Chapter 9

After a scant three hours of sleep, Vander presented himself at Beauclerk Marine Casualty, as demanded by his father.

The company offices were located on a nondescript street in the parish of St. George in the East. The London Docks were nearby. So was the Tower of London, not that there was a view of either from the narrow brick building sandwiched in a row of middling storefronts.

The room his father had left him in did have a window, but the buildings in this neighborhood were packed so tightly that little sunlight trickled through it, and the dimness of the room compounded the temptation to lay his head down on the desk and sleep.

God, what he would give for a decent cup of coffee…

The door burst open, and his father scurried into the room. Unlike the dozen clerks Vander had passed on his way in, who looked to be waging a losing battle against lethargy, his father's eyes shone with excitement to be in his favorite place, his insurance office.

"So," his father said, taking a seat next to Vander at the bare wooden table. "Do you understand the policies I asked you to go over?"

Vander peeled off the spectacles he was careful never to wear in public. "Yes. And no."

His father crossed his legs. "What didn't you understand?"

"Two things." Vander shuffled through the pile of files before him, pulling out six. "These applications looked sound. Why did you decline to quote these policies?"

His father peered at the papers. "These ships are all bound for Callao. The route around Cape Horn is dangerous. I've done an analysis, and ships are lost there at three times the rate of, say, the Cape of Good Hope."

"So why don't we charge three times the rate?" Vander countered.

His father shook his head. "Who could afford to pay three times the rate?"

Vander thumped his hand against the table. "Guano farmers, that's who. Have you seen the prices Peruvian guano is fetching on the open market? It's a risky venture, but the potential rewards are substantial. And all six of these shipowners are trading in guano. Who usually insures this route?"

His father screwed up his face. "It's my understanding that no one will. Those ships usually sail uninsured."

Vander stood and stretched, then settled with a hip on the desk. "This route is an opportunity. There will be losses. Make no mistake. But if we price it right, and if we recruit enough clients to properly pool the risk, there's no reason we couldn't underwrite these policies."

His father frowned. "I don't know, Evander."

Vander smacked the papers with the back of his hand. "What was it you were saying to me the other day? About the sacred duty of insurers to mitigate risk so commerce can flow? Think of your king and your country. And of the bloody fortune Beauclerk Marine Casualty stands to make if we insure all of this bird shit."

The corners of his father's mouth quirked up.

"What's this?" Vander asked. "I didn't expect you to laugh at my bird-shit joke. I expected you to say"—he placed his hands on his hips and made his voice high and nasal—"Evander! Don't be so crude."

His father laughed again, taking no offense. "It was crude, and I expect you to refrain from using such language in business settings. But that's actually not what made me smile." His father clasped his hands before him on the desk. "It's nice to hear you say we, with regards to Beauclerk Marine Casualty."

Vander sank back into his chair. This was probably his father's dream come true, to have his son here, learning the family business.

Little did he know that, if things went according to Vander's plan, this would only be a temporary interlude.

He set those thoughts aside. "We should quote these policies. If they don't like the rate we would have to charge, that's their prerogative. But at least we will have tried."

His father blinked at the stack of folios, his brow creased. "I'm not sure, Evander. But I will run the numbers one more time."

"Good."

"You said there was one more thing you didn't understand?"

"Yes." Vander put his spectacles back on as he took up a file he had set aside. "It's this policy, for the Windermere. Did the losses they reported last year not strike you as odd?"

His father leaned in to look at the policy. "What do you mean?"

"The Windermere set sail out of Bombay with a cargo of silks and spices." He peered at his father over the tops of his glasses. "Which immediately seems suspicious. Bombay isn't on the spice route. I wouldn't question it if the ship had made port in Calicut."

His father blinked, looking startled. "It does seem a bit odd, now that you mention it."

"It gets worse." Vander ran a finger down the policy, searching for the right passage. "Halfway through the voyage, they determined that the twenty-three chests of spices had gone moldy." He paused, glancing up at his father. "All twenty-three? Which were presumably sealed up tight? That seems—"

"Questionable," his father interjected, brow wrinkled.

"It seems bloody implausible. But that's not all—they determined that the best course to prevent the spread of mold to the ship's stores was to cast all twenty-three chests into the sea." Vander tossed the policy onto the table in front of him and leaned back in his chair. "Leaving not a shred of evidence to support their losses. That's awfully convenient. Meanwhile, it sounds like the ship's stores were unaffected. What are the odds that a tightly-sealed chest of pepper would become infested by mold, while an open crate of hard tack was fine?"

