More Than You Know (3 page)

Rand's slight smile did not touch the polished chestnut color of his eyes. “I also had hopes."

The duke's gaze shifted away uncomfortably. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well...” Strickland rounded his desk and opened the middle drawer. He pulled out the ledger he kept there and in short order presented Rand with a draft.

Rand glanced at the amount. “This is too generous. It's more than my costs."

"I hope you will take it. And you need not worry that I expect something in return.” He watched Rand fold the cheque and place it inside his jacket. “When will you be leaving London?"

"I've allowed myself and crew two full weeks. They may agree there is nothing to be gained by waiting it out, but I'm in no hurry. The Royal Geographical Society has invited me to speak about my voyages to the South Pacific."

"I had heard that,” Strickland said. “Congratulations. The Society is particular about their lecturers. Not many explorers outside Britain are given that opportunity."

Rand was fairly certain the duke had played a part in extending the invitation. Someone in his family had been a fellow of the Society since its inception. Apparently Strickland wanted no credit or thanks. “The honor for me is in having my small contributions to the natural sciences recognized."

"I would hardly characterize them as small."

"I'm not a particularly modest man,” Rand said. “My observational writings will not have the impact of Darwin's, and my explorations are not so exciting as Burton's, but in my own way I have advanced the understanding of man's influence on the environment."

Strickland's expression turned thoughtful. “Listening to you talk now, l could almost believe the Hamilton-Waterstone treasure is a diversion, not a purpose unto itself.” His pale blue eyes considered Rand again, this time taking the measure of the man with a different yardstick. “But then, you began your training as a naturalist, didn't you? Here in England, if I'm not mistaken."

Rand imagined the duke knew very well that he wasn't mistaken. Strickland did not strike Rand as having made too many mistakes in his research. He would not have offered four thousand pounds and his goddaughter to just anyone. “At Oxford,” Rand said. “My studies were interrupted by the war at home."

"You never returned?"

"No. I've studied on my own."

"Then you didn't complete your formal education in America?"

"I completed it on board
Cerberus."
And in the fields at Gettysburg, he could have added. He'd made a study of the nature of man on that occasion, but it was not something he wanted to write about. It was not something he even wanted to remember.

"Do you regret not finishing at Oxford?"

"What I regret is that I did not have the opportunity to study under Abernathy or Bancroft or Sonnenfeld. They taught third-year students and—” Rand stopped. His eyes narrowed on Strickland, and for a moment his mouth flattened. “Bancroft?"

The duke gave nothing away. “Yes?"

"Sir Griffin Bancroft taught botanical sciences at Oxford. He is credited with the discovery of seven varieties of medicinal orchids."

"I should say it's well over two dozen by now,” Strickland said amiably. “He's been away from his chair at university for almost seven years, and I expect he made good use of it. He always was a prodigious talent."

"He studied in the South Pacific."

"That's correct. That's where he returned when he left Oxford."

Rand reached inside his jacket and removed Strickland's draft. He held it out. When the duke made no move to accept it back, Rand laid it on the desk. “You couldn't let me leave here without knowing,” he said. “So much for expecting nothing in return.” He crossed the room and opened the door. He was on the point of leaving when he heard Strickland's quiet, mocking response.

"So much for expecting it not to matter."

Rand Hamilton did not immediately return to his rented house on Beecher Street. He met with his crew on the
Cerberus
and informed them they could expect little in the way of remuneration this time out. He would not have blamed them if they had deserted on the spot. He didn't expect them to, but he wouldn't have held it against them. Instead they pooled their meager resources and took him to a waterfront tavern. They let him get stinking drunk and bought him a whore.

Or at least Rand hoped they had paid for her. Levering himself up on one elbow, Rand slowly tugged at the sheet that covered the whore's face. Her brow puckered as the material brushed her skin, but she didn't wake. She had a wide face, vaguely heart-shaped, and dark hair. Her lips were parted and she made an abrupt little sound reminiscent of a snore when Rand covered her again. At least she was not a child. Rand had to be thankful his men used some discretion in choosing a diversion for him. That only left him to wonder if she was diseased.

