The Oxford Inheritance (21 page)

Charlie groaned. “Mum! What have you been telling her?”

“Nothing bad,” Maureen protested. “Just I can't understand why a boy like you can't find a nice girl. You're a real catch, you know.”

“I'm too young to settle down.” Charlie pretended to act annoyed, but Cassie could tell he didn't mind. “I've got another ten years of bachelor kicks in me, at least.” He winked at Cassie.

Maureen beamed at him, clearly adoring. “That's just what your dad said before he met me. You mark my words, when you meet the right girl, you won't know what hit you.”

Cassie watched them. She could see they'd had this exchange a hundred times and would probably have it another hundred more. She felt a tightness in her chest, a familiar ache. The love between Charlie and his family was so casual, they probably didn't even realize how lucky they were: the way they dipped into each other's conversations, entering and exiting rooms mid-thought; even the way they all moved through the house was a ballet, an unconscious but constant motion.

“You all right?” Maureen asked, looking over.

“It's just . . . the onions.” Cassie pointed to the freshly chopped pile with relief. “I'm going to get some air.” She put down her peeler and
headed for the back door. There was a small patio outside the kitchen, and a thin strip of lawn, browned and overgrown in the winter. A children's play slide was set up at the end, and Cassie went to perch on the step, gulping in deep breaths of chilled winter air.

It was the holidays, she told herself, fighting back tears. This time of year brought up memories for everyone, and now all the things Cassie had worked so hard to push down were bubbling to the surface again, brought on by the memories of cinnamon and nutmeg in the steamy kitchen air. It would pass, it always did.

“Hey.”

She looked up, quickly wiping her eyes. Charlie was coming down the garden toward her. “Don't tell me they drove you away already. I was thinking you'd make it through lunch, at least.”

“No, it's not that.” Cassie forced a smile as he reached her. “I'm fine. I just needed—”

“Some air,” he finished for her. Charlie studied her carefully, then shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. “You'll catch your death out here.”

“Thanks.” Cassie swallowed, feeling self-conscious.

“Sure you're okay?” he asked again.

She nodded. “It's just the holidays.”

“You miss your folks?” Charlie lowered himself onto the step beside her and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Don't tell her indoors,” he added. “I'll never hear the end of it.”

“Your secret's safe with me,” Cassie replied.

Charlie lit a cigarette and inhaled a long breath. “What about yours?” he asked, turning to look at her with a searching stare.

“What?” Cassie blinked.

“Your secrets.” Charlie took another drag. “What's all this research really about?”

Cassie paused, her old lie to Elliot sticking in her throat. It shouldn't have been hard to explain, again, about the family friend, and her nat
ural curiosity. But for some reason the lie wouldn't come. Maybe it was because of the loud chatter and music drifting from the house, the home Charlie had invited her into without a second thought, as if revealing his life to her was the most natural thing in the world.

Cassie reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out her slim wallet. She slowly unfolded the picture of her mother and Rose she kept there and passed it to Charlie.

“The dead girl,” he said, recognizing her.

“And that's my mother.” Cassie pointed to Margaret's face. “After Rose died, she dropped out. Changed her name, moved to America. She's dead now; she killed herself too, ten years ago. But she never once told me she'd even studied at Oxford. That's how I know there's something rotten going on here,” she added, meeting Charlie's steady blue eyes. “She ran. She ran from something, and I need to know what it was.”

Charlie held her gaze, thoughtful. Then he slowly folded the picture and caught sight of the writing on the back. “‘Black is the badge of hell, the hue of dungeons, and the school of night,'” he read.

“Someone put that in my mail,” Cassie explained. “It's a reference to a secret society at Raleigh. At least, I think it is. Rose wrote a paper on the society,” she added. “And Evie checked it out just a week before she died.”

“Curious and curiouser.” Charlie took another long drag on his cigarette, then ground the stub out under his heel and stood up. “We'll figure it out,” he said quietly, holding out his hand to help her up. “We'll find the answers you're looking for.”

He sounded so certain, Cassie couldn't help but believe him. Then his face crinkled into a familiar grin. “But right now, there's a roast turkey and five kinds of vegetables waiting on that table. Murder and mayhem can wait. First, we eat.”

Christmas lunch was a boozy, drawn-out affair with traditional crackers
and paper crowns. Cassie let herself get swept along in the flow of
conversation and laughter, savoring the brief glimpse of happily dysfunctional family life. After the dishes were finally cleared, Charlie's sisters disappeared to go hang out with their friends, and the remainder of them retired to the living room to watch TV.

“Okay to stay for a bit?” Charlie asked, looking over from where he was sprawled beside Cassie on the couch. “I ate so much I can't move an inch right now. I'll drive you back after the movie.”