"Not very high," his father said, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "But these are very serious accusations, Evander. And we have signed statements from the ship's officers attesting that this sequence of events, as unlikely as they may now seem, occurred. Surely, you're not suggesting that all of those men lied under oath?"

Vander sighed. His father might be extremely book smart, but he spent so much time hiding in his ivory tower, he could be alarmingly ignorant when it came to the ways of the world. It didn't help that his sense of honor was so deeply enshrined, he almost could not imagine that someone would defraud him.

"That's exactly what I'm suggesting, Father. Look at the facts. They make no sense."

His father shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "But… But…" Abruptly, he deflated, slumping down in his chair. "Oh, you're right. Of course, you are. I cannot believe they would have the gall to lie to me!" He sighed. "The evidence being circumstantial, I very much doubt we could prove the claim was fraudulent in court."

Vander leaned forward. "But we could decline to underwrite the Windermere's next voyage. And we should refuse to insure any ships under the same ownership."

His father made a sound of despair. "The owner would be furious. It would be like kicking a hornet's nest."

Vander pushed the file toward his father. "Still, it might be worth it. We don't want to work with liars."

"No. That we don't. Oh, botheration! The thought that someone would take advantage of me like this… I hope you will excuse my strong language, but it burns my buttons!" He sighed, putting his glasses back on. "I'll have to think about the best course."

"Please do. I know you'll do the right thing."

His father smiled as he stood. "You're good at this. A chip off the old block." He made a bent-wrist fist and bumped it awkwardly against Vander's shoulder.

Vander smiled. His father's bumbling attempt at camaraderie was strangely endearing. "Thank you, Father."

His father scooped up the files they had discussed and started toward the door. "I'll bring you some more policies to go over this afternoon."

"That will have to wait until tomorrow. This afternoon, I will be visiting the British Museum."

His father frowned. "If you want to run a successful business, you can't just take off whenever it pleases you. I'll have you know I put in twelve-hour days, at the very least!"

That was precisely why Vander wasn't cut out to run Beauclerk Marine Casualty, even though he was finding the risk analysis element of the business more interesting than he had expected.

He held up both hands. "You're the one who wanted me to marry a respectable woman by month's end. That's why I'm going to the British Museum—Letty is going to introduce me to someone."

His father's expression remained surly.

Vander laughed. "Come, Father. How am I supposed to meet a likely young lady if I'm cooped up in here for twelve hours a day?"

His father's rigid stance softened. "I suppose you have a point," he grumbled.

"Don't worry, all this"—Vander gestured to the stack of policies he had yet to read through—"will still be here tomorrow."

"Very well," his father said, taking his leave.

The door did not swing closed after him, as Vander's cousin, Milton, appeared in its frame. "Vander! I—I heard you were here." Milton pointed toward the front office where the dozen clerks in his father's employ had their desks. "H-how have you been?"

Considering he'd been featured in the Rake Review and was now being forced into a life he detested, not so well. But Milton didn't need to know that, so Vander said, "Fine. Just fine. How've you been, Milton?"

"Grand!" Milton said with an unconvincing attempt at enthusiasm. "I, uh, I was just wondering if you might like to join me for lunch. Seeing as we haven't caught up in, you know. A while."

Milton was wringing his hands, and based on his cringing posture, Vander suspected he was bracing himself for rejection.

But Vander was already on his feet. There were few excuses he wouldn't take to get out of this dismal cave of a room. "I'd like that."

Milton's eyes had gone wide behind his spectacles. "You would? I mean… w-wonderful. Let me just get my hat and we can, uh… You know."

They went to a chop house around the corner. After they'd put in their orders, Vander turned to his cousin. "So. How have things been with—"

"Look, Vander," Milton said in a rush, "I know you probably think I'm an idiot. That I'm dumber than a bucket of turnips. That I'm the biggest simpleton this side of the—"

"Milton!" Vander gave an awkward chuckle, attempting to wave off the dozen curious faces who had swiveled in their direction. In truth, Milton wasn't entirely wrong, but even Vander wasn't tactless enough to mention it.

Vander tried to make his expression innocent. "Why would you say such a thing?"

Blotches of red stained Milton's cheeks. "I saw how many errors there were on the ledgers I attempted. I know you were the one who corrected them. I recognized your handwriting."

Vander inclined his head, figuring it was better not to deny it. "I mean… everyone makes mistakes."

"You don't," Milton grumbled, nodding his thanks to the waiter as he set a pork chop before him. "And now your father probably thinks I'm going to ruin his beloved business."

