Oxford, Present Day

SOPHIE PUSHED THROUGH the outer glass doors of the history center to find Winston on the pavement, hands in his pockets, leaning against the stone wall at the edge of the car park. God, he looked smug, she thought, as her anger at his flirting suddenly resurfaced. “Jerk,” she said as she stalked past him.

“Hey, what did I do?” said Winston, sounding genuinely surprised as he dashed to catch up to her.

“Don’t have too much fun tonight,” she said with a sneer.

“Sophie, what’s wrong with you? Are you angry with me?”

“You were chatting her up right in front of me.”

“Chatting who up? Fiona? I wasn’t chatting her up,” said Winston. “I turned on a little charm so she would let us stay past closing time, that’s all.”

“Did you get her number?”

“Of course I didn’t get her number. Sophie, stop.” He grabbed her by the wrist and she was forced to stop as he pulled her toward him and looked into her eyes. “That girl is nothing to me,” he said. “I did it for you, because I knew you wanted to get through all those damn boxes. She was going to throw us out, so I flirted a little and it worked. You’re good at research; I’m good at getting girls to bend the rules. I think that’s called working as a team.”

He was right. He was good at getting girls to bend the rules. She looked at his hand on her wrist and thought of all sorts of rules she would like to bend with him right there in the street. How could he do that with just a touch?

“Well, next time let me know about the plan first,” she said, slipping her wrist out of his grip. “I wouldn’t want to inadvertently interfere with your maneuvers.” They walked for a few minutes in silence, and Sophie found herself reaching for his hand, silently apologizing for her anger as he slipped his strong fingers around hers.

“Is research always like that?” said Winston, as they walked up the busy Cowley Road toward central Oxford.

“Like what?”

“Hours of sifting through dusty old papers only to find nothing.”

Sophie felt a twinge of guilt that Winston should be so convinced that their search had been fruitless, but only a tiny one. She still wasn’t completely convinced he could be trusted. “Most days that’s exactly what it’s like,” she said. “That’s what makes the days when you find something so exciting.”

“It was so quiet in there,” he said. “I’m not good with quiet. I kept feeling like people were looking at me or talking about me behind my back.”

“Oh, my god, I almost forgot,” said Sophie. “Somebody was looking at us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Somebody was there and looking at one of the same boxes we looked at,” she said. “It must have been Smedley.”

“What, this afternoon?” said Winston.

“While we were there,” said Sophie. “God, that’s creepy.” She hadn’t had much time to consider the fact that they may have been followed. She pressed herself into Winston, and he took the hint, encircling her waist with his arm.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I may not be very good at research, but I make a passable bodyguard.”

More than passable, thought Sophie. They had turned into High Street and were just passing the gates of Magdalen College when her phone rang.

“I haven’t heard from you lately,” said Smedley’s voice. Sophie whirled around, certain he must be watching her, but she didn’t see anyone else talking on a cell phone. She stepped away from Winston and spoke in a low voice.

“How did you get this number?” she hissed.

“Oh, your friend Gusty can be very helpful. Did you find anything exciting on your little excursion today?”

“You know exactly what I found because you found the same thing.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Anyway, it doesn’t prove anything,” said Sophie, “so if you came to me because I’m good at finding things out—”

“I’m sure by now you know why I came to you, Miss Collingwood. Now, I’m willing to let this little dalliance with your friend go on a little longer, but I warn you, my patience is wearing thin. If you’ve found what I’m looking for, it’s time you handed it over.”

“Or what?” said Sophie, emboldened by Winston’s protection. “You’ll push me down a flight of stairs?”

“There are others more dangerous than me, but if you bring the book to me, I can protect you.”

“I’m not likely to trust you at this point, am I?” she said.

“It won’t be long before you don’t have a choice,” said Smedley, and the line went dead.

“Who was it?” said Winston, when Sophie rejoined him.

“Take me home,” she said softly. “Woodstock Road.”

“Sophie, are you OK? You look pale.”

