More Than You Know (16 page)

"Oh,” Claire said thoughtfully. “Then what was
her
name?"

Rand found his black mood shifting. “Miss Emily Tipping. The Tippings own the neighboring plantation to the west. She was really David's love. I was sent as an advance guard just to prove it could be done. She practically tossed me back through the window."

"Were you hurt?"

"Only my pride. I had a bit of a schoolboy crush on her. I thought she might throw David over for me."

"Instead she threw you out."

"Hmmm.” Rand wondered when it had started to hurt less to talk about David. Had it been happening so gradually that he hadn't noticed or was it just a recent turn of events, further proof that he found Claire's company good for his soul? He pushed away from the column and sat down. “I hadn't thought of that for a long time.” More importantly, he hadn't minded thinking about it now.

Claire smoothed the skirt of her gown where she felt Rand brush it as he passed. The gesture had more to do with the state of her nerves than the condition of her dress. She couldn't help wonder how amenable Rand would be to what she wanted to say. “If David and your father had survived the war, they'd be managing the plantation now."

Rand shot her a glance. “Yes, that's right. David would have married Emily, and she would have come to live at Henley. He knew just about every aspect of running the place."

"The heir apparent."

Rand nodded. Belatedly he realized Claire couldn't see his acknowledgment. “Yes,” he said. “The heir apparent."

"And Shelby?” asked Claire. “What would he be doing now?"

"That's easy. Shel only ever wanted adventure. He'd be in Africa, paddling up the Congo."

"Really? What about the Hamilton treasure?"

The slow smile that curved Rand's mouth was rueful. “He would have found it years ago, Claire. Shelby knew more about it than any of us back then. He was going to follow me to Oxford and research the legend there. Instead he proved himself too impatient. He couldn't wait until he was of an age to come to England. He begged me to start the research and complete detailed correspondence of what I found."

Claire remembered that Strickland had thought Rand had done research on the treasure in the Oxford library. He had only been mistaken that it had been Rand's real purpose for being there. “And did you?” she asked.

"As time allowed,” said Rand. “Never as much or as thoroughly as Shel would have done himself, but I admit I found it fascinating."

Claire could easily believe that. “I imagine Shelby saw the riddle as a means to an end, while for you it was an end in itself."

Rand wondered what he had said that helped Claire arrive at that conclusion. He shrugged. “I suppose that was true then. It's been some time since I regarded the riddle so differently from Shelby."

"I know,” Claire said quietly.

There was an odd metallic taste in Rand's mouth. It was the hook, he decided, that Claire was using to reel him in. “What is it you think you know?” he asked.

She didn't answer immediately. Claire pushed a stubborn strand of hair behind her ear. “David was on a course to secure Henley for a new generation of Hamiltons. Shelby's course would have put the treasure in the family's hands. It seems to me that they're still on course, Rand. Death hasn't altered their plans at all. They're managing quite nicely through you."

Her words had the power of a blow. It was as if the air had been driven from his lungs. What he wanted to do was strike back in a real physical sense. What he did was not move at all.

"Rand?” Claire said his name uneasily. She cocked her head and listened for the faint sounds of his breathing. “Are you still here?"

"I'm here, Claire,” he said after a moment. Rand wondered if he could have reacted so strongly, so immediately, to her words if they hadn't resonated with truth.

"Are you angry?"

"It's passing."

"Should I leave?"

He sighed. “No. The doors are still locked anyway."

"Oh. I'd forgotten."

Rand's short laugh was without humor. “No easy escape. This time you have to finish what you started."

Claire did not call attention to her flaming face by raising her hands to her cheeks. Rand would know his barb struck home without confirmation from her. She waited to speak until she was certain her voice would not quaver. “If your brothers had survived the war,” she said, “what would you be doing now?"

Rand decided there was no sense in pretending he didn't know the answer. Claire probably knew it as well as he. “Studying,” he said. “Collecting. Cataloging. I haven't abandoned it entirely, Claire, in spite of what else occupies me these days. You've been in my workroom on
Cerberus.
You know that's true."

"I know it's an afterthought most of the time. And once you have the treasure in your hands, it will be less than that. You'll come back here and pick up the threads of David's dream ... marry Emily Tipping or someone just like her. You can't even see beyond what David would have done to recognize that Bria is not only capable of managing Henley, but that she actually
wants
to."

"Did Bria put you up to this?"

Claire shook her head.

"Then why the hell should it matter what I do or why I do it?"

