A Matter of Trust (6 page)

The Kendall Prize Dinner started at eight, and he couldn't afford to be late. The Prize was always held at St Bede's, of course, since it had been George Kendall's old college, but this was the first year for many a decade that a member of St Bede's itself might also be in with a chance of winning it. With around forty colleges comprising the university though, Callum wasn't holding his breath. No matter what Rosemary Naismith might have to say.

Rosemary. Just what was she up to? He'd heard the rumours circulating around the university that her latest research wasn't going well. Theirs was a small world, and filled with gossip, after all. But did she really think he'd collude with her to cheat the Kendall Foundation?

He sighed, and checked his tie.

He was wearing a black tuxedo with a pale electric-blue silk bow tie. He'd had the suit hand-tailored for him at one of Oxford's best gentleman's outfitters, simply because,
being
his height and impressive width, buying anything off the peg was all but impossible. With his silver-white hair and the colour of his tie making his eyes seem more sky-blue than sea-grey, he thought he looked passable.

When he walked into the Dining Hall a few minutes later, however, the way all female eyes gravitated towards him could have told him that he looked downright spectacular, but Callum barely registered the interest.

Instead, his eyes ran over the room, and with a brief smile he acknowledged both friends and colleagues, before reaching for a glass of red wine from one of the college's scouts, who was walking around with a loaded tray.

As he moved further into the room, he noticed a gaggle of men surrounding a female figure in the centre of the room, but his eyes were on a short woman in a bright orange and yellow African gown, with a matching turban. He'd never been much good at socialising, and preferred to use any occasion as a chance to talk psychology—especially in his own field.

‘Dr Ngabe, hello again. I read your paper . . .' He began to converse with his colleague, and within minutes was listening intently to her reply. Hers was an astute mind, and the two of them had often spent hours discussing their various theories. He felt a presence hover at his elbow and turned to find Sir Vivian Dalrymple beside him.

His
face creased into a genuine smile of pleasure. ‘Vivian!'

The old man had been his primary tutor during his undergraduate years, and he'd often felt he'd learned more from the great man than most of his other tutors put together.

In the centre of the room, and surrounded by men, Markie Kendall found her eyes tracking a giant of a man as he walked into the room. The light hitting his ultra-fair hair caught her eye first, and then she'd felt her heartbeat pick up a beat as she took in the tall, muscled length of him. He might have been almost too handsome if he hadn't also been very interesting to look at as well. He moved like an athlete, and seemed to be hardly aware that he was in the midst of a party. Something about his aloofness sparked a defiant challenge deep in her feminine psyche.

His face as he listened to his companion talk was tight with concentration, and Markie knew she had to meet him, to have him look at her like that, and she gently eased herself from her circle of admirers and began to gravitate in his direction.

Unfortunately, as she did so she got waylaid by the party bore. There was always one at every event, and this night it was Professor Michael Porter, a forty-something Fellow of Truman Hall, who obviously thought of himself as the university Casanova. He'd been trying to gawp down her dress from the
moment
they'd been introduced.

‘Marcheta, let me get you a fresh drink.'

Markie sighed, and glanced at her watch. In just a few minutes they'd be going in to dine and then she'd be limited to interact with whoever was in her immediate radius. If she was to inspect the intriguing fair giant close up, she'd better get cracking.

She waited until Professor Porter turned to retrieve a fresh glass for her, and then slipped away towards her quarry. As she did so, an older, distinguished man joined the intently talking pair, and she wondered just what her opening gambit should be. In a room full of academics, she was feeling—most unusually for her—just a little bit intimidated.

She heard the blond giant say, ‘Vivian,' and then felt her elbow clamped by Professor Porter. She bit back a sigh of annoyance, and smiled.

‘Here you are. Old Sin Jun can usually be relied upon to provide some decent plonk. You've met the Principal, I expect?' Professor Porter said smoothly.

Markie nodded. ‘I've met Lord St John, yes.' She had contacted the current Principal of her grandfather's old college not long after arriving in Oxford, when they'd gone through the protocol for the Dinner and prize-giving.