“It was Smedley,” she said. “Either he’s following us or he’s having us followed.”

“I can’t believe he would do that.”

“Trust me,” said Sophie, “he knew exactly what we’d been up to.”

“If he’s following us, we shouldn’t go to your place,” said Winston. He took her hand and swerved into Turl Street, pulling her quickly down the narrow passage. The next few minutes passed in a blur as Winston dragged Sophie down lanes, through the gates of colleges and out back entrances. Every porter in Oxford seemed to know him and none questioned his apparent need for speed and secrecy. He stopped frequently to look back, asking Sophie if she recognized anyone before they stepped into a street. Suddenly, after slinking through Balliol, they emerged in the sun at Martyrs’ Memorial, where buses were taking on hordes of tourists after their day in Oxford. Winston took Sophie through the crowd that swarmed across the street from the Ashmolean. They turned in to a narrow alley and ducked through a gray metal door into a dimly lit passage. They waited in silence for a few minutes, Sophie’s breath gradually returning to normal after the dash through Oxford. Winston certainly knew his way around, and he seemed to know how to shake a tail. Sophie wasn’t sure if his actions were more suspicious or useful. Before she said a word to him, he pulled out a cell phone and placed a call.

“Derek? This is Winston Godfrey. . . . Yes, that Winston Godfrey. Listen, I need a favor. I need a room for the night under another name . . . you make one up. . . . The service elevator.” Winston waited in silence for a minute, eyes still focused on the alley outside. “Four sixteen. Great.”

“What are you . . . ?” Sophie began, but Winston held a hand up to her lips and led her down the industrial gray hallway. Once they were in the service elevator, he let go of her hand and fell against the wall.

“That was an adventure,” he said. “Let’s hope we lost him.” A moment later the elevator opened onto an elegantly carpeted corridor. Winston turned left and Sophie followed. Four doors down the hallway was room 416. He pushed open the door and pulled her inside. It was the most luxurious hotel room she had ever seen—a four-poster bed draped in elegant covers, deep armchairs by the window, and a giant flat-screen television sitting on what looked like an antique chest of drawers.

“Where are we?” she said.

“The Randolph,” said Winston. “The only hotel in Oxford good enough for you.” Sophie had admired the elegance of the Randolph from the street a thousand times, but she had never been inside. She started across the room, but Winston dashed in front of her. “Stay away from the windows,” he said, pulling the gold curtains shut.

“I thought you said you couldn’t afford the Randolph,” she said.

“Derek doesn’t exactly charge me full price.”

“Why am I not surprised that you have a secret contact who can provide you with a highly discounted, unlocked hotel room under an alias at a moment’s notice?”

“I’ll admit, you’re not the first woman I’ve brought to this hotel.”

“I’ll bet your little undergraduate girls just loved beds like this,” said Sophie, sitting on the edge of the four-poster.

“It made seduction easier,” said Winston.

“I’m sure it was never hard for you,” she said. Somehow the fact that he had been here with other girls only made her want him more. Now that they were alone in a hotel room, Smedley and the chase and the danger slipped from her mind as quickly as she knew Winston could slip her clothes from her body.

“Derek and I grew up together,” said Winston. “He was a few years older and he always sort of looked out for me.”

“If we’re spending the night here, I have nothing to sleep in,” said Sophie, trying to sound seductive.

“We can have something sent up.” he said.

“That wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Come over here and I’ll show you,” she said, unbuttoning her blouse.

And he took her. He took her in a four-poster bed in a luxury hotel between the softest sheets she had ever felt and it was bliss. It was bliss because it reduced her consciousness to a few square feet of bed and eventually to a few square millimeters of flesh. It was bliss because she didn’t care what it meant. It was bliss because, at that moment, with all the fears and confusion that lay in the world outside that hotel room, it erased everything else.

After the first time, they ordered room service. After the second time, Winston fell asleep and Sophie was just drifting off to the muffled sounds of the Oxford traffic when she remembered something and nudged him with her elbow.

