Chapter 14

The following morning, Vander strolled through the doors of Beauclerk Marine Casualty at half-ten.

He was sorting the stack of papers he'd brought with him when his father stormed into Vander's closet… er, office.

"Evander Beauclerk!" his father snapped. "What is the meaning of this?"

Vander peered at his father over the tops of his spectacles. "What is the meaning of what?"

"I told you to report to work at seven o'clock sharp!" his father said, jabbing his index finger against the table. "If you are to run this business, you cannot wander in whenever it suits you."

Vander rolled his eyes. "I reported to work at eight. Believe me, that was unpalatable enough." He'd only managed to wake as early as he had because he had abandoned his plans to go to Boodle's for another night at the gaming tables. He'd made it all the way to the door when he realized that his concentration was shot to pieces after his kiss with Letty. He could think of nothing but the sweet sigh she had made when his lips touched hers, how perfect she had felt in his arms, the shudder that went through him when she threaded her fingers into his hair…

"I don't know how you can say that with a straight face!" his father snapped, shattering Vander's vision of the moonlit garden and recalling him to his closet. "You just walked in. I saw you!"

Vander returned to the papers he'd been examining before his father's dramatic entrance. "True. But you will note that I said I reported to work. Not that I reported to this dank cell of a room."

His father crossed his arms. "And where exactly have you been?"

Vander smirked because he knew he was about to win. "Gole's Depot."

His father's eyes bugged out behind his spectacles. "G-Gole's Depot?" Gole's Depot was a boardinghouse the East India Company contracted with to provide lodging for Indian sailors over the winter before ships began hiring them for the voyages back to India that were made in the spring. It was just off Ratcliffe Highway—not the sort of neighborhood Vander usually frequented. "What on earth were you doing at Gole's Depot?"

"Speaking to the lascars who sailed with the Windermere." His papers finally in order, Vander smacked the stack against his palm. "I am happy to report that a few of them were still there. Would you like to know what cargo she had in her hold when she sailed out of Bombay?"

His father was already pulling out a plain wooden chair. "Yes."

"There were no spices. Just silks, shawls, and muslin—precisely the products that arrived safe and sound in London."

His father frowned. "How can they know for sure?"

"You don't even need to open a trunk full of cinnamon, or anise, or turmeric, to know what's inside. You can smell it from twenty feet away."

His father considered for a moment. "That's likely true."

"They also saw no evidence of any cargo being dumped overboard, or any empty space in the hold where those casks had once been stacked."

"Which is suspicious but not necessarily conclusive. Just because they didn't see it doesn't prove it didn't happen. That's the trouble—it's impossible to prove a negative."

Vander took off his spectacles and tapped them on the table. "Still, the evidence is damning. If you decide to quote the policy again, I would double their rates. At least."

His father's nostrils flared. "I don't intend to quote it at all. I hope you will excuse my strong language, but this sort of behavior is absolute Tommy-rot!"

Vander struggled to keep a straight face at his father's notion of profanity. "Good. If they're capable of this, God knows what else they might try. Something occurred to me while I was down at Gole's Depot—I managed well enough today as most of the men spoke Persian, and we found someone to act as translator for those who did not. But if you're going to insure the route to India, you should have a clerk on staff who speaks both Persian and Hindustani."

"You're probably right." His father shook his head. "I'm still having difficulty picturing you at Gole's Depot."

Vander grinned. "I did stand out a bit." This was a rather spectacular understatement. When he walked in, the sailors had gawked at him in his Hoby boots and exquisitely tailored charcoal grey coat as if he were the giraffe at the Tower menagerie. But after he handed out some cigars and explained why he was there—in Persian—they'd warmed to him quickly enough.

"I'll find someone for the clerk position," Vander offered. It wasn't remotely unusual for officers of the East India Company to father children with Indian women during their years abroad, and many of those children accompanied their fathers to Britain once their tenure with the Company concluded. What was more unusual was for those British fathers to legally marry the mothers of those children. It wasn't always the way it happened, but for every man like Vander, William Kirkpatrick, or the Earl of Darrow, who were legitimate, rich, and accepted in the highest circles of society, there were several who were stuck on the fringes because their father had neglected to grace his children with his last name.

Vander could think of a dozen such men who would almost certainly be thrilled by the prospect of a respectable job at Beauclerk Marine Casualty.

His father's gaze was fixed upon the table, a tight frown upon his face.

"What's wrong, Father?"

His father shifted in his seat. "It just struck me that, although my risk analysis skills are strong, Beauclerk Marine Casualty is at something of a disadvantage because I have difficulty obtaining extraneous information of this nature."

Vander blinked at his father. "You mean you're not good at… leaving the office and talking to people?"

His father burst from his chair and began pacing the narrow width of the closet. "It sounds ridiculous when you put it like that. But yes. We do not all possess your easy nature, Evander, your ability to get people to open up to you, whether they are lascars or lords." He wrung his hands in front of his heart. "I feel like they know all the latest gossip over at Lloyds, and it factors into their decisions. It puts me at a disadvantage."

Vander leaned back in his chair. "Lloyd's started out as a coffee house. The sort of place where people like to gather." Although the coffee house had closed when they moved to the Royal Exchange, Lloyd's still had the feel of a gentlemen's club, where deals were made and information changed hands.

His father shook his head. "Well, we don't have a coffee house."

An idea was forming in Vander's head. "We could, though," he muttered.

Why not? They needed to move the offices out of this abysmal hovel, anyway.

What if they chose a building large enough that they could set up a coffee house on the ground floor? One that catered to ship captains, so that all the latest gossip would be changing hands right beneath their noses…

His father spun on his heel. "What was that, Evander?"

"Nothing." Better not to mention it until he had the perfect plan. An idea so flawless even his father wouldn't be able to say no. "So, what do you want me to look at today?"

His father gestured to a dispiritingly high stack of policies and began briefing Vander on what he could expect to find.

"I'll get through as many of them as I can before four o'clock," Vander said.

His father reared back, scandalized. "You don't mean to leave at four?"

"I do. I'm supposed to meet the Daughtreys at Vauxhall. Letty is introducing me to another potential bride." His father started to speak, and Vander cut him off. "And it would be better for us both if you could put any ideas about me working the kind of hours that you maintain out of your head. I'm not going to work twelve-hour days. I want to have a life outside of this office."

His father shook his head. "You don't understand how much work it takes to keep this place running."

The more Vander saw, the more he suspected that half of his father's tasks could be delegated. But again, it was better not to say as much before he had a well-formed plan. "That's what I'm able to offer."

"Fine," his father grumbled, heading for the door. "See how much you're able to get through."

Rubbing his brow, Vander put his spectacles back on and tried to focus on the policies.

But his thoughts kept drifting to Letty.