An Oxford Scandal Read online

  Gideon, for his part, found himself wishing that he was somewhere else. Anywhere else!

  It had nothing to do with the fact that she was a Van Gilder. Although it would have been nice to have won the chair, it wasn’t something that had obsessed him day and night. No, he just didn’t want to be around this woman any more than he had to be.

  She’d been seriously disturbing his dreams at night as it was. Ever since he’d spent the night at the John Radcliffe Hospital, watching her sleeping face, he’d found that same face haunting his own sleeping hours.

  He wouldn’t have minded so much if it was just his unconscious reacting to the shock of the accident — but these dreams were of an erotic nature. He’d woken up sweating many a morning, the ghostly feel of this woman’s hand still lingering on his body.

  Now he swallowed hard and told himself not to be such a walking stereotype — the Psychology professor haunted by erotic dreams, for crying out loud! — and reached across to coolly shake her hand.

  ‘Mrs Van Gilder.’

  ‘Miss,’ Laurel corrected snappishly, and then could have kicked herself. Why had she done that?

  Gideon blinked, then half inclined his head. ‘Miss,’ he repeated sotto voce.

  Laurel had to fight the urge to kick him right in the shins. Or somewhere even more painful. Damn the man, did he have to look so annoyingly smug? So utterly cool and above it all?

  He was in black evening dress and, with his immense lean height and colouring, he looked like an Adonis. His fine-featured face could have been carved from ice, though, for all the emotion he displayed.

  She realised, with a characteristic start of self-awareness, that she was probably only feeling so annoyed because she’d become used to being ‘sucked up to’. She’d met the other shortlisted candidates, who had all, with the exception of that nice Sir Laurence, been anxious to make a good impression on her.

  It had made her feel both uncomfortable — after all, she knew they hadn’t won — and, naturally enough, rather flattered. But this iceman was looking at her as if she were something rather disreputable that had wandered in from the streets. Like an alley cat amid a roomful of thoroughbred Persians.

  ‘Professor Welles has recently been published, of course,’ the principal said, seemingly oblivious to the fulminating waves coming off his two companions, and happily burbled on about Gideon’s latest academic achievements while Laurel told herself not to be such a jerk. All these Oxford dons were probably scathing of the rich and non-academic. She was just being overly sensitive, letting the big oaf get to her.

  She smiled sweetly as Sin-Jun (as she would forever think of him) finally came to a halt.

  ‘Well, I’m sure Professor Welles’ book will hit the bestseller list in no time. He looks like a male version of Lydia Lovegate to me,’ she said, naming the bestselling author of a rather steamy novel that was currently taking America by storm with a deeply amused twinkle in her dark eyes.

  As expected, a look of extreme distaste crossed Gideon’s face. Even the principal looked a bit taken aback. He’d been listening to the delightful Van Gilder girl all night, and she’d seemed to him a very reasonable and intelligent gal.

  ‘Yes, well, er . . .’ the principal glanced across at the dean in a well-rehearsed silent gesture.

  ‘Time for dinner, I think?’ the dean murmured. And, miraculously, those words seemed to reach through the noisy crowded room and turn them all, like a herd of wild deer, toward the direction of Hall.

  As he left, Sin-Jun nodded at the dean, who nodded back. He’d arranged for the Augentine chalice to be set up in the display cabinet while they were dining. That way, it could be admired by everyone later on that evening. It was up to the dean to see that it was locked in place and the security guard dismissed. Naturally, the display cabinet was fitted with a burglar alarm, but as he escorted his VIP guest to Hall, the college’s security system was the last thing on his mind.

  Hall, Laurel discovered, was a huge building opposite Webster, one of the three student residences, and consisted of vast kitchens on the bottom floor and a huge dining room on the top. High Table was set on a dais at the top end of the hall, and was lavishly laid out with all the best college silver.

  The lower tables were filled with seated undergraduates, who fell respectfully silent (or rather, less noisy) as the fellows and their guests took their seats at High Table.