"It matters,” Claire said quietly. “More than you know.” Wishing she could retract her last words, she stood. There was no warning as Rand's fingers closed around her wrist. “Don't.” The single word was more plea than protest. She offered no resistance as Rand drew her between his splayed legs and removed the cane from her hand. Claire heard it drop to the floor beside him. He kept steady pressure on her wrist until she was sharing the chair with him, more of her on his lap than not. He raised her hands to his shoulders and Claire held on, feeling the warmth of his face close to her own.

The click of the lock was like a gunshot. Claire pushed herself off Rand's lap in spite of his intention to hold her. She found her cane just as the doors to the verandah swung open and Bria stepped into the breach.

"It was my intention to let you fend for yourself, Rand,” Bria said. “Then I realized I had locked Claire out as well."

One of Rand's brows was arched skeptically. Light from the hallway flickered across Bria's face. Her smile was too sweet to be sincere, just as her timing had been too good—or too bad—to have been anything but deliberate. “You'd better go, Claire,” he said.

Claire did not require Rand's encouragement. She was halfway the distance to Bria when a voice intruded in her thoughts:
You notice her. You notice everything about her.
Claire's steps faltered, but her knees held. She tamped down a smile. Apparently she possessed a bit more stamina under Rand's scrutiny than Bria had given her credit for.

There was little opportunity for Claire to be mindful of her knees over the next several days. Rand left for Charleston to oversee the preparations for the next leg of the voyage. Cutch complained mightily that he did not need to lie abed, but no one, least of all Rand, paid him any heed. Claire helped him feel moderately useful by bringing in
Through the Looking Glass
and insisting he read to her. She wasn't at all bothered that he fell asleep from time to time.

Cutch's own rumbling snore woke him up. He slapped at the book lying open on his chest as if it were a pesky fly. Grumbling, he brought himself to wakefulness and looked over at Claire. She was staring straight ahead, her brow furrowed as she concentrated on her knitting. “I hope you're not making that for anyone I know. Don't think I could stand looking at someone wearing it."

Claire's fingers flew over the stitches on the needles, counting them for the third time. “What are you saying, Mr. Cutch? Is it badly shaped?"

"Shape's fine, I guess.” With some effort, he pushed himself upright and stuffed a pillow at the small of his back. “It's a scarf, isn't it?"

"I suppose it could be.” She held it up. “Is that what it looks like?"

Cutch examined Claire's work critically. She had managed about sixty rows but it was now much wider at the bottom than at the top. “It looks like a triangle."

"A triangle? Really? That means I've been dropping stitches.” She lowered the knitting so Cutch could see she was having him on. “I know perfectly well it's a mess,” she told him. “Every color of the rainbow, too, I should imagine."

"There's a fact. Only not as soothing. Hurts my eyes."

"It's a good thing I'm blind, then."

Cutch was silent a moment. Then sharp laughter erupted from his chest. “You're a piece of work, Miss Bancroft. Just like Rand says."

"I think that's Shakespeare,” she said dryly.

"Shakespeare was referring to all mankind. Rand says it about you."

Claire ducked her head quickly and ran her fingers over the stitches again. It was useless. Sighing, she found the basket at her feet and tossed the knitting into it.
"That
is a piece of work."

Chuckling, Cutch picked up
Through the Looking Glass.
“Do you want me to read more?"

"No, that's all right. I wondered if we might talk?"

Cutch closed the book carefully and set it away from him. “What did you have in mind?"

"You didn't really go through Mr. Foster's books and papers, did you?"

Now Cutch knew he should have resisted waking and slept on. “No,” he said. “I didn't."

"Who did?"

He shrugged. “I don't know."

"Then you weren't protecting Rand?"

"Oh, I was protecting him, but not because I thought he'd gone through Orrin's study. His stepfather would have shot him if I hadn't said anything. Orrin was working himself up to it."

"I wasn't certain. I could follow most of what happened, but not everything. When the gun went off, I wasn't sure who was...” She let her voice trail off, and it was another moment before she spoke. “You must suspect someone."

"Most likely it was Orrin."

"Orrin?"

"It would not be the first time he's done something and forgot about it later."

"I hadn't thought of that."

"Then perhaps you have a suspect of your own."

Claire shook her head. “No. I don't.” She could almost feel Cutch's skepticism. “I really don't. I don't know what's so important about Orrin's books."

"The riddle."

"The Hamilton riddle? But Rand has that, doesn't he?"

"Does he? I've never seen it."

"But he quoted a portion of it to my godfather. I was there."

"I didn't say Rand doesn't know the riddle. I think he grew up knowing it."

"You mean it doesn't exist on paper at all? It's been passed down orally for three hundred years?"

"Could be."

