More Than You Know (7 page)

Strickland closed the lid on his writing desk when he heard the light rap on his door. “Enter!” he called.

Claire pushed open the door. She was carrying a tray of hot milk and brandy. Behind her one of the servants hovered, anticipating a collision, a spill, or some other disaster. “When you say that so importantly you make me feel as if I'm being granted an audience."

"You are,” the duke said. His narrow, finely carved features softened somewhat. He waved away the servant. “Miss Bancroft has proven herself to be quite capable. And where's the harm if she spills some on the carpet? It can be cleaned or replaced."

Claire thought that if the carpet was of the Egyptian design she remembered, then it could not be replaced easily. It was said to have been one used by Napoleon in his encampment at Alexandria. The duke found some perverse pleasure in trampling it on his way to bed. “Do you feel the same way about the Sevres vase in the dining room?” she asked. Claire relied on his voice to guide her to a place to set the tray.

"The Sevres? On the sideboard, do you mean?"

"Yes, that's the one. It's come to a rather bad end, I'm afraid."

"Chipped?” he asked somewhat hopefully.

"Shattered."

"Here, let me take the tray now, m'dear. You've done admirably, Sevres vases aside."

Claire let Strickland remove the tray from her hands. She put her arm out and found the wing of a nearby chair. She seated herself almost gingerly. She had not been able to arrive at a feeling of security when she lowered herself onto a chair or sofa. Mrs. Webster chided her for it, finding this bit of trepidation most odd.
It's not as if someone is going to pull it out from under you,
she had said. But that was exactly the feeling Claire had about it. She did not confide in the widow that it was not an unfamiliar experience. It was only since she had become blind that she had extended the feeling to tangible objects. Before that it was confined to matters of the heart, like love and trust.

Claire held out one hand and felt the warm mug of milk being pressed into it. “Thank you."

"You're welcome.” Strickland leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his jaw with the back of his hand, massaging away the hard line of tension there. “Tell me about the vase."

"An impassioned speech,” she said. “I was standing at the sideboard and flung my arms wide."

"Impassioned?” The duke's steady gaze was thoughtful. “Does the captain inspire that sort of emotion in you?"

Claire's mouth twisted wryly. “Perhaps angry describes it better. The captain certainly inspires that."

"I'm not sure I like that any better. You should be careful, Claire. I don't entirely trust him."

"I wish you had been able to strike a better bargain, Stickle."

"I hope to God you've never called me that in front of him. It's precisely that sort of comfortable and cozy familiarity that gives Hamilton an advantage. What good is cultivating a countenance that can etch glass if one is known as Stickle?"

Claire brought her mug to her lips quickly. “I don't believe I've used it,” she said over the rim.

Strickland sighed. “What a horrid liar you are."

Claire shrugged.

"I'm not sure I believe you about the vase either."

This time Claire managed not to choke, but only just. She could feel her godfather's eyes boring into her. They would be like ice chips as he attempted to freeze a confession out of her. “What were you doing when I came in?” she asked, changing the subject. “You mentioned retiring, but you're here working at your desk."

"I was composing an advertisement for the paper. For your next teacher."

"What a horrid liar you are."

Strickland's eyes widened a fraction; then he chuckled appreciatively. “Very well, I was trying to write down the riddle, if you must know."

Claire nodded. “I thought as much. That's why you excused yourself so quickly after hearing it. How much have you remembered?"

The duke opened the lid of the writing desk just enough to remove one piece of paper.
"Blood will run. Flames will come.
Something about the sun."

"Blazing sun, blinding some."

It was understandable, Strickland supposed, that that particular phrasing had caught Claire's attention. “Then he mentioned a flood and a plague. That's it. That's all I can bring to mind."

"I don't understand the connection he makes to the gems. Do you?"

"No, but then we only heard a portion of the riddle. It may be there is a clue elsewhere in the text."

Claire noticed that the duke was not questioning the riddle's origin. He didn't appear to believe Rand Hamilton had created the message for his own ends. “His story about the treasure nearly matches your own theory."

"I didn't think you would fail to notice that. Captain Hamilton has either thoroughly researched the legend and history or he has some intimate knowledge to guide him. It may be all of that. I don't believe he used his time at Oxford only to study the natural sciences. The library there is the same place I found some intriguing similarities between the legend and the capture of the Spanish galleon
Frontera."

Claire smiled. “It's unraveling the mystery that's exciting to you, isn't it? Finding the treasure is so much gilt on the lily."

Strickland's brows rose a notch. “I would not go so far as to say that, m'dear. I won't mind at all adding these stones to my collection."

"A quarter of them,” Claire corrected. “That's the bargain you struck."

"Yes,” he said after a moment. “Just a quarter. Go on, you should take yourself off to bed. There's a lot to be done in these next weeks. You will need the voyage to rest from the frenzy of the preparations for it."

Claire laughed and held out her mug. “G'night, Stickle. Pleasant dreams.” She squeezed his hand as he took the mug.