  As Laurel sat in pride of place next to the principal’s red velvet, throne-like chair, she reached for one of the goblets and glanced at it. She wasn’t really up on heraldry, but the college crest of arms looked to her like a rather splendid and unusual creation in blue, white and black. An upside down ‘V’ split the shield in half. On the top half were two open books, while underneath were three swans. The Latin motto underneath read, Murus Aeneus Virtus.

  ‘Virtue is a wall of brass,’ a clear but very dry voice said in her ear. Laurel, startled, glanced up at the woman seated opposite her. She looked eighty, if she was a day. The woman smiled at her. ‘I’m Daphne Green, the emeritus professor of Classics.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Laurel said, feeling a bit nervous about her own ignorance. ‘This silver looks like George III. Is it?’

  Before she could answer, another don further down, who was a noted authority on George III, broke in to agree with her and gave her a potted history about how the college had been awarded the silver by an ex-pupil who had been, rather unfortunately, hanged by the neck by an ungrateful sovereign after fighting on the wrong side in some war or other.

  And so it went on.

  As Laurel’s head began to swim with the knowledge all these well-meaning fellows began to pile on top of her head, Gideon watched her with a growing sense of both mirth and despair.

  Mirth, because she was so obviously out of her depth around all these academics. And despair because, try as he might, he simply couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her.

  Damn her, did she have to have such outrageous cheekbones? And did she have to charm all the older, crustier dons who still secretly preferred their Oxford colleges to be monk-like residences? And did she have to have such an infectious laugh and be quite so outrageously charming?

  And why on earth did she have to wear that dress?

  He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes away from that criss-cross of orange material over her breasts, and he could clearly see her skin glowing in the candlelight.

  He drank the excellent Veuve Clicquot from the college’s own extensive wine cellar and tried to engage the fellow on his right, a fine thinker in Modern History, on any subject he cared to mention.

  He tried to tune out the distracting American voice, so soft and sultry, that was laughing and teasing old Rex Jimson-Clarke, but it was impossible. Time and time again, his icy-blue eyes strayed in her direction. She had the same fascination as a sore tooth.

  And he was not the only one whose attention was fixed firmly on Laurel Van Gilder.

  A few chairs down and to the right, Dr Ollenbach was anxiously crumbling pieces of bread on to her plate.

  I have to get it. If I don't get it, I don’t know what I’ll do. I simply have to win it. I have to have the money. I must, must, must.

  Opposite her, placed between the dean and the appeals secretary, was Martha Doyle, eyeing Laurel Van Gilder with a secretive smile.

  Bit of a show-off, that woman. That dress is pure exhibitionism. Wonder if I’ve got a chance of getting that chair? Probably not. Oh well.

  At the far end, Sir Laurence Fox picked at his food.

  I’m getting too old for all this rigmarole. I’ll be glad to retire. I won’t be able to, though, if I’ve won the chair. No, it won’t be me. I’ll lay odds on Gideon getting it.

  And watching the proceedings from the other end of the table was the calm, lovely face of Dr Julie Ngabe. Her dark eyes gave nothing away, her full, warm mouth was neither smiling nor tightly pinched. She looked totally calm.

  If they don’t give me the chair, St John’s w
on’t renew my research fellowship. Morton hinted as much just yesterday. And if I don’t get the chair, I won’t be able to afford to stay in Oxford to finish the DPhil. I’ll have to go back to Kenya. And everyone back home is expecting me to do well. I must be in with a chance! Apart from Professor Welles, I’m the only one who’s clearly a first-class scholar. It won’t be fair if they don’t give it to me.

  At last, the final course was served.

  Sin-Jun tapped his wine glass with a spoon and the room fell obediently silent. He rose to his feet to address his troops.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, my esteemed guests,’ he nodded at the fellows from the other colleges, ‘and students,’ he tossed the room of young men and women an offhand glance. ‘We are gathered tonight to hear Miss Laurel Van Gilder announce the winner of the prestigious Van Gilder chair in Psychology.’

  There was a general murmur of polite approval. In his chair, Sir Vivian sighed very loudly and momentarily put the principal off his stride.

