loud. “Anne was the wife of Joseph Alspeth, a wealthy merchant. They had seven children together, though three reached adulthood. Among them was a daughter named Rose, born in June 1651.”

  “Rose.” Madison said the name out loud, as if it were a foreign word. Her voice had dropped. Tears watered her eyes, and she pretended to look back at the parish register to hide her emotions.

  Her mind came back into focus. “Wait a minute, something isn’t quite right here.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Black’s hand reached up to adjust his tie. “My sources are impeccable.”

  Madison cut him off. “If your sources are correct, it’s very unlikely Rose was Robert’s daughter… or rather, impossible she was Anne’s.”

  “I can’t see what makes you draw this conclusion.”

  Leaning toward him, she pointed at one of the highlighted lines. “Joseph and Anne Alspeth’s eldest son, John, was born in March 1651. That means she couldn’t have given birth to Rose three months later.”

  Black grabbed the piece of paper, his eyes scanning the document over and over again, until he gave up. “You are right, Miss LeBon.” Staring back at Madison, he asked, “But then who was the mother of Robert’s illegitimate child?”

  Chapter 38

  THE MOVEMENT OF Rupert’s lips along her collarbone lighted a brazier, burnt every molecule of her skin. His weight was a delicious pressure to her bare legs, hips and stomach. His hand cradled her shoulders, where his fingers tip-tapped a sexy melody throughout her consciousness.

  Being in Rupert’s bed, beneath his naked body, was mindblowingly hotter than in her wildest dreams. Madison wanted to give herself to him. She wanted to be his, to merge with him so that nobody could ever say that moment hadn’t happened.