“Sure,” Cassie agreed, glad of an excuse to stay longer, wrapped in the warmth of a woolly throw and his family's friendship.

“Hold on starting the movie,” Maureen called from the kitchen. “I'm just making a pot of tea.”

Charlie began channel-hopping, until his uncle spoke up. “Pause there. Let me take a look at the news.” Charlie turned the volume up. It was a story about the upcoming election, shots of the contending politicians out greeting constituents and posing with Santa Claus. Cassie watched carefully when Richard Mandeville came on-screen, a handsome man in his late forties with salt-and-pepper hair and an engaging smile.

“What do you think of him?” she asked Charlie, nodding at the TV.

He shrugged. “They're all the same. They like to talk tough on law and order, but you can bet whoever gets elected, they'll be slashing our budgets before the year is out.”

“I know his family,” she said, still watching the news conference on-screen. Mandeville was speaking at some event, looking confident and sincere in front of the crowd. “His daughter's at Raleigh.”

“Of course she is.” Charlie gave a laugh. “All that lot went to Oxford. The kids you're there with now will be running the country in twenty years' time.”

Cassie was about to reply when she caught something on-screen that made her heart stop. It was footage from a previous occasion, Mandeville shaking hands with someone, but the people weren't what caught her attention. It was where they were standing that made her breath catch.
“Charlie,” she whispered, pulling the photo back out of her wallet. “Look.” She showed him the picture of her mother and Rose, sitting at a table in front of a wall of portraits.

On-screen, Richard Mandeville was shown chatting with some business leader or politician. In front of the same wall of portraits, the very same dining room.

Gravestone Manor. The Mandeville family estate.

Charlie looked back at Cassie, his eyes searching her face. “No,” he said, before she had a chance to even say a word. “You can't.”

“I have to get in there,” she declared.

“You can't just go waltzing in,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “He's about to get elected prime minister; there'll be security for miles. And even if you found a way in, they'll throw you out on your ass the minute you start digging around.”

“No, they won't.” Cassie realized her chance. “I have an invitation.”

HUGO INSISTED ON SENDING A CAR FOR HER. GRAVESTONE WAS
in the middle of the countryside, he told her; local trains and buses weren't running through the New Year. So Cassie sat nervously in the back of the sleek black BMW, watching the driver in his peaked cap as Oxford melted away in the rearview mirror and the motorways snaked through the clouded green landscape toward her destination.

The phone in her hands buzzed with a text.

All OK?

Fine. Not there yet.

Call me the minute anything happens.

Charlie had balked at the idea of Cassie disappearing into the depths of Sussex without any way to call for help. He'd arranged a meeting before she left and pressed his sister's outdated cell phone into her hand that morning as Cassie prepared to depart.

“Don't do anything stupid,” he warned her. “Just get the lay of the land. For all you know, there's nothing linking the Mandevilles to any of this stuff. It could just have been a coincidence about the photo.”

“Nothing about any of this is a coincidence,” Cassie replied grimly, but she took the phone all the same. Charlie was still looking at her with concerned eyes, so she sighed. “I'm not going to go charging in there making wild accusations,” she reassured him. “I just want to see what
that place is all about. Besides, it's a party. Hundreds of people will be there. Nobody will notice if I take a look around.”

As the car wound its way through the Sussex countryside, Cassie wondered what it was she was looking for. She'd had nothing but suspicions and instinct driving her on until now, small threads that, once she tugged them, only unraveled another row of neat assumptions. But now that Charlie was involved, everything felt more real, the doubts and whispers that had only circled in her mind now taking shape in the hushed conversations they exchanged in the background of the noisy pubs on the outskirts of the city.

He believed her. Something was going on. And the body count had been rising for years now, decades, a long trail of heartbreak and tragedy.

Would Gravestone be the key, Cassie wondered now, as the car wound its way through the Sussex countryside, or was this just another fool's errand? But as the green patchwork woodland grew denser outside the car windows, taking her farther from the comfort of busy motorways and clustered towns, Cassie's heartbeat sped in her chest in a skitter of nervous anticipation and she felt a growing sense of dread. What secrets was Gravestone hiding? And if some dark conspiracy was lurking there, did that mean Hugo was a part of it, too?

After two hours in the car, Cassie's nerves were stretched to their breaking
point. Finally, they turned onto a winding country road that took them through a copse of woodland. Then the trees cleared, and Cassie took a sharp breath as Gravestone came into view for the first time.

It was stunning. Gravestone was a sprawling Elizabethan manor on the hillside below them, built in burnished red brick and slate tiles. The driveway circled around a formal fountain, and as they approached, Cassie could see the neat lines of formal gardens fanning out from the mansion, giving way to lawns and a lake glittering beyond the gardens in a brief burst of sunlight.

