Page 3 of The Devil in Oxford
She stared at the snowflakes falling outside the large leaded glass window, her fingers running absently on the wooden sash. “It’s nothing. It’s only Reaver has this project that’s consuming him, and he insisted I be at his side all day tomorrow.”
I stared at her unblinking. “Frederick Reaver.… You work fortheFrederick Reaver?” The words came out as a squeak. How on earth had she omitted that tiny fact? The man was a legend among Mr. Owen’s set. Universally adored by the papers as one of the greatminds of our age. “Why didn’t you mention that before? Leona, that’s aboon! No wonder you’re happy at the museum.”
“I’m s-sorry. It must have slipped my mind,” she murmured, picking at the cuticle of her left thumb.
This sudden reticence worried me. I took a step closer, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Is everything all right?”
She rubbed her left eye and shook her head. “I’m fine, Ruby. Truly. It’s only a headache. It’s come on all of a sudden.” Her voice cracked and she flashed me a small smile. “Off with you. I’ll keep Hari occupied. Maybe even have him buy me supper somewhere expensive. He can certainly afford it if he’s having to keep you out of trouble.”
Leona was behaving strangely, but I hadn’t time to parse out what it meant. Perhaps it was only a headache as she said, or perhaps she simply wasn’t as happy at the museum as she’d implied. After all, I knew how hard she’d fought to be taken seriously by the academy. And for her to have a permanent position at the Ashmolean—one of the most respected, if notthepreeminent museum in Britain—and under Frederick Reaver? It was everything she’d ever dreamed of.
The heavy wooden sash groaned as I lifted it. A gust of wind sent a maelstrom of wet snow inside, striking the side of my face. My fancy shoes in my left hand, I threw my legs over the side, balancing there—half in, half out. “With your headache, shouldn’t you fix yourself some tea and go to bed? I’m sure Hari won’t mind.” I’d meant the words kindly, and yet Leona stiffened as if struck.
But whatever it was would have to wait until the morning, I was already late for supper with the antiquarians, and that would never do.
CHAPTERTWOThe Prodigal Protégé
THEsnowstorm raged outside the thick walls of Emmanuel Laurent’s stately townhome. I’d been here for over an hour now and yet my stockings had scarcely dried from where I landed on the snowy street outside the club. I stretched my toes in my shoes. Every so often, the very walls of the home would groan as a stiff gale whipped down the winding narrow street between the tall yellow-stone buildings. Oxford was a lovely town, with the University the beating heart of it. Ever since arriving here, I could not go two steps without running into someone who was connected to the place. Even our kindly host Emmanuel Laurent, who was currently angling to be the next Member of Parliament for Oxford itself, was a former professor—having taught anthropology for decades before turning his attention to politics. The University connection was how Mr. Owen first became acquainted with the fellow, and how I ended up nursing a glass of champagne alone on a settee feeling utterly sorry for myself—at half past eight o’clock on a Tuesday. Or was it Wednesday? I tilted my glass to one side—the days had turned into a blur. An endless morass punctuated by random pangs of guilt for how I’d left things with Ruan.
I nearly groaned.Ruan Kivelland my confounding feelings forthe man were a constant plague upon my thoughts. I took another drink, staring at the fine rug beneath my shoes in a desperate attempt to think of something other than the intriguing folk healer I’d met in Cornwall last August. It must be Oxford itself that kept him so close to mind, as he’d been a student here before the war. Granted, almosteverythingmade me think of Ruan as of late. The man managed to capture my bitter heart in a way I’d not expected. Running from my feelings for the dreadful man was half the reason I so readily agreed to join Mr. Owen in Oxford. I thought being away from home would give me time to forget my wretched inaction in Scotland. The man laid his feelings for me bare, and I’d… I’d said nothing. I let him walk away—entirely unaware of how deeply I cared for him. I swallowed that unwelcome memory along with the dregs of my champagne, setting the glass on the ornately carved cherry occasional table beside me.
Where was Mr. Owen? I scanned the room, before spotting him holding court alongside the great carved-stone mantelpiece at the far end of the room, decorated with a cheerful garland of braided ivy. I recognized some of his compatriots as men I’d seen at the bookshop, but there were other people here too, ones I was less familiar with—those who’d known him when he was the Viscount of Hawick, a fact I had only recently learned myself. Mr. Owen stillwasthe viscount of course, but he’d gone so long by his nom de guerre that he tended to prefer it to the title he’d been born to.
