Chapter 19

Two days later, Vander was ensconced in his closet at Beauclerk Marine Casualty, struggling to stay awake. He'd finally made it back to Boodle's to continue testing his plan to support himself by gambling. It had been a night of patient, methodical play, at the conclusion of which he'd been fourteen pounds richer than when he'd started.

This wasn't a bad thing. If he won big every night, no one would want to play with him. If he could average winnings of twenty-five pounds per night, that would yield an income of nine thousand a year.

Or, to be precise, 9125 pounds. Although who was counting?

To be sure, it had been a late night, and he was suffering from lack of sleep. But that wasn't the only reason for Vander's malaise this morning.

David had been right—Boodle's was dull. The extent to which he had enjoyed his best friend's company had masked how tedious the rest of it was. He'd thought he would find the mathematical analysis aspect of playing cards diverting, but the calculations were too simple to hold his interest.

Even worse, there had been another unpleasant incident last night. It hadn't occurred at Vander's table, but at the next table over, some young idiot newly come into his fortune had bet—and lost—the funds intended for his sister's dowry. The whole club had heard him drunkenly sobbing about how his mother and sister would never forgive him as a footman showed him out.

It wasn't just young idiots. The talk that night had been about how Richard Clyde-Owens, who had once been a regular, had been forced to give up his membership. He'd reportedly had his personal effects seized by his creditors and been evicted from his London townhouse. The gossip was that he and his wife were now confined to a single room in a much less respectable part of town.

The thought occurred to Vander that even if he could make a living at the gaming tables, he wasn't sure that he wanted to. He could scarcely believe he was about to admit this, even to himself, but he found performing insurance analysis in this dreadful closet more enjoyable than spending his evenings at one of the most raucous gentlemen's clubs in London.

And more than that… Even if no one would look at him askance for winning the fortune of a Frances Llewellyn, or a Richard Clyde-Owens, or any man of their ilk who lacked the wit to know when to fold, Vander found he didn't have much stomach for it. He hadn't claimed Llewellyn's commission money yet, and now, he doubted he ever would. The disagreeable voice inside his head kept asking questions such as, How does taking Frances Llewellyn's commission money make the world a better place? And Fifty years from now, do you think you'll be proud that this is what you did with your life?

But the thing was, the work he was doing here, in his father's office? It did make the world a better place. Companies were willing to take risks when they knew that a lost ship wouldn't ruin them. Those risks allowed commerce to flow, to expand. And a rising economic tide lifted all boats.

Dear God—had he just quoted his father's speech on the virtues of insurance? He half expected to hear the hoofbeats of four approaching horsemen, because if that wasn't a sign that the end times were upon them, he didn't know what was.

The door opened, and his father minced into the room. Cedric Beauclerk always looked excited to be at his insurance offices, but today, he looked like he was about to explode with enthusiasm.

"Good morning, Father." Vander took his spectacles off, then winced as he noticed the thick stack of folios his father carried. "Oh, dear—more files. I'll be hard-pressed to get through what you've already brought me."

"You've already been over most of these." His father settled one hip on the edge of the table. "These are the policies you pointed out to me last week. The Peruvian guano farmers sailing through Cape Horn that I had declined to quote. Per our discussion, I took another look at the numbers."

Vander leaned back, steepling his fingers. "And?"

His father adjusted his spectacles. "And I concluded that you were right. We have sufficient reserves to take on this risk. And there is an opportunity here. I ran the numbers again, and the rate I settled on was just about the one you had suggested—"

"Three times the rate around the Cape of Good Hope?"

"Just a hair over three times, yes. I sent the quotes out yesterday, unsure if anyone would be willing to pay such rates." He tapped the stack of files. "All six shipowners have already responded, accepting my quote. And word is getting around—I've already received inquiries about another three ships sailing for Callao." His father paused, his foot tapping excitedly in the air. "This is a significant opportunity to expand our business. One that I almost missed. But you saw it. I'm proud of you, son."

Vander smiled. Those were words he'd never thought to hear from his father. They felt… good. "Thank you, Father."

His father removed a few files from the top of the stack. "These are the three ships that requested a quote. I thought I would let you take a stab at the analysis."

Vander put his spectacles back on. "I'd be glad to."

"Good." His father stood. "Work on them today, and we'll go over them together tomorrow."

"Very well."

His father was whistling as he left the room. Vander opened the top file, curious.

An hour later, he flipped the last file shut. He still had work to do, but he was optimistic that he was heading in the right direction. And the truth was…

This wasn't bad. He could see himself doing this for the rest of his life, much more easily than he could see himself wasting away at the tables at Boodle's. He would have to persuade his father to make a few changes. Open up a new office, one where sunlight occasionally fell upon the desk. Hire a private secretary so he could delegate the mundane tasks his father spent countless hours performing.

But, although the very notion had seemed unthinkable to him a few short weeks ago, Vander could almost see himself running Beauclerk Marine Casualty and acquiescing to his father's other demands.

All but for one thing.

Letty.

Prominent amongst his father's demands was that he settle down and marry. And much to his surprise, he could almost picture it. He could actually imagine himself giving up his degenerate lifestyle and spending the rest of his life with one woman.

But only if it was Letty. Letty was the central puzzle piece, and without her, nothing else fit.

And that was the rub, all right.

Because Letty was the one woman he could never have.

And if he couldn't have Letty, any chance of him being happy in the respectable life his father had planned for him crumbled to ashes.

But now that he thought on it, it was worse than that. Because the truth was, he hadn't been happy for some time. David had seen it before he had. Their whole rake-about-town routine had grown stale. The main thing he'd enjoyed about those wild nights was that he'd spent them with David.

The time had come for him to find something new. His father's ultimatum had merely led him to realize it a few months sooner than he otherwise would have.

But there was still a little nagging voice in the back of his head. One that said, you thought you wanted all of those other women, too. Mary Louise Huntley, Marguerite Cadieux, and the six other lovers the Brazen Belle had dredged up.

He had been so certain that each of them was the answer to his listlessness. But after he had slept with them, his interest had faded like drops of ink in a well.

What if it was the same with Letty? What if he married her then tired of her as surely as he'd tired of the rest of them?

That was the most terrifying possibility of all. It was one thing for his bad decision to ruin his own life. But the notion of ruining Letty's, of trapping her in an unhappy marriage, was far worse. Throw in the fact that he would irrevocably damage his friendship with David, and the notion of giving things a try with Letty became unthinkable.

The truth was, he wasn't going to be happy whether he accepted his father's deal or not.

He'd made a hash of everything.

And he had no one to blame but himself.