The car drew up outside the front steps, wheels crunching on the gravel. It was late in the afternoon, and already two dozen cars were parked outside—a gleaming row of Bentleys and Rolls-Royces—as well as a couple of white vans from which uniformed staff were unloading boxes of flowers and party supplies. Cassie climbed out before the driver had time to come around to open the door for her and gazed up at the three stories of twisting ivy and iron-paned windows.

“I can take your case, ma'am.” The driver took from her the battered weekend bag that she had hastily packed.

“Thank you,” she started to say, but he'd already disappeared into the house.

Cassie took a deep breath and slowly climbed the front steps. The doors were open, so she entered, her eyes adjusting to the gloom in the wood-paneled and imposing grand foyer, with a wide staircase spiraling upward and a mezzanine level above. There was a faded grandeur to everything: the heavy velvet drapes blocking light at the windows, the damask and brocade upholstery on the furniture, antique tables and coatracks at every turn.

She wandered deeper into the house. One grand room gave way to the next, all decorated with the same heavy wooden furniture and antique fabrics. It was like a museum, perfectly restored, and Cassie could almost imagine the original inhabitants strolling through the same rooms, five hundred years ago.

“Cassie!” She turned just as Olivia enveloped her in a hug. “What are you doing wandering round here? We're over in the East Wing. Come on.” Olivia linked her arm through Cassie's and steered her on. “Did you have a fun Christmas?” She was dressed in jeans and a silk shirt, her hair pulled back in a loose braid. “The drive down here is such a drag, I know, but I'm so happy you could make the party. Mother's been planning it all year; it's her crowning achievement.” She laughed as they crossed a hallway and turned into what Cassie guessed was the newer portion of the house. Here, the walls were white and airy, and although
antiques abounded, there was an elegant, almost Mediterranean look to the rooms, rustic and faded. “We're rather squeezed for space,” Olivia continued, “so I had to put you up in the Hartley suite. It overlooks the stables, so no view, I'm afraid, but at least you're not near the chicken run.” She added in a confidential tone, “I saved that for Miles. He always sleeps until noon so I thought the rooster would be a nice wake-up call for him. Here we are!”

She led Cassie into a large kitchen lounge area. Paige, Miles, Hugo, and the rest were sprawled on cozy settees and around a rustic farm table, and French doors flooded the room with light. “Look who made it!” Olivia announced. Cassie gave a wave.

Hugo got to his feet, smiling. “Was the drive okay?” he asked, coming closer. In a flash, Cassie remembered their parting outside the college: the tension, and the almost kiss.

“Yes, fine.” She turned her head, accepting his welcome kiss on her cheek. His lips brushed her skin, and she felt a rush of sensation.

“Good.” Hugo looked satisfied. “I'm glad you changed your mind.”

“Well . . . Oxford is pretty dead right now,” she replied, awkwardly. “It sounded like fun.”

“The most fun,” Paige interrupted, joining them to hug Cassie hello. “The Mandeville New Year's bash is the stuff of legends.”

“Literally,” Miles piped up. “I believe a certain Booker Prize–winning novelist set a crucial scene here in one of his last tomes.”

“That's just rumor,” Olivia said, laughing.

“Sure, because how many original fifteenth-century mazes are there in the country?” he countered.

“There's a maze?” Cassie asked, moving to sit with them at the huge farm table.

“Yes, and don't go wandering out there alone,” Paige warned her. “It's a bitch to navigate.”

Olivia squeezed Paige in a hug. “This one got drunk last year and stumbled around for an hour before she had the good sense to call me.”

“It was dark out!” Paige protested.

“Don't worry,” Hugo said, meeting Cassie's eyes with a smile. “We learned from our mistakes. This year, there's a guide trail.”

“Which takes all the fun out of it,” Olivia said, pouting.

Cassie just smiled along. As the afternoon slipped past in a leisurely procession of food and gossip and laughter, she found herself looking around the room, studying her companions with a new scrutiny. Were they part of the mystery of the School of Night? It was hard to believe anything sinister was lurking behind their easy smiles as Cassie watched Olivia and Paige pore over fashion magazines, Miles idly read from his iPad. Their lives were ones of parties and play, through the clubs and exclusive bars of London and Oxford. What use would they have with murder and darkness? And more, could they really be capable of such things?

Hugo caught her eye. “Everything good?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. She nodded, again feeling a flush of awareness from his eyes on her, and she was relieved when Olivia declared it was time for the girls to go get ready for the party.

“At least try to make an effort,” she scolded Hugo affectionately as they exited. “A T-shirt is not allowed.”

Olivia took Cassie up to the room where she'd be staying. For all Olivia's apologies about the squeeze, it was still a high-ceilinged, palatial room with a four-poster bed and ornate tapestries hung on the walls.