"Do you require assistance?"

"Ten paces to the door and another fourteen after the third room on the right. I can manage, thank you."

He watched her progress across the room just to satisfy himself of her safety. When she was gone, his eyes dropped to the blank piece of paper in his hand. He had had no need to make a record of the captain's poem. The lines were unimportant. The fact that they numbered seven was enough to convince him that Rand Hamilton was on the right course, closer perhaps than he had been.

Seven lines. Seven curses. One curse for each sister. The captain might well know what he was looking for after all.

Evan Markham, eighth Duke of Strickland, crumpled the paper in his fist and tossed it into the fireplace. He opened the desk and took out the correspondence he had begun. At this juncture there was no sense leaving anything to chance.

The next twelve days were every bit the frenzy for Claire that her godfather had predicted.

At the duke's insistence, there were fittings for a new wardrobe. Claire was left with no choice but compliance and almost no choice in the fabrics or fashion. Strickland was pleased to discover that Mrs. Webster had a rather keen eye for what suited his goddaughter. After the first day of witnessing her veto the fussy ruffles and ruching that served no purpose but to draw attention to the dressmaker's skill, the duke was happy to place Claire in her teacher's hands. His visit to the drawing room on the occasion of the initial fitting was enough to assure him that all would be completed by the time
Cerberus
left London.

Claire was also the recipient of more lessons with her cane. She despised the thing as a crutch that only called attention to her. It did no good that the duke tried to ease her discomfort by having it made of ebony and calling it a fashionable affectation.
She
was the one affected by it. Mrs. Webster had been unsuccessful in making Claire see the use of it until now. Claire, she pointed out, would be subjected to more hazards on board
Cerberus
than she had encountered on
HMS Mansfield
. On her voyage back to London, she had been largely confined to quarters by illness or choice. She had learned enough skills since that time to be made a bit overconfident. It was the surest way, Mrs. Webster warned, for her to be lost overboard.

Claire accepted the truth of this and practiced daily, first in the familiar surroundings of the townhouse and later, as a test of her skill, in the less inviting twists and turns of Abberly Hall. It was there that she again toured the duke's vast collection of artifacts. He had been very clear that Mrs. Webster could not join her in the room, and Claire did not invite trouble by disobeying him. She wondered that her godfather trusted her at all after the destruction of his Sevres vase.

Strickland's private museum was a gallery some sixty feet long and a third as wide. It was located on the second floor in Abberly's west wing. The heavy doors to the gallery remained locked at all times. Strickland and his housekeeper of thirty years were the only ones with keys. To Claire's knowledge no other household staff had ever entered the room.

Mrs. Novak opened the doors for Claire and set herself to dusting while Claire cautiously made her way along the perimeter of the room. She lifted the lids on glass cases that held ancient weapons of knights and the more ornamental, jewel-encrusted daggers of their fierce ladies. Even older were the Roman broadswords and Druid blades etched with runes to make them strike true. Claire found a favorite Egyptian arm bracelet lying atop one of the cases. She ran her fingers over the delicate silver band, coiled to circle an arm like a snake. Her fingertips touched each of the eyes and recalled that these tiny stones were rubies. Claire slipped the bracelet on as far as her elbow and pretended to admire it. When she had visited Abberly Hall as a child, Strickland had allowed her to wear the bracelet as he guided her and her mother through the gallery. Even then, she thought, he had indulged her.

Claire paused as she came upon the tapestries hanging on the walls. She could only touch them now, not stand back and view the stories they told. She was disappointed that her fingers could not distinguish between the woven pictures, nor raise their colorful threads to her mind's eye. She recalled that one displayed the Battle of Hastings; another depicted Sir Gawain's search for the Holy Grail. Now, without asking Mrs. Novak for assistance, they might as well have been the duke's bedcovers.

Claire felt some of the joy of her exploration fade. She recognized the jade figures from China and the exquisitely fashioned bowls and vases from a dynasty she couldn't name, but they merely seemed cool to her now. The delicately handpainted patterns had no power to capture her attention. She passed the duke's collection of sapphires altogether. Each stone would only feel like another when she could not hold them to the light and remark on their clarity or color.

But it was at the books that Claire truly felt the depth of what she had lost halfway around the world. She ran her hands lightly over the edges of the illuminated tomes. The covers were soft with age, and except where they were embossed, the texture was smooth. She opened one carefully, wondering if she was looking at a monk's painstaking copy of Plutarch's
Lives
or one of Homer's epic poems. Her godfather, she knew, had all of that and more. Claire turned the pages gingerly, respectful of both the age and the content. To pass too quickly seemed somehow disrespectful.

She stopped when her hand fell on a piece of paper whose texture was different from the one preceding it. The page moved as she withdrew her fingers. Claire's first thought was that she had clumsily torn it free. She almost slammed the heavy book closed to hide her blunder. That reaction was more suited to a child, she decided. It also occurred to her that the housekeeper might have already witnessed the destruction.

"Mrs. Novak?"

