But her expression suddenly brightened. “However, it is of no matter. Kit and Cordelia are also invited. I shall go along with them so as not to disappoint Her Ladyship.”
Wrexford, she noted, looked a little relieved. He didn’t enjoy the superficial swirl of Polite Society.
“You are sure?” he asked.
“Quite sure,” answered Charlotte. To Tyler, she added, “Let us make haste. If Wrex catches the next Royal Mail coach, he can be in Oxford by early evening.”
* * *
“Back so soon, milord?” The head porter came out of his lodge in the gatehouse to greet Wrexford as he passed from the street into the entrance archway of Merton College.
The earl smiled. He and Charlotte had lodged at the college during the recent gala banquet and award ceremonies held for the visiting monarchs of Europe. “So it would seem.”
“Perhaps you have come to realize that the life of an academic is an idyllic one.” The porter added a mournful sigh. “You were a brilliant student during your days as an undergraduate here at Merton, sir. A pity that is no longer an option for you.”
Dons of the college were not permitted to be married. The male camaraderie of High Table, with its nightly ritual of elegant dinners and fine wines, was considered the only relationship that really mattered in life.
“Despite the undeniable charms of Merton, I’m not regretting my choice,” replied the earl.
The porter looked unconvinced. “The Warden has been saying that as one of the leading luminaries of the scientific world in Britain, you would have added great luster to our beloved college had you not . . .”
“Been caught in the parson’s mousetrap?” finished the earl.
A sniff. “Your words, not mine, milord.”
“Are you married, Jenkins?”
The porter’s eyes widened in horror. “Heaven forfend.”
“Yes, well, aside from the fact that our views on the pleasures of matrimony differ, I would find monastic academic life far too quiet for my temperament.”
Wrexford looked around at the ancient-as-Methuselah stone buildings and caught the glimmers of colored light flickering off the magnificent stained-glass window gracing the chapel. The college had stood in scholarly splendor since 1264, when Walter de Merton, chancellor of England and later bishop of Rochester, had first established a self-governing “house of scholars” on this hallowed spot.
Though part of Oxford University, Merton, like all the individual colleges, administered its own affairs, led by its Warden, the titular head of the college. Merton’s high outer walls now surrounded a cluster of courtyards and gardens that had grown over the centuries, creating an oasis of tranquility.
A world unto itself.
An important one, reflected the earl.But I prefer the messy chaos of the real world, where ideas collide and ignite controversy, sparking frightening new ideas that knock old traditions arse over tea kettle—
“Oh, aye, milord.” The porter’s gravelly voice interrupted his thoughts. “We all know your penchant for solving murders.” A brusque cough. “I imagine that’s why you’re here.”
Wrenched from his reveries, it took the earl an instant to react. “What the devil do you mean?” As far as he could recall, the only thing to suffer a violent death within these hallowed walls was the hope of getting the students to spend their hours studying instead of drinking and wenching.
“Terrible it was, sir. So much blood.” Jenkins made a pained face. “Some of it spattered on several valuable books.”
The mention of books stirred a sharp foreboding. “Who was the victim?” he demanded.
“Our head librarian, Mr. Greeley,” answered the porter. “The poor fellow was—”
But Wrexford was already rushing across the sloping stones of the main courtyard and heading for the archway that led to Mob Quadrangle.
CHAPTER 3
The wheels of the carriage clattered to a halt in front of a handsome stone building on Bond Street. Raven threw open the door and scrambled out, with Hawk and Peregrine right on his heels.
“Mind your manners,” called Charlotte as she and McClellan climbed down to the pavement.
The stalwart Scot—a plain-faced woman with greying hair and perceptive eyes—served as Charlotte’s personal maid. But she was far more than that. Trusted confidante, occasional sleuth, firm-handed taskmaster of the Weasels, baker of ambrosial ginger biscuits—McClellan was, in a word, the glue that helped bind their household together.