He sat up and immediately put his head in his hands. “God,” he said softly, closing his eyes. “What swill did they pour down my throat?"

"They didn't have to pour it down, guv'nor. You managed to toss the rum back on your own."

Rand slowly turned sideways, keeping his head as steady as possible. He lowered his eyes just enough to take in the whore. “I thought you were sleeping."

"Wasn't I just,” she said. “Then you commenced your inspection of the goods.” She smiled and revealed a remarkably healthy, though slightly crooked set of teeth. “I don't disappoint, do I?” She pushed herself upright, completely unconcerned that the sheet slipped to her waist. “Here's a pair, ain't they, guv'nor? Go on, you can touch ‘em, seein’ that they're out and all."

"That's kind of you, Miss..."

She giggled and tossed her head back. Her hair fell behind her shoulder so there could be no mistaking she meant for Rand to have an eyeful. “Jeri-Ellen. Two names, don't you know. After me dad and mum."

One name for each breast, he thought muzzily.

"Go on, sir. Take ‘em in hand. I don't mind a little squeeze now and again."

"Well, Jeri-Ellen, just at this moment my hands are needed to secure my head to my neck. But it's as good an offer as I've ever had."

She thrust out her lower lip, not at all placated by his rather off-handed compliment. “Then you don't want a poke?"

He started to shake his head, groaned, and used words instead of gestures. “Not this morning."

Jeri-Ellen fell backward in a dramatic swoon and covered her eyes with one forearm. “I suppose this means you'll be wanting your money back. And where does that leave me, I'm thinking. Charles knows I've spent the night here. He's going to expect something for my services. I can't show up with nothing, now can I?"

"Then you've been paid?"

She raised her forearm and looked at him. “Right off. You mean you don't remember?"

"Not a thing,” he admitted.

Jeri-Ellen smiled widely. She nodded once, satisfied, and leaped out of bed. She began gathering her clothes, oblivious to the fact that her quick exit had shaken the bed and almost brought Rand Hamilton to his knees. “That's all right, then. Who's to know? You were a wonderful lover, guv'nor. Poked me three times and it's still like you was inside, though I don't mind a large one like yours from time to time. Keeps me company the rest of the day, if you know what I mean.” She continued to move spritely about the room, slipping into her chemise and shift, giving lie to anything but the fact that she'd had a good night's rest. “I think I gave as good as I got,” she said, expanding on her theme. She added, winking at him, “Leastways, you had no complaints."

Rand discovered it hurt to smile and also that he couldn't help himself. The thought of taking this saucy whore three times over would have brought outright laughter if he could have survived it. “Three pokes,” he said softly. “Imagine that."

"I'll have to.” She sighed, giving up the pretense. The coins she'd been given jingled pleasantly in the pocket of her dress as she pulled it on. “No need to help with the hooks. I'll find one of my friends to do me up. Like as not I'm not the only one sleeping in this morning. Won't Charles just be apoplectic?” She lifted her skirts high and raised one slender leg to pull on her stockings.

"Charles?” Rand asked. “You mentioned him before."

"He takes care of me."

"Your pimp."

"There's some that call him that. He prefers protector.” She forced her feet into shoes that were a bit too tight for her. “Oooh. That's the first thing I'm going to do with my coins. A new pair of leathers for me feet."

"Drawers wouldn't come amiss,” Rand noted dryly. He'd gotten another eyeful when she threw up her skirts.

"Now what would I be needing new drawers for? Mine are right here.” She slipped the toe of her right foot under one corner of the bed and it came out dragging her drawers at the end of it. In a rather bawdy display of acrobatic grace, Jeri-Ellen kicked high and the drawers sailed upward. She caught them in her hands, held them open, and stepped in, wriggling like a harem dancer until they were in place under her shift. “Admit it, guv'nor, there's not many that would give you a show for the price of a poke."

"I fear I'm not the appreciative audience your talents deserve."

"That's all right, sir.” She patted him on the shoulder and dropped a kiss on his forehead, nearly spilling out of her bodice in the process. “You show a bit more temperance with your drinking next time and come and see me. I shouldn't be at all surprised if we go for four pokes."

