An Oxford Scandal Read online

  ‘Well, in some ways, his is a rather conventional story,’ Daphne began, her gaze straying between the silver-haired giant and her rapt companion. ‘He came to St Bede’s as an undergraduate at eighteen, from a large comprehensive school just down the road. Surprisingly, not many locals make it into the university. His parents worked on a farm just outside the city.’

  ‘I don’t suppose working on a farm appealed to him one little bit,’ Laurel couldn’t help but interrupt, somewhat waspishly.

  Daphne smiled. Such passion!

  My, my, Gideon had better watch himself!

  ‘I don’t suppose truly great scholars ever do,’ she said mildly. Of course, that was never an issue as far as Gideon was concerned. The poor boy lost both his parents in a car crash when he was in his second year here. Their tied cottage went to someone else, which explains, I suppose, how he drifted into letting the college become his home. I’m not sure that’s very healthy, you know. But there it is.’

  Laurel frowned. ‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean.’

  Daphne shrugged one bony elbow, wincing at her sciatica. ‘Well, my dear, it’s like this. The fellows in this college, like all colleges, fall into two distinct categories. Those that live out with their families, and those that live in. Those that live out have wives and husbands to deal with, kids, mortgages, bills and so forth, and generally have to muck in and live life like most other mortals. But those that live in, well! That’s totally different. Their whole lifestyle is much more rarefied. For instance, they have their breakfast brought to them by scouts, they’re apt to treat the Senior Common Room like their own private men’s club, and are generally prone, over the years, to fall into the life of a privileged monk. That latter distressing state of affairs is particularly true of St Bede’s, unfortunately. The Venerable Bede himself was an Anglo-Saxon historian, devoted to academia. A protégé of the Benedictines, he wrote a lot of hymns, epigrams and commentaries on the Old and New Testaments. Naturally this college, as a result, has a huge History and Theology school and retains, more than any other Oxford college, that monk-like, dry, academic atmosphere that can be so dangerous for single men.’

  Laurel gaped at her, trying not to laugh. Are you trying to tell me that . . .’ she looked across the room at Gideon Welles, his classic profile turned and bent to listen to an annoyingly lovely woman, ‘that he . . .’ (damn him, he was so gorgeous!) ‘. . . that . . .’

  She was stuttering. Abruptly, she snapped her teeth closed and shook her head.

  ‘I know. Shocking, isn’t it?’ Daphne said, helping her out. After all, if you couldn’t speak your mind at eighty when could you? ‘He’s so tall and good-looking. And cool and aggravating and, I imagine, a quite spectacular lover. Have you ever noticed his hands?’

  Laurel blinked. ‘Huh? His hands?’

  ‘No, I suppose the face captivates you too much. And those eyes. But take a look at his hands when you get the opportunity, my dear. Long, white, sensitive hands. The kind of hands that would know their way about a woman’s body, I shouldn’t wonder. And all of that going to waste here at good old St Bede’s. I’ve always found it a crying shame.’

  Laurel gaped at the old woman. For once in her life she was stuck for words.

  Daphne smilingly accepted a brandy from a scout and told herself off for enjoying herself so much. But, really, it was about time that Gideon was rescued while he was still young enough to enjoy it.

  ‘Oh, I have no doubt he’s had plenty of women,’ Daphne carried on, anxious to correct any misinterpretations the younger woman might have formed. ‘Looking like that, after all, he’s hardly likely to have gone unnoticed by the female population of a city as big as this, but . . .’ She took a sip of brandy. ‘Excellent! But he’s always had St Bede’s to protect him. Having rooms in college is always such a convenient bolthole, don’t you think? And the company of his fellow dons, the glut of intelligent conversation, the pampering, the satisfaction of teaching some of the best minds in the country, all of that gives him the perfect excuse to keep women at a distance. What he needs, of course, is to fall flat on his face in love. That’ll teach him!’

  Daphne followed Laurel’s example and cast a quick look at the object of their discussion.

