by Anita Mills
We do hope you will come to visit us, and we shall do all possible to make your stay agreeable, for we both count you the dearest of friends. Until then, you must know you are with us always in my prayers.
She had signed it as "Your most grateful client, Katherine Winstead Townsend."
He noticed she'd left out Volsky's name, which did not surprise him. If ever there had been a woman betrayed by a husband, it was Kate. And her determination to be rid of him had precipitated one of the worst scandals of his memory. It had been actually worse than when the Earl of Longford had shed his adulterous wife some years earlier, possibly because Townsend had been involved in that affair also. Only this time, the usually faithless Bell had actually fallen in love with Kate, and even Patrick believed the passion would prove a lasting one.
For a moment he allowed himself to remember her, to see her face in his mind again. She wasn't a beauty—in fact, she was not even what most men would call pretty—but he'd been drawn to her. She was possessed of fine dark eyes and a genuine smile, and she had great strength of character. As far as he was concerned, Townsend did not deserve her.
There had been a time during her trial when Patrick had actually considered offering for Kate Winstead himself, a time when she'd stood alone and nearly friendless. But Bell had come back for her, saving him from folly.
He sighed and set aside her letter. He ought to be grateful to Townsend, damned grateful, in fact. Marriage to a notorious divorcee would have been fatal to his ambition. A politician needed a spouse as pure as Caesar's wife, as the saying went. Attractive and well born enough to help him—someone possessed of as much ambition as he. Someone like Jane Barclay, the Earl of Dunster's dark-eyed daughter.
Aye, now there was blood as blue as any, Patrick mused, sipping his port. And if France had been worth a Mass to the Protestant Henry of Navarre, then Jane Barclay's hand was well worth his own conversion from Whig to Tory. Even Liverpool's unpopularity as prime minister had not shaken the Prince Regent's support of the party, making it unlikely they would go out of power.
Briefly Jane's image floated before him. There was no question about it, she was quite pretty—a trifle preoccupied with her father's consequence, but definitely well born and well connected. He ought to consider her discreet pursuit of him a blessing, and he did.
But as he considered Jane dispassionately, her dark hair and eyes faded to that of the girl in the Sessions House. Elise, the old man had called her. For a moment he allowed himself the luxury of imagining that prime article in his arms, of wondering what it would take to steal her away from her aging lover, then he sighed regretfully. Given his work schedule and his impending engagement to Dunster's daughter, it was highly unlikely he'd see the beauty again, unless it was across a dimly lit theater sometime.
Forcing his thoughts away from the two very disparate females, he began sifting through his remaining mail, separating tradesmen's bills into one neat, orderly pile, scented billet-doux into another for his secretary's attention. Near the bottom of the tray, he spied a printed card that intrigued him: Bartholomew Rand, Purveyor of Quality Bricks.
As though one might not recognize the name by itself. As though there could be anyone unaware of the vast Rand Brickworks at Islington. Or that Rand was as rich as a nabob, having provided the bricks for scores of elegant mansions and grand houses. And since the terrible war with France had ended, old Rand stood to gain even more wealth, for now there was also a pent-up government desire for public building.
Curious, he turned over the card and saw the ill-formed scrawl, reading, "I shall wait upon you at three in your office to discuss a matter of mutual interest." Nothing more. Not even a day or date. At first irritated with the man's rather high-handed message, Patrick considered ignoring it, but then his curiosity prevailed. What could someone like Bartholomew Rand need with a criminal barrister? he wondered, now intrigued.
"Hayes!"
"Yes, sir?" came the prompt response. "This card—" He held it out. "When did this arrive?"
The butler moved closer to peer at the name, then answered positively, "It was carried 'round before noon, sir—rather early to be civil, in fact. And so I told the fellow that brought it."
"Damn," Patrick muttered. "What time is it?"
Hayes glanced at the clock for a moment. "Half past one."
There was scarce time for a bath, and yet for all his interest, Patrick reasoned that he ought not appear too eager. "Send James down to my office with a message for Mr. Rand," he decided abruptly. "He is to be told that three o'clock is inconvenient, but if he wishes to wait, I shall attend him there between half after three and a quarter 'til four."
"Humph! He's not apt to be liking it, if you was to ask me. That man of his was as arrogant as they make them—telling me as I was to send into court for you."
"He can learn patience," Patrick murmured, rising. Indicating the remaining letters, he directed, "Let Mr. Sinclair determine what is to be done with these, will you?"
The butler's eyebrow rose slightly. "All of them? Even the ones from the females?"
"Given his amorous tendencies, I'd say he'd enjoy writing my response to them." As Hayes's eyes mirrored his shock, Patrick smiled. "Any woman bold enough to drench her letters in perfume lacks discretion, don't you think?"
"As to that, I am sure I cannot say."