"I would."

Jeri-Ellen was philosophical. “Men just don't have the stamina of women, do they? More's the pity.” She shrugged. “Mornin’ to you, guv'nor.” She was out the door and deaf to his entreaty not to slam it.

Rand lowered himself back on the bed very slowly. It was a small comfort that he didn't have to worry that he'd contracted the pox.

It was two hours after Jeri-Ellen's departure before Rand felt fit enough to leave. He wasn't at all surprised that he was no longer at the tavern where the drinking had started, but the effect was disorienting. He ignored the knowing looks he received from passersby as he took a moment to get his bearings. When he caught sight of Lloyd's, he began walking in the opposite direction.

The house on Beecher Street was a luxury he could no longer properly afford. Just now it was difficult to remember exactly why he'd considered it necessary to leave Strickland's cheque behind. It hadn't seemed a precipitous action at the time, but he couldn't help thinking he'd acted hastily.

Rand let himself into the foyer, shutting the door softly behind him. He stamped his feet, shaking droplets of muddy water free of his boots, and flung his coat over a chair in the corner. The noise was enough to rouse Cutch from the kitchen below stairs.

"You're back,” Cutch said, looking Rand over. “And none too worse for a night's drinking and whoring, I reckon."

"That's because you're not inside this head."

Cutch stood almost seven feet tall. He was one of the few men capable of making an assessment of Rand from a superior height. He made the most of it now, stepping in closer and forcing Rand to bend his neck back while he examined his eyes and the pallor of his complexion. “Wouldn't surprise me at all if you swallowed some bad liquor. Anyone else feeling as poorly as you?"

"I don't know. I didn't see anyone from the crew this morning. They deserted me. I didn't get the money, Cutch.” He saw Cutch's black brows lift and belatedly realized how what he'd said could be interpreted. “I don't mean they deserted me because I didn't get the money. They took me drinking and whoring because I didn't get the money. They deserted me because they had duties back at
Cerberus
and I wasn't fit for traveling."

The high furrowed plane of Cutch's forehead became smooth again. “You're not fit for receiving visitors either, but you've got one.” He smiled widely, his large white teeth a startling contrast to his dark skin. His deep chuckle vibrated pleasantly in his chest. “Money's got to come from somewhere. I wouldn't turn this one away."

Rand swore softly. The last thing he wanted was to face Strickland in his current condition. “I have to change."

"In anticipation of your arrival, I drew a bath for you. Of course that was over an hour ago, but the water might still be warm. Go on. Your guest's not leaving without talking to you. Very particular about that. I'll bring you something for that head.” Cutch stepped back and gestured toward the stairs. “You want me to carry you?"

Rand gave the older man a sour look. “I think I can manage from here, thank you."

Cutch watched him mount the stairs anyway, silent laughter in his coffee-colored eyes. He had just the remedy for what ailed his captain.

The water was a few degrees cooler than tepid, but Rand didn't care. For once he drank down Cutch's foul-tasting concoction without asking what was in it. On the few occasions he had required it before, Cutch had never been forthcoming with the recipe. Rand had no reason to believe that would change. He preferred not to think beyond the obvious ingredients of tomato and raw egg. It was probably better not to know what gave the drink its peculiar tang and made him sweat rum as though he were a tapped keg.

While he soaked, he heard Cutch moving about in the bedchamber, laying out fresh clothes. Rand had no recollection of a time when Cutch hadn't been looking out for him or some other member of his family. He was of an indeterminate age, though his long history with the Hamiltons suggested he was now in his late fifties. It was Rand's father who had given Cutch his manumission papers, making the slave a free man twenty years before the Emancipation Proclamation required it. It was not a thing Andrew Hamilton had done lightly, but Cutch had saved young David from drowning and there was no better way to thank him. Cutch didn't go anywhere, though. He celebrated his freedom by shaving his head and kept it that way just because he could.