“Do you suppose we will be snowed in here?”
I jerked my head around to the voice, lost in my own festive display of self-pity, to find our host standing beside me with two coupe glasses of champagne in his hands. Emmanuel Laurent was a remarkably handsome gentleman, a decade or two younger than Mr. Owen, with dark gray eyes that put me in mind of the slate quarries I’d seen back in the mountains of New York when I was a young girl, long before scandal sent me away to Britain.
My hesitation to answer must have worried him as he quicklychanged the subject. “Are you enjoying yourself this evening, Miss Vaughn?”
If one considered reciting one’s greatest failuresenjoyment, I supposed I was. The edge of my mouth curved up into a ghost of a smile. “A bit.”
“I should hope more than a bit, my dear. It’s nearly Christmas after all.” He held a glass out to me, the pale effervescence from the liquid catching in the electric lights.
I reached up accepting it, murmuring my thanks. Mr. Laurent sank down into the chair opposite me, thoughtfully twisting his own glass.
“More than a bit,” I conceded. “You have a lovely home.” The statement was not at all polite conversation. Emmanuel Laurent had an exceptionally elegant drawing room. Each of the pieces carefully curated and positioned to use the room to its maximum efficiency. There were no awkwardly placed settees, nor any stacks of wayward tomes with forgotten teacups balanced precariously on top here. The man had impeccable taste and style, that extended past his drawing room to the person himself. Mr. Laurent was clean-shaven, with a warm, kindly affect. He wore his hair short and slicked back as was the fashion, the ebony strands warring with the silver at his temples giving him a learned air, which was to be expected since he’d spent most of his life lecturing on anthropology here at the University.
I glanced past him to the heavily frosted windowpane. “You might be right about the snow.” Almost at command, the glass rattled again in its wooden casing. “I haven’t seen a storm like this since I left New York.”
He gave me a sympathetic frown, sipping his champagne at the mention of my past life—it was no secret that I’d been sent to Britain under a cloud of scandal at the ripe age of sixteen. No one spoke much of it anymore, but mention of my life in America was oft met with similarly polite nods.That poor Vaughn girl.
“You must be terribly bored tonight, all anyone wants to discuss is either bookbinding or Julius Harker’s mysterious disappearance. I confess, I cannot decide which is more loathsome.”
I laughed at the serious expression upon his face. “You mean the fellow running the curiosity museum in town?” The city and the antiquarians both had been abuzz for the last two days regarding the elusive Julius Harker. I’d not paid much attention to it, for I knew all about those sorts ofcuriositymuseums and the type of people who ran them—the ones who would wire a cat skeleton to a salmon and call it a mermaid all for a few coins.
Laurent made a low sound in his chest as he finished his champagne. “The same. The fellow was invited by none other than Frederick Reaver to present a lecture at the Ashmolean some three days ago. Though why a man like Reaver would lower himself to entertain a scoundrel like Julius Harker, I certainly don’t know. Regardless, in typical form Harker did not appear, and no one has seen hide nor hair of him since. Rumors are swirling whether he’ll even appear for this grand unveiling of his Napoleonic cache tomorrow night.”
I worried my lower lip as the fire popped merrily in the hearth. “How very strange.”
Laurent let out an exasperated sigh, his eyes warm upon my own. “The two men have been at odds for years. It would not surprise me if Professor Reaver had invited him to speak with the intention of embarrassing the fellow, and Harker simply one-upped him by not attending.”
“That’s a great deal of effort for a simple rivalry.”
“You’ve not met many true academics then. You cannot challenge the ego of a genius without facing repercussions of some sort. The pair of them are like tomcats circling one another. Always have been.”
Laurent must have misread my expression, for he quickly continued. “Oh no, my dear. That’s not to say that Frederick Reaveris all bad, we have been trying for years to have him join our antiquarian society, but the museum takes up all his time. It’s even worse now that Carter found that new tomb. Fielding newspaper interviews, and requests for lectures. I’d be surprised if he doesn’t pack his bags and disappear back to Egypt before long.” He gave me a sympathetic smile, his palm resting lightly on the table beside me.
I glanced behind me to Mr. Owen, who still boisterously held court near the fireplace with a half dozen of his comrades, all of whom were deep in their cups and flushed. “I am sorry I’m not a better conversationalist tonight. You’ve likely escaped a riveting debate about dust mites. And now here you are discussing long-dead pharaohs and academic grievances.”