‘Who's that distinguished-looking old man?' she asked craftily, pointing just beyond her. Surely, the Professor would then give her a
run
down on all three of them. The blond giant had his back to her and hadn't yet seen her, and as she spoke, she noticed that the woman in the eye-catching African garb looked up at him with an expression of concern on her face.

Callum returned Dr Ngabe's look with one of his own. For it was now apparent to both of them that Sir Vivian Dalrymple was slightly the worse for drink. And in all the years that Callum had known him—which were many—he'd never seen the eminent man even mildly intoxicated before.

‘Are you feeling well, SirVivian?' Dr Ngabe asked gently.

Just beyond them, Professor Porter said, ‘Oh, that's the great man himself. Well, one of them. Oxford is full of them. But this one won your family Prize many years ago now. Sir Vivian Dalrymple.'

‘Oh yes, I remember Father mentioning him,' Markie said. ‘I'd love to meet him. Who's that with him?'

Michael Porter beamed at her, and held out his arm, giving her little other choice but to slip her hand through the loop made by his elbow. ‘Then allow me,' he said, without answering her question.

Sir Vivian smiled faintly at the question just asked of him. ‘Well, I am feeling a little disturbed, actually,' Sir Vivian admitted. He liked and trusted both Callum Fielding and Dr Ngabe, and ever since his invitation to
the
Dinner had arrived, he'd been dreading this night. Because he knew that Rosemary Naismith would be here, and he simply didn't want to see her. Consequently, when he'd arrived, he'd quickly consumed a glass of wine for courage. Now he had the feeling that he may have had a second one as well. And now here he was with a third glass. The wine was strong, and he'd never had much of a head for alcohol. He was feeling just a bit light-headed.

‘You see, there's someone here tonight who shouldn't be here,' he said, and then blinked. ‘Perhaps I shouldn't have said that. But the proof is there. I know it is.'

Callum shot Julia Ngabe a quick look to see if she was following this, but she looked as nonplussed as he did.

‘Someone shouldn't be here?' she echoed, watching her colleague with concern. He seemed to be swaying a little on his feet.

‘Yes. Actually, they've no right to be here at all—in Oxford I mean. Let alone at a Dinner as important as this one.' He leaned forward towards the small African woman and said quietly, ‘A cheat. A plagiarist.'

Both of the other two instantly tensed. Such an accusation, coming from such a source, rocked them both.

‘What do you mean, Vivian?' Callum asked sharply, and caught the genuinely distressed and horrified look in his old friend's eyes.

‘I mean what I say,' Vivian said angriliy,
then,
appalled at his sudden lack of discretion, clamped his lips shut. Good grief, he'd definitely had too much to drink! This was most certainly not the way he'd meant to broach the subject of what Nesta Aldernay had uncovered.

‘I have the evidence . . .' he began and then jumped as they were smoothly interrupted.

‘Hello there, I thought you might like to meet the guest of hon . . .' Professor Michael Porter chorused cheerfully, and Callum turned quickly to him.

‘Not now, Michael,' he said curtly. What had Sir Vivian been about to say? That he had evidence?

‘I must excuse myself,' Sir Vivian said in dismay. ‘Er . . . bathroom, you know. Had a bit too much to drink, I think,' he said, flushing painfully.

‘Vivian!' Callum said with sharp concern, his eyes narrowing now on the older man's sudden pallor. ‘Let me take you home.' His old friend obviously wanted to discuss a very serious matter, and the middle of a party was hardly the venue for it.

‘Oh no, I just need to splash some cold water on my face, that's all,' Sir Vivian demurred, pulling himself together with an effort. He turned and saw Markie, and his mouth all but fell open.

Callum, seeing his stunned look, also turned around and saw Markie Kendall for the first
time.
The vision hit him like a punch, and he felt his lungs contract in surprise, dragging in a huge breath. Her image seemed to burn itself into his retina, and would remain with him for the rest of his life.

What he saw was a tall woman dressed in silver-shot emerald green. She must have been nearly six feet tall, because he didn't have to look far down at her, as he did most women. She had a mass of ebony black hair, held up and around her head in a mass of waves and curls, and shot through with sparkling diamond and emerald hair pins. Her blue eyes were lined with matching green, and her low cut gown, which clung to her curves, shimmered as she moved. A single emerald pendant gleamed at her throat, pointing the way down to the swell of her breasts, which displayed a cleavage that made him blink.