  ‘Take Martha there, for instance, the woman he’s talking to. Martha Doyle. She was on the shortlist for the Van Gilder chair too, mainly for her very good DPhil thesis, I should think. Anyway, she’s definitely not in Gideon’s class as a scholar, but she could talk to him as an equal, she’s passably good-looking, and has had the discreet hots for him for years. But does he bite like a good little hooked fish ought to? Not he,’ Daphne snorted.

  Laurel, who’d been torn between amusement, fascination and thanking her lucky stars to have found such a generous mine of information as Daphne, began to feel less happy with the way the conversation was turning.

  She glanced surreptitiously at the woman still talking to Gideon. She was not young — she had to be in her forties — but she was extremely well-preserved. Her honey-coloured hair was shoulder-length and wavy, and her figure, though very much more rounded than Laurel’s own, was still the kind that men preferred.

  ‘Don’t worry, my dear, Martha hasn’t got what it takes to winkle our Gideon out of his cosy shell.’

  Laurel stiffened. ‘I’m not sure a man like that should be “winkled” out.’

  Daphne’s eyes positively glittered. ‘Don’t you think so? I rather think it would be fun to melt the iceman.’

  Laurel turned startled eyes in the older woman’s direction. ‘So that’s how you see him too?’

  ‘Oh yes. But then, that’s how he wants the world to see him.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s an accurate representation of his character?’

  Both women turned to look at him then. ‘Perhaps,’ Daphne said. If the old saying held true, his ears should have been positively roasting at that moment. But he showed no signs of being aware of such intense scrutiny.

  Instead, he turned and left the Senior Common Room, barely glancing behind him.

  ‘Oh well, I think it’s time I climbed the wooden hill to Bedfordshire,’ Daphne said, totally baffling her new American friend, who wasn’t acquainted with the old-fashioned British way of saying she was going to bed. Daphne deposited her empty glass on a coffee table, laid a gnarled hand on Laurel’s bare arm, using it to help her struggle back to her feet, and said cheerfully, ‘Good hunting, my dear.’

  Laurel watched her go, a wide smile on her face. What a game old girl!

  She saw the green baize doors open and her heart thumped, but it was Julie Ngabe who entered. Telling herself she was a fool for feeling disappointed, she quickly cut a path to the striking African woman.

  ‘Dr Ngabe, I’m so sorry you were unsuccessful this time,’ Laurel said with genuine regret. ‘But I’m sure I’ll be seeing your name on future shortlists. Tell me about your area of research.’

  Julie Ngabe, showing no signs of unease, gave a long but surprisingly easy-to-follow resume of her work. Then, glancing over Laurel’s shoulder, she murmured something polite and drifted away.

  ‘I see my colleague is through monopolising you,’ a dry, cold voice spoke from the rarefied air above her head.

  Laurel turned, annoyed at having to look so far up. She wasn’t used to it and wasn’t sure she liked it. ‘Dr Ngabe has been wonderful,’ she said firmly. And her eyes glittered, like an eagle spotting a rabbit.

  Gideon’s blue eyes narrowed.

  Suddenly, remembering Daphne’s words, Laurel dropped her eyes to his hands. Her breath caught. Daphne was right, he did have fantastic-looking hands.

  Ten minutes later, a figure slipped quietly out of the Senior Common Room.

  Nobody in the throng noticed the departure.

  Barely fifteen minutes after that, the absentee was back again and chatting to Rex Jimson-Clarke.

  In one corner, Martha Doyle began to get rather drunk. It was, in many ways, a typical O
xford college party.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Gideon had approached Laurel Van Gilder after her discussion with Dr Ngabe, fully prepared to act like a reasonable human being, only to be treated to the American wench’s double-talk.

  And why had she kept staring at his hands?

  Gideon had retreated almost immediately after that little episode, all the reconciling and civilised things he’d intended to say left humiliatingly unsaid. Instead, he’d tried to enjoy the party.

  Without success.

  It was not like him to be slightly confused. He was used to being in complete charge of both himself and the situation.

  People had a habit of coming to him when they were in trouble, sensing, perhaps, that he was the one person they could rely on to be unbiased and experienced enough to help. In his time, he’d sorted out suicidal undergraduates, fellow dons’ marriage crises and numerous rows.