Vander snorted, taking up his knife and fork and slicing his beefsteak. "Oh, I make mistakes, all right." At Milton's skeptical look, he acknowledged, "Not so much when it comes to ledgers and the like. But I made a sufficient bungle of the rest of my life that I managed to get featured in the Rake Review."

Milton rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes. How awful. Now the whole world knows that women are desperate to spend the night in your bed and swoon every time you take off your shirt, to say nothing of the fact that you were third wrangler."

"Yes, well, it also said I have the attention span of a gnat, and that I have the pox." Vander pointed with his fork. "Which, for the record, I do not."

One corner of Milton's mouth quirked up. "I guess the article wasn't entirely fawning."

Vander speared a potato forcefully. "No. No, it was not. And as to your assertion that my father thinks you'll ruin the family business"—he laughed darkly—"I'm the one doing that."

Milton frowned. "How so?"

Vander explained what his father had told him about policyholders fleeing. "Father has given me one month to marry and start leading a respectable life." Vander shoved his plate, the contents of which didn't seem nearly as appetizing as they had five minutes ago, out of the way. "My life is over."

Milton huffed. "It won't be that bad. You'll be able to marry your pick of the most beautiful women in London. And I've never understood why you're so averse to Beauclerk Marine Casualty."

Vander paused, wiping a drip of condensation from his pint of ale. "It's not that I'm averse to it, precisely. Learning the business hasn't been as bad as I expected. The risk analysis side of it is actually rather interesting. But I don't want to do it to the exclusion of everything else, the way my father does. To spend twelve hours a day stuffed in a closet and never see the sun."

"I like being at the office," Milton sighed. "It makes me feel important. All I've ever wanted is to be a successful businessman, like your father. Now he's probably going to dismiss me."

"He's not, Milton. He's really not," Vander insisted, hating the hangdog expression on his cousin's face. "The thing is, you're responsible. My father trusts you. At this point, I think the odds are better that he leaves Beauclerk Marine Casualty to you than to me."

"That will never happen," Milton muttered.

Vander studied his cousin. He and Milton were close enough in age that they should've been close growing up. But they weren't. This was the deepest conversation they'd had in… maybe ever.

"I hope this doesn't come off the wrong way," Vander began. "But I'm genuinely curious—you obviously tried hard in school. And you're not stupid—you're not," Vander insisted when Milton started to interrupt him. "So, I'm wondering why you struggled so much with those ledgers. Do you think it could be nerves? Perhaps you're so eager to impress my father that you get overwhelmed?"

"It's not nerves. It's worse than that." Milton glanced around. "Do you want to know the truth?"

Vander nodded, and they both leaned forward.

"I'm so thick, I can't even read all of the numbers correctly," Milton whispered. "It's hard for me to distinguish between the sixes and the nines. There are certain letters I mix up, too—b's and d's." Milton shook his head. "I'm just an idiot."

"No," Vander said quickly. "Stop saying that. I—I've never heard of that before. But let's try something."

He plucked one of Milton's pencils from his waistcoat pocket and grabbed a morning paper someone had left behind. In the margin, Vander wrote out a column of numbers, none of which included a six or a nine.

He spun the paper around to face Milton and slapped the pencil down. "Add that up. Go on."

Milton cringed, but he took up the pencil and went to work. He was a bit slow about it, although perhaps that wasn't fair. Everyone was slower at sums than Vander, excepting his father.

But Milton got the answer right. He glanced up at Vander, looking terrified he had made a mistake.

Vander grinned. "That's right."

Milton's shoulders sagged with relief. "It is?"

Vander laughed. "It is. See, you're not stupid. Not at all." He held up his thumb and index finger, pinched a sliver apart. "There's just one tiny part of your brain that's, how you say—"

"Broken," Milton supplied. A harsh word, but at least there was a ghost of a smile upon his lips.

"Not the word I was going to use. But it's like I said—no one's good at everything. Look at all the things you're good at that I'm not. Rising before noon. Showing up at the office. Not sleeping with half the opera dancers in London."

Milton laughed out loud, and Vander grinned. "It's a shame we can't combine our brains," Vander said. "I feel like together, we would make one fully functioning person."

Milton smiled, and it reached his bespectacled eyes. "Thank you, Vander."

"Of course." Vander signaled to the waiter and took care of the bill, ignoring Milton's attempts to insist that it was his treat.

Milton headed back to the offices, but Vander hailed a hackney carriage. As it bore him toward the British Museum, he was eager to see what sort of young lady Letty had for him today.