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handed her up a slice of apple. His handkerchiefs weren’t good for anything but holding fruit and monkey tidbits any longer, but at least she seemed to appreciate it.
    The door eased open again. “This way, if you please.”
    Still no Sir Bennett, or Captain Wolfe. No one in the house was convinced of his identity, then, but someone had his suspicions that he might be who he claimed, or the door would never have reopened. Grudging doubt was better than being tossed into the street on his arse, he supposed.
    As the butler left him in a large sitting room, Bennett had to acknowledge that the man’s face might well have been made of granite; the servant was the first person since he’d left the Congo who hadn’t sent even a single glance at Kero perched on his shoulder. That was impressive, considering that he’d nearly been forced to remove himself and the monkey from the mail stage traveling from Dover after Kero took a fancy to the blue-feathered hat of a fellow passenger. Everyone noticed Kero.
    Left alone in the sitting room, though, he had a sudden understanding of the reason behind the butler’s lack of interest. The walls and shelves and floor were covered with items that would have looked more at home in Cairo or Nairobi or Constantinople than they did in a duke’s town house in London. Carved ivory, reed baskets, fertility statues, a Masai shield and spear—so many items from so many different countries, the effect was almost dizzying.
    He approached the shield and spear. The one that had caught him during that last, mad dash to the river hadn’t been Masai, but it had been dipped in poison, something from a frog according to his guide Mbundi. The scarred-over wound still hurt like the devil some mornings. He supposed it always would. Carefully Bennett lifted the weapon from its rack and hefted it.
    “I spent much of my youth traveling,” Sommerset’s low voice came from the doorway. “My father was an envoy for the king.”
    “This has nice balance,” Bennett returned, facing the duke as the tall man strolled into the room. “How many goats did it cost you?”
    Sommerset flashed a brief smile, the expression making him look younger than the thirty-two years of age Bennett knew him to be. “Seven. And the shield was another eight.”
    “Well worth it.” Finally Bennett set the spear back in its place. “I have one from the Ngole tribe just north of Lake Mai-Ndombe that might interest you.”
    “I believe it was one of those very spears that killed you,” the duke returned, steel gray eyes assessing him. “According to Captain Langley, that is.”
    “He was mistaken.”
    “Evidently so—though if we hadn’t met when the Africa Association agreed to sponsor your expedition, I might be more inclined to believe Langley’s book and your fate therein. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”
    “Last night.” Bennett clenched his jaw. The tome was monstrous; even he had difficulty separating the truth from the tripe, and he’d written the majority of it. “A remarkable work of exaggeration and fancy.”
    “Mm hm. Considering that the Association’s agreement was for you to lead the expedition and to share credit for any discoveries, papers, journals, and books with us, we expected you to be the one to keep journals and make maps and sketches.”
    “I remember that conversation. I did so.”
    “Not according to Langley. He owns all of his material, and believe you me, he’s made a pretty penny from it. The Association, on the other hand, has been left hanging, without credit, scientific information, or income. I’m assuming that as you are not dead, you have those materials you promised us?”
    While a welcome back to England and the offer of a brandy might have been pleasant, Bennett understood the duke’s anger. The Association had paid a great deal of money for ship passage, supplies, porters, and whatever incidentals he and Langley expected to come across during their time in the Congo.