  ‘Miss Van Gilder, if you please?’ he murmured.

  Everyone at the High Table leaned forward, even those dons whose subjects were as far removed from Psychology as Engineering and Modern Languages. There was always something electrifying about the awarding of a big prize. The kudos. The money. The fame. It was like being at the Oxford equivalent of the Oscars.

  Julie Ngabe’s face became even more bland.

  Felicity Ollenbach suddenly stopped chasing crumbs around her plate.

  Martha Doyle smiled wickedly at the sudden air of tension.

  Sir Laurence finished off the last of his wine.

  Gideon tried not to look at her as Laurel slowly rose to her feet. But failed.

  He was used to women being so much smaller than himself, but she looked as if her head would rest in just the right place against his shoulder, if they were to dance.

  Damn it, they were never going to dance together. He followed Sir Laurence’s example and finished off the last of his wine.

  ‘Thank you, Lord St John James,’ Laurel said, her voice slightly husky with all the talking she’d been doing.

  ‘I won’t prolong the agony. On behalf of the Van Gilder Foundation, I can tell you that the 2001 to 2004 chair in Psychology goes to Professor Gideon Welles, of St Bede’s College.’

  Whereupon, several things happened at once.

  The undergraduates, like supporters of a football team that has unexpectedly won the cup, suddenly erupted into spontaneous cheers.

  Dr Ngabe’s face turned to stone.

  Dr Ollenbach quickly and surreptitiously wiped away the tears that were rolling down her face.

  And Gideon rose slowly to his feet as Laurel held out her hand, her bold eyes clashing with his.

  Slowly, with barely hidden reluctance, Gideon shook her hand.

  Laurel smiled at him grimly through gritted teeth. As they shook, she leaned closer and whispered in his ear.

  ‘Considering I’ve just granted you a huge amount of money and a prestigious award, you might try to look just a little grateful!’

  Gideon smiled. Like a wolf. And raising her hand to his lips, he mockingly kissed her knuckles.

  Laurel’s knees promptly turned to water.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A few minutes later, the principal began leading the throng back once more to the Senior Common Room, where the college butler was busily arranging the port, coffee and mints.

  As they approached the outer door, everyone else tactfully hung back, allowing Sin-Jun, Laurel, Gideon and the other shortlisted candidates to enter first.

  Inside, the dean, hearing someone coming in, turned around looking harassed and already speaking.

  ‘Oh, Principal, just the fellow I needed to see. We have a problem with the alarm,’ he began, then broke off instantly as the others came through the door. He flushed painfully at the minor social indiscretion, then coughed into his hand and smiled weakly.

  ‘Welcome back, everyone. Everything’s ready for you inside.’

  He caught Sin-Jun’s caustic eye, and Gideon broke into the slightly awkward moment by pushing open the green baize doors and ushering everyone in.

  As they filed past, they all glanced at the cabinet where, on the centre shelf and in pride of place, stood a small silver cup.

  The famous Augentine chalice.

  It looked old, and the silver work bore the obvious hand of a master.

  When everyone had finally gone through into the Senior Common Room, the dean looked at the principal shamefaced. ‘Sorry about that. Didn’t realise you had company.’

  Sin-Jun waved a hand. ‘Never mind that. What’s this about the alarm?’

  ‘It was the security guard that delivered the chalice for Miss Van Gilder who noticed. The alarm must have a short in it somewhere. I promised him I’d stay here and guard it until you came.’

  Sin-Jun scowled at the cabinet. He knew exactly how much the fifteenth-century silver chalice was worth. ‘You’ve called the security people?’ he demanded.

  ‘Oh yes. They have a twenty-four-hour service,’ the dean assured him. ‘But their expert is based in London, and he’s currently on another job. They’re not sure when he’ll be able to get to us.’

  ‘Hm. But it’s locked?’ Sin-Jun asked, reaching out and rattling the cabinet doors, which held firm.

  ‘Oh yes,’ the dean assured him hastily.