"Yes? I'll be done here in a moment. What do you need?” Claire could tell by the location and pitch that the housekeeper was turned away from her. She was willing to accept that for now she could behave as a child. She closed the book. “Are you dusting armor?” she asked.

"Why, yes, I am. You're a marvel, that's what you are.” Then she was easily on the far side of the room, Claire thought. “I wondered if I might trouble you to tell Mrs. Webster I'll be ready to go shortly. I think she's in the conservatory. If she's found a comfortable place to nap, I should like to give her some notice. She might wish to refresh herself before we leave."

"Of course. Will you be all right, then?” Mrs. Novak made a last pass across the knight's helmet, then joined Claire at the books. “These were always a mystery to me,” she said. “I don't read a word of Latin and that's what his grace tells me these are. I don't suppose you can read something to—” Her hand flew to her mouth as she realized what she was saying, and to whom. “Oh, I'm truly sorry, Miss Bancroft. It's just that you haven't changed with your ... that is, with the...” She hugged her duster. “What a foolish woman I've become. My tongue's as knotted as my laces."

"It's all right, Mrs. Novak.” Claire found that apologies were much worse than the unintended thoughtless remarks that preceded them. “Please, just see to Mrs. Webster."

The housekeeper was happy to leave quickly.

Claire opened the book as soon as Mrs. Novak was on the other side of the door. It took her a few moments to find the page again. This time she removed it completely. Her heartbeat resumed a normal rhythm when she traced the edges of the paper and found it smooth on all sides. Even though the quality of the page suggested it was not part of the manuscript, it was good to confirm it another way. She wondered if the duke had placed the paper in the book as a mark. She tried to imagine him reading the heavy book for his enjoyment and couldn't. This possession wasn't meant to be read, but admired for the craft that had produced it. Strickland had readable volumes of these books in several of his libraries.

Claire ran her hand over the paper much as she had the tapestries and the embossed covers, with no expectation that she would recognize anything beneath her fingertips. It startled her when she felt the small holes that had been pushed into the paper.

Each hole was larger than a pinprick but not a great deal. Had the paper not been lying pressed between the pages of the manuscript, the holes would have caused tiny bumps on the obverse side. The holes were not cut out but had been made by poking an instrument through the paper.

Claire felt the page in its entirety again. She wondered how noticeable these small punches would be if she could see the paper. Would they have even come to her attention? It seemed unlikely. Using the manuscript to house the paper had nearly obliterated evidence the holes were there.

Letting her index finger run gently over them, Claire counted seven. They were located near the bottom right corner of the page as she held the paper. She had no idea if she was holding it upside down or on the reverse, but she was careful to hold it in the exact manner she had taken it from the book.

She wondered if Strickland knew of its presence, and she felt the small thrill that accompanies every discovery. Perhaps it was something placed in the manuscript by the monk who had worked on it. His prayers. His dedication. His Latin laundry list.

Claire smiled, tracing the path of the holes a third time. No, probably not a list at all, she thought. Something celestial instead. The placement of the seven holes was more familiar to her as the most easily recognized grouping of stars in the night sky: the Big Dipper.

She replaced her discovery in the manuscript, she hoped just as she had found it. Mrs. Novak's clipped footsteps were approaching from the hallway. Claire met her at the door. “I'm prepared to leave,” she said. “Thank you for letting me in."

"As to that, Miss Bancroft, it's a pleasure. His grace doesn't visit often enough, and while I don't begrudge him these wonderful things, it's always seemed a shame to me that he doesn't invite more of his acquaintances to view them. Why, I can count on my fingers and toes the number of times he's brought visitors here.” Mrs. Novak locked the door, then continued her theme as she fell into step beside Claire. “Not that I can't imagine there'd be trouble sooner or later from the traffic. We'd have our share of thieves trying to scale Abberly's walls. Can't say that I'd want to invite that, so his grace's caution is understandable. Do you know that there's never been a piece come up missing in all the time I've been in the duke's employ?"

"There is no question that he trusts you,” Claire said kindly.

"Until now,” Mrs. Novak went on.

Claire frowned. “Do you mean he no longer trusts you?"

"No, I was referring to the missing pieces. One's going to come up missing now."

Claire's frown merely deepened. Had Mrs. Novak seen her with the paper after all? Did the housekeeper believe she had removed it? Claire began to deny that she had taken anything when Mrs. Novak interrupted her.

"Don't trouble yourself,” she said. There was nothing accusing about her warm tones. “I realize you simply forgot it.” She stopped at the lip of the stairs. “May I?"

Claire was bewildered. “You'll have to be clearer, I'm afraid.” She laid her left hand over the banister, prepared to make her descent down the wide staircase. “What is it you wish to do?"

"Take the bracelet back,” Mrs. Novak said. “That awful snake is still on your arm."

Laughing, Claire held out her arm. “Oh, please. Yes, take it back. I should have been very put out to find it on the journey back to London. His grace would not have been at all happy with me."