She smiled, showing a flash of white teeth, and Callum blinked again.

‘Hello, I'm Mar . . .'

Sir Vivian Dalrymple staggered a step backwards, and Callum's hand shot out to steady him. He knew that he needed to do something fast. Sir Vivian would be hideously embarrassed to make a scene at such a high-profile event as this.

‘Come on, let's get you a seat, old chap,' he said, with a curt and dismissive glance at Porter, who was looking spitefully pleased. He knew that Porter was the biggest gossip in the
university,
and spiteful with it. And whilst he had nothing in particular against Sir Vivian, who was universally well-liked, Callum knew he wouldn't hesitate to spread his bile given the chance.

The beautiful woman he ignored completely.

‘Sir Vivian's wife is very ill,' Callum said, who knew about June's condition. ‘She's currently in the hospital, and I think the strain is getting to him.' He said this with a glare at Porter, who had the grace to at least look a little shame-faced.

‘I'll be fine,' Vivian said weakly.

‘I noticed a bench just outside,' Markie said firmly, handing her unwanted glass over to Professor Porter, who took it without thinking. ‘Come on, Sir Vivian, how would you like to escort a lady out into the moonlight?' she asked with a ravishing smile, taking the old man's arm firmly.

Markie shot the giant a telling look, and seeing those cool blue eyes turn his way, Callum quickly took the old man's other arm, and together the two of them walked Sir Vivian gently out into the fresh air.

Callum, taking most of his weight, steered him to a garden bench near the entrance to Hall, where the rose gardens, still rife with late blooms, scented the air.

‘Thank you, Miss . . . er . . . ?' Callum said briskly. He wanted to get Sir Vivian alone so
that
he could talk to him properly.

‘Markie,' Markie Kendall said, not liking the dismissive note in his voice. The man sounded as if he positively wanted to get rid of her! And she was definitely not used to men barely noticing her!

‘Markie,' Callum repeated, trying not to notice the way the moonlight was shining down on her, making the silver strands in her dress sparkle and shine. Or the way the fabric clung to her as it did so. Or the way the moonlight caught the jewels in the black velvet of her hair, and reflected the light into her eyes.

‘I'm sure your date is missing you,' he prompted curtly. Trust Michael Porter to come to the Dinner with a stunning woman like this, he thought sourly. The man had no sense of decorum at all.

‘My date?' Markie echoed with a puzzled frown and a dangerous edge to her voice. Anyone who knew her well could have warned Callum Fielding that when she went quiet and succinct in just that way, you needed to watch out.

‘Porter,' Callum said dismissively.

‘Professor Porter is not my date,' Markie said, still in that calm and reasonable voice. ‘I met him less than an hour ago.'

‘Oh,' Callum said, trying to pretend that he didn't feel his pulse quicken in delight to hear it.

‘You should both of you get back to the
party,'
Sir Vivian spoke up suddenly. ‘This night air is clearing my head wonderfully, and I don't need baby sitters. Please, you young people go back and enjoy yourselves. Callum, I insist.'

Callum, Markie thought. His name is Callum. It suits him, somehow. Unusual and haunting, but sort of macho at the same time. Then she frowned. Wait a minute. Dr Fielding, the winner of the Prize, wasn't his first name Callum too? Could this be the same man?

She opened her mouth to ask him, then closed it with a snap again as she saw that he was looking at her with an expression that hovered somewhere between grim and impatient.

‘I think you and I need to discuss something, Vivian, don't you?' Callum began, then swore very softly under his breath as they were interrupted yet again.

This time by Porter.

‘Come on you lot, they're calling us in to dinner.'

‘You go, I'll stay out here and get some more air,' Vivian said firmly. ‘I'll come along in later.'

Left with no choice but to comply, Callum strode frustratedly ahead, trying not to notice when Michael Porter reached out to take the stunning woman by her elbow. Or that he bent down to whisper something in her ear.