  He’d always been able to rely on himself to meet any situation with a level head, practical compassion and gentle understanding. Laurel Van Gilder, on the other hand, had him seesawing up and down like a demented yo-yo. And it had to stop!

  The party was now beginning to wind down. As the hour of midnight approached, fellows reluctantly began to remember the tutorials they had scheduled for tomorrow. Guests from other colleges contemplated the state of their own heads come the morning. The port, it had to be said, had been liberally flowing.

  Reluctantly, slowly, people were beginning to drift away. The volume of noise slowly decreased.

  Gideon, as the ‘star attraction’, was also more than ready to call it a night. The unexpected windfall of winning the prestigious Van Gilder chair was, of course, a very pleasant surprise, but it was not what held his attention.

  That American woman seemed to be haunting him.

  Eventually, he’d been forced to approach her one last time in order to offer at least some sort of olive branch. They simply couldn’t go on like this.

  So why, oh why, he thought with a mixture of frustration and surprise, had his first words been so antagonistic?

  ‘I expect you’re waiting for me to thank you?’

  Laurel spun around, suddenly hearing that oh-so-familiar voice, with its usual mocking tone. The overhead light caught the silver and amber beads in her hair as she did so, causing a stray spark of light to shine in his eyes.

  Gideon winced at the sudden glimmer of light, then tensed as he watched that wide-mouthed smile suddenly spring up on her face.

  He knew he was in for it, even before she spoke. ‘Professor Welles. Did you say something?’ she asked sweetly.

  ‘I said,’ Gideon gritted, ‘that I imagine you’re waiting for me to thank you?’ he repeated, knowing full well that she’d heard him the first time and was only making him repeat his mistake for the sheer devilry of it.

  Laurel caught the angst in his voice, carefully concealed though it was, and felt her smile widen. Really, this man was an awful lot of fun. It was a bit like poking a sleeping tiger with a stick. Just the right amount of pressure and he twitched in his sleep, leaving you to clap your hands in glee and try again. Too much and grrrrrr!

  ‘Why, Professor Welles, the thought never even crossed my mind.’ She smiled even more sweetly, revealing a gleaming row of snow-white teeth.

  Gideon’s own teeth clenched. ‘Meaning that you’ve already made up your mind that I’m . . . what? Too ungrateful? Too arrogant? Too blasé?’

  Laurel laughed openly. ‘Now why should I think any of those things, Professor? It isn’t as though you’ve given me any reason to think so, is it?’

  Gideon found himself taking an impulsive step towards her and halted abruptly.

  Behind him, he could hear Martha Doyle cheerfully calling goodbye to Rex Jimson-Clarke. To his right, the principal’s deep tones were making goodbye noises to Julie Ngabe.

  Now was definitely not the time to raise his voice or lose his temper. Not that he would anyway. This woman didn’t have what it took to get to him.

  Yeah. Right.

  He gave her his own sweet smile right back. And if he’d allowed his eyes to drop to the swell of her breasts, he’d have seen her nipples suddenly strain and burgeon against the flame-coloured silk.

  As it was, Laurel managed to keep her purely instinctive and devastatingly sexual reaction to that spine-tingling smile from showing on her face, at least. But her legs went treacherously weak.

  ‘As you say,’ Gideon said smoothly, ‘I’ve always been taught to act like the perfect gentleman. Even if kamikaze females will throw their bikes at my car. Incidentally, you’ll be receiving a bill for damage to my Morgan’s paintwork.’

  The smile he now gave her was absolutely dazzling. ‘Goodnight, Miss Van Gilder. I do hope the rest of your stay in England will be less dramatic.’

  And with that pleasing exit line, he turned on his heel and headed back into the diminishing throng of the party, feeling alternately elated and thoroughly ashamed of himself.

  He’d thought he’d got over playing such childish games years ago.

  Laurel, caught on the hop, had no choice but to watch him go, her mouth hanging open. Perfect gentleman? And a bill for his car repairs, after the enormous grant she’d just awarded him? Of all the damned cheek. Of all the insufferable behaviour.