“The dress code tonight . . .” Cassie paused. She'd reluctantly packed the same black silk dress Evie had loaned her for the formal dinner at Merton College they'd attended, after finding it crumpled in a laundry hamper in her room. Now, seeing the flurry of activity downstairs and hearing the group's tales of past excess, she wondered if she'd need something more dressy. “Is it going to be formal?”

“Hugo didn't mention it? God, men can be so oblivious sometimes.” Olivia rolled her eyes. “Don't worry, you can borrow something of mine.”

Cassie flushed. “You don't have to—” she began to object, but Olivia cut her off.

“Nonsense. I've got tons of dresses; Daddy is always dragging me to some fund-raiser or another. And we're about the same size.” She scrutinized Cassie with a practiced eye. “I know just the thing. I'll have Perkins bring it over, don't even think about it.”

“Thank you,” Cassie said. She seemed to be accepting favors from Olivia and Hugo an awful lot recently, but they offered them so easily, as if it was nothing at all. And, Cassie supposed, as she showered and got ready for the big event, it really wasn't. They'd lived their lives so full of privilege, every need always met. They didn't know the panic of poverty, or how tightly one held on to things when there was so little to hold at all. When she'd first met them, she'd resented them for it. Cassie remembered her prickly detachment when she'd first arrived at Raleigh, and the way she'd viewed everyone with the same jaded, bitter eyes. But if she was truly honest with herself, she'd misjudged them, Hugo and Olivia most of all. They'd welcomed her so readily into their world, she felt almost guilty coming into their home under false pretenses.

After taking a long shower, Cassie emerged from the bathroom to find a dry-cleaning bag on the bed. Inside was a floor-length gown in the palest of blush pink silk. It was unlike anything she'd ever worn before, so flowing and feminine, but when she slid the soft fabric over her head and saw it settle over the slim curves of her body, Cassie had to catch her breath. She looked like somebody else. Someone refined, elegant, innocent.

Somebody who would be able to wander the halls of Gravestone without a whisper of suspicion, just as she'd planned.

Cassie slipped on her heels and fastened her hair back in a simple twisted knot, then headed lightly down the stairs. She could hear the sounds of music and conversation drifting from the other side of the house, but instead of moving toward it, Cassie carefully veered away and headed deeper into the long series of passageways and rooms. There
were libraries and formal lounges, a portrait gallery, and more. In each room, Cassie carefully checked the paintings and furniture, looking for the background she'd memorized from the photo of her mother.

At last, she stepped into a dining room in the far corner of the main house and felt a jolt of recognition. The dark green walls, the ornate picture frames. . . . This was it. Cassie walked slowly to the spot just in front of an imposing portrait. This was where the photographer had stood, and her mother . . . her mother had sat right there, in the throne-like carved wooden chair. Cassie rounded the table and slid into the seat, running her fingertips lightly over the whorls and rosettes carved into the wood. She tried to imagine the scene from the day the photograph was taken: Rose sitting beside her, glasses raised in a toast. Who else had been in the room with them? What had been the event? Another wild party like this one, the house crammed full of strangers? Or something smaller, intimate? A dinner with a purpose. A meeting of like minds and coconspirators . . .

“Comfortable?”

Cassie startled. An older man stood in the doorway watching her, and when he stepped out of the shadows, she realized he was the man she'd met on the very first day of term at Raleigh—the one who'd caught her sneaking into the master's office. This time, he was dressed in an immaculate tuxedo, his shock of white hair smoothed back from his deeply lined face, but his eyes were just as chilling as she remembered: coal black, and staring straight through her.

Cassie jolted to her feet. “I'm sorry,” she stuttered, her heart racing. “I didn't—”

“Please, don't get up.” The man gestured her to sit. His words were polite, but the tone was an order.

Cassie awkwardly slid back down in the seat again, trying to collect herself. She was an invited guest, she reminded herself. He couldn't possibly know what she was doing there.

The man moved closer, his movements surprisingly lithe for some
one of his age. He traced the tabletop and regarded her with undisguised curiosity. “Many great men have sat in that chair.”

“What about the great women?” Cassie couldn't help but reply.

The man blinked, then his lips creased in a smile. “Women too.” He paused, those black eyes still raking across her. Cassie tried to hide her unease. “We haven't been introduced,” he said at last. “Henry Mandeville.” He didn't hold out a hand to shake.

“Hugo's grandfather?” Cassie asked.

He raised an eyebrow, and in an instant her assumption was confirmed. It was the same wry arch she'd seen so many times on Hugo's face, the same jawline under Henry's cheeks, sagging a little with age.

The same deep unease shivered through her body as when she'd first encountered Hugo that night.