Rand felt almost human by the time he finished dressing. He looked over his reflection in the cheval glass while Cutch pronounced himself satisfied with the transformation. Rand raked back his hair and felt the lingering dampness in the dark copper strands. He tugged on his collar and let the overlong curling ends drop against his skin. Cutch brushed off the shoulders and back of his jacket and adjusted the fit.

"Don't be too proud to take the money,” Cutch said.

Rand's eyes lifted to meet Cutch's in the mirror. “There might not be another offer."

Cutch shrugged his broad shoulders. “Can't imagine someone going to all the trouble of coming here unless there's an offer in the waiting."

Rand remained unconvinced, but he was in a better frame of mind to meet the duke. “We'll see. Will you bring us some tea?"

"I already have."

There was no hesitation in Rand's step this time as he retraced his trail down the stairs. On the threshold to the sitting room he gave Cutch an encouraging sign, noticing only at the last moment that the other man was smiling perhaps a little too broadly. Rand was completely inside the room before he understood why that might be so.

"Good morning,” he said. “It's Miss Bancroft, isn't it?"

Claire Bancroft nodded. She had started to rise when she heard the door open; now she lowered herself back into the corner of the sofa. “Your man said you wouldn't mind if I waited for you."

Rand dismissed the apologetic undertone. If she knew that it was a bother for him, she should have left her card and taken herself off. Apology now was a waste of breath. “Cutch doesn't always know my mind.” He saw her head jerk up and a faint wash of color touch her cheeks. It was an immediate improvement on the pallor of her complexion.

Rand went to the side table where Cutch had placed the tea service. He poured himself a cup and added a small amount of milk. Claire Bancroft, he noted, seemed interested in his movement, although she did not appear to watch him directly. He also saw that she avoided looking him straight in the eye. “Will you have some more tea?” he asked.

"No, thank you.” Her hands settled quietly in her lap. She turned her eyes in their direction.

Rand sat opposite her on an overstuffed armchair. He took his first sip of tea and wished to heaven that he had asked Cutch for coffee. Miss Bancroft's English taste buds be damned, he thought. Darjeeling was no fit substitute for the heady pitch that Cutch brewed. “What can I do for you, Miss Bancroft?"

"Stickle says you've refused him."

Rand blinked. “Stickle?” He couldn't have heard her correctly. “You are permitted to call Evan Markham, the Eighth Duke of Strickland,
Stickle?"

Claire felt heat in her cheeks again, but she managed to keep herself from touching them. “He
is
my godfather,” she explained. “It was the best I could manage as a child. And he's not so high in the instep as he'd like to have you think."

"Then we already have a difference of opinion,” said Rand, “but I'll accept that you believe it. Did he send you here?"

"Oh, no,” she said quickly. “I doubt if he knows I'm gone. He wouldn't approve. He thought that I should invite you back to his house, but I didn't think you'd come.” She paused and risked a glance his way. “Would you?"

"I don't know."

Claire nodded. “Then it's good that I didn't leave it to chance. Luck is overrated, don't you think?"

"I'm inclined to believe we make our own,” he agreed.

Her smile was tentative and did not reach her eyes. “Yes, well, that's what I've come to realize.” At her side was a small beaded bag. She reached for it and opened it, extracting Strickland's cheque. “We both want you to have this,” she said. “You shouldn't feel that it obligates you in any way.” She held it up. “Please, won't you take it?"

CIaire held it out for what seemed an eternity to her. At last she felt it being tugged gently from between her fingers. She let out her breath slowly and settled back against the sofa. “Thank you. I confess that I was afraid you wouldn't deign to accept it. It's all very well for us to say there is no indebtedness, but that cannot account for your own feelings. I explained to my godfather that by drawing the draft too generously, he had placed you in an awkward position. He was not trying to purchase your services, Captain Hamilton, only recompense you your full due."

Claire fell silent and the silence stretched uncomfortably. Had she said something to offend him? What had happened?

"Captain?"

Rand turned over his hand and let the small, torn pieces of the cheque flutter to the carpet. Not once did her eyes follow their movement. There was a slight tremor to his hand as he picked up his cup and saucer.

"When were you going to tell me that you're blind, Miss Bancroft?"