  The party gradually fizzled out, its guests emerging into the dimly lit night. People began to make their way to St Bede’s two small car parks, one opposite the college clock, the other facing the college War Memorial, both of which were at opposite ends of Wallace Quad. Some of the partygoers who lived nearby had been able to drink their fill and now headed towards the main gates to walk home. Others cadged lifts.

  Those present who lived in had the easiest route home of all and merely crossed the gardens to Wolsey or Walton, or crossed Wallace Quad to Webster, the college’s three main residences, where students and dons lived alike in splendid and ancient rooms.

  And so it was that everyone wandered off everywhere, nobody taking particular notice of who went where, when, and in what order. Why should they?

  But if only they had, for one thing would become crystal clear.

  The Augentine chalice had been stolen!

  * * *

  Laurel Van Gilder stepped briskly from the Senior Common Room at St Bede’s and into the hall. There she walked past the cabinet, glancing at it in order to look at the chalice. Although, technically, it belonged to her, in truth she couldn’t remember ever having seen it before. Although the Van Gilder art collection was now her inheritance, it had always been the baby of one of her aunts, who held a degree in Fine Art from the Sorbonne.

  But as she glanced at the cabinet, she saw that it was covered by a big heavy black coat. Obviously, the coat racks had been full, and someone had simply tossed his coat across it.

  She shrugged, moving on through the hall and out into the night.

  She’d managed to give Sin-Jun the slip, knowing that he’d insist on escorting her to the main gates and helping her into her taxi. Such old-world gallantry was very pleasant, of course, but the truth was she wasn’t ready to go just yet.

  It was dark outside and she stood for a few seconds in the car park, looking around.

  Most of the cars were facing the postern gate, not the quad, and as she watched, a car engine rumbled and headlights lit up the wall that ran the length of the tiny alleyway.

  The car pulled out of the college grounds and left her peering once more into the dark.

  With a mental map of the college grounds in her head, she followed the wall that led off to her left and came to the Becket Arch, a medieval structure that led her into the main gardens.

  She could just make out the silver reflection of the moon on the still waters of the pond.

  Setting off on the gravel paths that led between the rose bushes, Laurel made her way towards the bottom left-hand side of the college and the residence called Wolsey. She’d rather cleverly winkled out of a tipsy Modern History don the name
and number of Gideon Welles’ rooms. With the Van Gilder chair safely delivered to its winner, she had no further excuse to see him, but she simply objected, on principle, to a man getting the last word.

  As she passed the pond, she could see a big dark shape moving in the depths and wondered how many of the big carp the pond housed.

  For some reason, she shivered.

  It was not just the clammy coldness of the early November night either. Shadows seemed to writhe in the creeper that covered the walls of the ancient library, away to her right.

  She half expected an owl to hoot, as it did in all the best horror movies.

  Laurel was glad to reach the main door to Wolsey, and then, a moment later, could have kicked herself for being so stupid. The door was locked, of course. It was well after midnight.

  Damn, she fumed silently. Was the whole world against her?

  It seemed not, however. For just as she was turning away, she heard a tuneless whistle and the ever-present sound of a bicycle. It was being wheeled up the concrete path skirting the residence, and a moment later an undergraduate appeared. He propped the bicycle in one of the many bicycle racks littered around the college, bent down to chain it firmly, and then walked towards her, his head down as he rifled his pockets for his keys.

  Laurel took a step back.

  The young man’s head reared up as he sensed the movement, and she saw him grin widely as he took in her slender form.

  ‘I’m just waiting for, er, someone to come down,’ Laurel lied glibly.

  The undergraduate laughed benevolently. ‘Hang on a tick, I can save them the trouble.’

  He opened the door, standing ostentatiously to one side to allow Laurel through.

  A single lamp burned in a large, cold vestibule.

  To her relief, the student (who obviously had rooms on the top floor) immediately bolted for the wide wooden staircase and noisily took the steps two at a time.

  Laurel knew that Gideon had rooms on the ground floor, overlooking the gardens, and she began to peer in the dim light at the room numbers.

  She found his room unexpectedly quickly, and then had to wait outside his door, shuffling from one foot to the other, working up the nerve now that she was actually here to knock on it.