Or not, Claire thought. Cutch wasn't really saying, was he? “You wouldn't tell me under any circumstances,” she said.

"No,” Cutch said. “I wouldn't. I figure that's Hamilton business. Anything I've learned by living with them all these years, well, I figure it's still their business. Besides, you might have been the one tearing up Orrin's study."

That raised Claire's eyebrows. “Did that really cross your mind?” she asked. “Even for a moment?"

Cutch wondered at Claire's earnestness. “It occurred to me,” he admitted. “A little longer than a mere moment."

Claire leaped from her chair and felt along the edge of the bed until she came to the head. Crawling halfway on board, her striped poplin gown fluttering upward, she threw her arms around Cutch's massive shoulders. “You dear man,” she whispered, blinking back tears. “You dear, dear man."

He smiled broadly. “I'm happy for the compliment, but uncertain what I've done to deserve it."

She drew back. Her fingers swept across Cutch's collarbone, then went higher. She laid her palm against his broad cheek. “You thought I could do it,” she said. “You don't know what that means. It didn't matter to you that I was blind."

Cutch moved her hand so she could feel the wide smile that split his face. “Actually, it did,” he said. “It's the reason I decided it wasn't you. You would have made a better job of it. Nothing would have been left out of place. Orrin wouldn't have known anyone was there."

Claire laughed. “I'm not so careful about where I put things as you might think, Mr. Cutch. I spent a frustrating ten minutes trying to find my hairbrush yesterday, and the book I meant to bring was
Frankenstein.
My trunk is partially packed and it seems nothing is where I put it."

Cutch made a clicking sound with his tongue, shaking his head disapprovingly. “Mrs. Webster will be disappointed you've forgotten so much."

"I couldn't agree more."

Claire sat up straight as Rand's voice came to her from the doorway. “You should learn to knock,” she said crisply. She smoothed Cutch's nightshirt across his shoulders and retucked his blankets.

"That's better,” Cutch said, grinning at her primly set mouth and busy fingers. Perfectly at his ease, he smiled happily in Rand's direction. “She's taken very good care of me in your absence."

Rand did not return his friend's wide smile. “Apparently,” he said. He crossed the room to Cutch's side just as Claire was patting down the covers in search of her book. Before she placed her hand squarely on Cutch's groin, Rand picked up the novel and gave it to her.

"Thank you, Mr. Cutch."

"I'm sure you're welcome,” Cutch said, taking the credit and blithely ignoring Rand's sour look.

Claire tucked the book under one arm and bent to get her basket of knitting. “If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I'm sure you have business to discuss."

"Tomorrow, then,” said Cutch. “We'll finish—"

Rand interrupted. “On board
Cerberus.
That's my business. You may stay, Miss Bancroft. It concerns you as well."

Claire felt anxious and eager at the same time. She dropped her book in the basket and sat down slowly. “We're leaving tomorrow?"

Rand brushed a fine film of road dust from his sleeve. He hadn't taken time to make himself presentable upon returning home. He'd found Bria in the stables looking not much better than himself. Her riding habit was stained with dirt and sweat from a hard morning tour of the plantation. She looked as if she had checked the progress of every rice seedling personally, then ridden hard across the fields to celebrate her accomplishment. Her face was shiny with perspiration—glowing, he would have said if she had given him the time. Instead she had anticipated his news, half laughing, half crying, and threw herself into his arms.

His mother had not greeted his announcement with Bria's enthusiasm, but neither did she try to dissuade him.

"We leave Charleston tomorrow morning,” Rand said. “We leave Henley tonight."

Claire knew that Rand's trip to Charleston was in aid of making
Cerberus
ready, but she hadn't expected it to move their departure forward by three days. “So soon,” she said.

"I wasn't aware you had other plans."

Although it confused her, Claire chose not to react to the soft sarcasm in his tone. “I thought I would have more time to pack."

"I overheard you say you already started."

"Then you also heard it's a rather bad start."

"I'll find someone to help you."

"Have you told Bria? Your mother?"

"Just before I came here,” Rand said.

Then he had already started his good-byes, Claire thought. She had been delaying hers. “I should go,” she said.

"We'll have dinner here. We go immediately after."

Claire nodded and bent for her basket and her cane. Holding them both in front of her somewhat protectively, Claire bade them good day.

"What do you make of that?” Cutch asked when Claire was gone. “Seems like she isn't so happy to leave."

"She's torn, Cutch,” Rand said. “Leaving Henley means she won't be able to find much respite from my company."

Remembering the corset, Cutch scratched his hairless head. There was obviously something he didn't understand. He made a mental shrug. Like the riddle, it was Hamilton business.