  Conscious of his waiting guests, Sin-Jun nodded. ‘Well, I think it’s safe enough for an hour or two. No thief’s going to chance his arm when there’s a roomful of people only a few yards away. But ask Bates in the lodge to keep a careful eye out for strangers, just in case.’

  Relieved, the dean nodded and hurried off to do just that. Although a power in his own right within the college’s administrative structure, the ex-soldier-turned-principal still had a way of making people jump to his orders!

  Inside, everyone was drinking coffee and cognac and spirits were high.

  Gideon had an almost constant stream of people queuing up to congratulate him.

  ‘Well, I must say, I’m especially pleased for St Bede’s that our own fellow has captured the prize, dear lady,’ Sin-Jun said quietly to Laurel. ‘Though, of course, I must take time to commiserate with the defeated and walking wounded.’

  Laurel gave a noncommittal smile as the older man moved off, but was not really listening. Was that a Stubbs on the far wall? So far, she’d noticed several paintings on the college walls that belonged in museums, hung with obvious nonchalance. She supposed a college that had been going as long as ‘the Venerable’ had had more than its share of generous gifts, bequeathed in old members’ last wills and testaments. In fact, the whole rarefied atmosphere of the college fascinated her.

  More and more, she was coming to see the college not as a collection of Elizabethan buildings, but as a community within a community.

  All around her, the guests began to fall on the port and on one another, several gathering around Gideon with congratulations and cleverly disguised barbs.

  In one corner, Dr Ollenbach restlessly rubbed her thumb over the small diamond pendant she was wearing and eagerly grabbed a glass of champagne from a circulating scout.

  Laurel drank in the discreet party atmosphere, networked in a drifting, pleasant way, and finally came to rest in a window seat overlooking the main gardens that were dark and shadowy.

  She smiled as the ancient emeritus fellow in Classics sidled up to her and took the weight off her varicose veins with a tiny, ladylike sigh of bliss.

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly tossed a pebble into the peaceful millpond,’ the ancient, learned lady said with a distinct twinkle in her water-blue eyes.

  Laurel laughed lightly. ‘Oh, I only hand out the awards. I leave it to the academic panel to decide who’s the most worthy recipient.’

  As she spoke, her gaze wandered to a tall silver head as Gideon worked his way around the room and carefully kept as far away from her as possible.

  Her lips twisted b
itterly, and something of her doubts must have shown on her face, for Daphne Green’s twinkling eyes suddenly sharpened.

  ‘And, of course, they’ve made the right decision,’ the old lady said crisply. ‘I dare say, as a member of St Bede’s you may think I’m biased, but of all the shortlisted candidates, Gideon is by far the most gifted scholar. Dr Ngabe, given a few years, might be his equal, but not as it stands now.’

  The old lady shrugged delicately.

  ‘He’s that good then?’ Laurel said quickly.

  Too quickly.

  Daphne Green was way too wily a bird not to understand what that avid, pink-cheeked interest meant. She’d seen enough girls in her time have the same expression in their eyes.

  So. It was like that, was it? Daphne smiled.

  At her age, she enjoyed watching the machinations and struggles of the young. It brought back such wonderful memories. Still, she had to keep the faith with her own sex. And Miss Van Gilder needed hard, straightforward, no-nonsense information.

  ‘Oh yes, he’s by far one of the three greatest minds at St Bede’s,’ she said airily but with perfect seriousness. ‘The other two being myself, of course, and the principal. Don’t let that widowed, crusty exterior fool you, my dear,’ she said at Laurel’s surprised look. ‘Sin-Jun might look like a stereotype of the retired civil servant of long standing, with the usual meaningless string of letters behind his name. But he was a lion in his time, and once a lion, always a lion. St Bede’s has prospered under his captaincy more than under the last three principals put together. But, of course, it’s Gideon you want to know about.’

  Laurel opened her mouth to say that she certainly did not, that she couldn’t care less if she never found out a single thing about the iceman. But then, she caught the look in the octogenarian’s eye and was suddenly too ashamed to deny it.

  Daphne smiled and gave a mental nod of approval. Good. It was a rare girl who knew what she wanted.