“What were you writing this afternoon?” she said.

“What?”

“This afternoon, right before we left the history center. You were writing something. What was it?”

“Can we talk about this in the morning?”

“I can’t sleep until I know. What was it?” Sophie sat up and turned on the lamp by her bedside. Winston blinked and grimaced.

“Do you have one of those brains that never stops?” he asked.

“Something like that,” said Sophie. She could feel herself gearing up for battle. He was going to deny writing anything and her trust in him was going to slip a little further. “What did you write?”

“It’s in my pants pocket, I think,” said Winston, sitting up. “I forgot to tell you before because you got your knickers in a twist over that Fiona girl. In the last box I looked through there were some newspaper clippings and one of them was an obituary of Richard Mansfield. I’d never seen it before and you were in the loo, so I copied it down.”

Sophie by now had reached Winston’s discarded jeans, and pulled a folded piece of notepaper from his pocket. She jumped back in bed next to him, unfolded the paper, and read.

Rev. Richard Mansfield, 80, of Croft, died on December 4 in Hampshire. He was taken ill on a journey thence. Funeral services and burial were at the chapel in Busbury Park. Mr. Mansfield had been Rector of Croft for sixteen years and was much loved by his parishioners.

“Where the hell is Busbury Park?” said Sophie.

“Must be in Hampshire,” said Winston.

“Jane Austen lived in Hampshire,” she said. “If some man hadn’t lured me to a hotel to take advantage of me, I could look it up on my laptop.”

“First of all,” he said, “I think the question of who took advantage of whom is open to debate. And secondly, I have a smartphone.” A minute later he had found a brief description. “Listen to this—it’s for sale. Busbury Park, near East Hendred, Hampshire. Former estate of the Earl of Wintringham. Six hundred acres of parkland; large manor house needs significant repair. Outbuildings include stables, gatehouse, chapel. Serious enquiries only.”

“Where’s East Hendred?” said Sophie.

“Hang on,” said Winston. “It looks like it’s only about three miles from Steventon.”

She leaned over his shoulder and looked at the map displayed on his phone. “Even closer if you happened to be walking across the fields in 1796. We should go.”

“What, go to Busbury Park?”

“Yes,” said Sophie, leaning into his back and trying to ignore the way his muscles felt against her naked breasts.

“Why would we go there?”

“Richard Mansfield is buried there.”

“What are you going to do, dig him up?”

“Probably not.”

“Probably not?” said Winston.

“OK, definitely not. But it’s the only clue we have, the only other thing about Mansfield we know. We should at least find his grave and see if we can learn anything. Besides, I’ve never been to Steventon.” She remembered that she had declined an invitation to Steventon from Eric less than three weeks ago.

“So you want to do what—drive to Hampshire in the morning?”

“Not in the morning,” said Sophie. “Now.”

“It’s midnight,” said Winston.

“The perfect time to slip out of town without Smedley seeing us.”

“Listen,” he said, “I don’t think you should go anywhere. If this Smedley character is as dangerous as he sounds, I don’t like the idea of your leaving this hotel room until we’ve taken care of him.”

“Why do I think that’s not the only reason you want me to stay in this hotel room?” said Sophie, once again pressing her breasts into his bare back.

“Let’s at least wait until morning.”

“I can’t sleep,” she said, bouncing up off the bed.

“I can.”

“What’s the matter, did somebody tire you out?”

“You could say that,” said Winston.

“Fine,” said Sophie. “You sleep. I’m going to curl up in this chair and read some Jane Austen.” After all, Victoria would be there in the morning. Maybe she would join the expedition to Hampshire. She pulled the second edition of Mansfield’s book out of her bag on the bedside table and, surprised by her own brazenness, sashayed across the room, sure that Winston’s eyes were glued to her nakedness.

“Jane Austen or Richard Mansfield?” said Winston, teasingly.

Sophie slipped on a bathrobe she had tossed aside earlier and plopped down in one of the overstuffed armchairs. “Jane Austen,” she said emphatically.