Free More Than You Know by Jo Goodman Page A

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