"Ah, yes—there is Mrs. Hayes," Patrick murmured.
"Precisely."
Patrick hesitated, then made up his mind. "And when Mr. Sinclair is come in the morning, he is to see if there are any roses left to be had. If they are reasonable, I'd have him send them to Latly Jane Barclay in Mayfair." Moving to the writing desk, he found paper, pen, and ink. Leaning over, he dipped his pen and quickly wrote With my sincerest compliments, Patrick Hamilton. "Here—have him enclose this, will you? And make sure he understands to include the tide on the outside, for she gets rather peevish if one forgets to address her as Latly Jane," he remembered. "Otherwise she will find some way to remind me that her father is an earl," he added dryly.
"And is he to specify a particular color? Or would you prefer to have those in best bloom?"
"I don't care."
"Made into a posy?"
Patrick considered it, then shook his head. "No— she can put them on her dressing table, where they may last longer." Seeing that his butler apparently disagreed with him, he smiled. "Too much attention makes the female of the species take the male for granted, old fellow."
Obviously displeased, the portly older man fidgeted in the hard, straight-backed chair. Finally, when he could contain his growing ire no longer, he rose to pace restlessly within the small confines of Patrick Hamilton's reception room.
"I've half a mind to leave," he growled. "If he thinks he can keep Bat Rand waiting ..." His voice trailed off. "Five more minutes, sirrah—five more minutes," he threatened the law clerk behind the desk.
John Byrnes looked up. "It is not yet a quarter to four," he reminded Rand mildly. "And if you wish, I am sure that Mr. Banks, our solicitor, would be most happy to accommodate you."
"Don't want any damned solicitor! D'ye think I ain't alreatly got ten of 'em?" the old man demanded angrily. "No, sir—I said three—three! Not half after! I expect to be attended when I ask it, I tell you!"
Rand's voice boomed through the small room, making the clerk wish Banks would come out. Returning to his work, the young man reflected that he'd not expected to entertain a brothel madame nor the surly, rough-mannered man now before him when he'd sought employment with the much-admired Hamilton. Everyone had said the barrister was a man on the way up, a man capable of making his assistants as successful as he was. But so far he'd not seen it—Banks had been there two years and he'd passed more than six months with the barrister.
The door opened, admitting Hamilton. With his tall, surprisingly muscular figure clad in a flawlessly tailored dark blue superfine coat, plain waistcoat, and buff-colored trousers, his light brown hair brushed into a perfect
Brutus, he appeared the epitome of the fashionable gentleman. For the briefest moment, his hazel eyes took in the situation, then they met Rand's without betraying anything. Bartholomew Rand, Purveyor of Quality Bricks, had been the old gent with the girl in the courtroom.
"My apologies for your wait," he murmured, extending his hand. "Patrick Hamilton, sir. I collect neither Mr. Byrnes nor Mr. Banks could assist you?"
"Eh? No—no, though the little fellow was polite enough, I guess." Rand's manner changed on the instant, and as he shook Patrick's hand, he smiled broadly. "Pleasure to know you, sir. Been watching you for nigh to a year—would have made your acquaintance earlier today, in fact, but for that little dustup. Had to get Elise out of there before she was mobbed, you know. Got to forgive her though—gel's got a soft heart."
"Oh?"
"My daughter, you know," Rand explained, nodding. "Aye, I told Mrs. Rand just this morning I was thinking of engaging you. Always get the best, I say— and you are the best, sir—the best."
"Thank you," Patrick acknowledged politely, adding casually, "You are to be congratulated—Miss Rand is quite lovely."
"Oh, she don't take much from me," the older man admitted openly. "Looks like her mama, and a good thing that is, ain't it? My folks was all unremarked for their looks, I can tell you." His smiled broadened into a knowing grin. "Aye, you was taken with her, wasn't you? Well, you wouldn't be the first as was—no, sir."
Not wanting to betray an interest, Patrick changed the subject. "Did Mr. Byrnes offer you a drink perhaps?"
"Eh? No, but he wasn't the interfering sort, at least," Rand conceded.
"As a general rule, he is to inquire as to both your comfort and your business."
"Wouldn't have done him any good if he was to ask," the old man retorted. "I got to see for myself before I open the budget about my affairs. I like to keep things close." Leaning nearer, he added, "I don't suppose you got somewheres as we can be private, eh?"
"Of course." Patrick crossed the small reception room and held open the door to his inner office.
The brick merchant stepped inside, and his smile faded briefly as he scanned the room shrewdly. Then he nodded approvingly. "Don't waste your blunt, do you? I like that."
As he shut the door behind Rand, Patrick followed the man's gaze. With naught but mahogany bookcases, a sideboard, a cluttered desk, and two chairs, the office was extremely plain. But it suited him. Smiling, he murmured sardonically, "Unlike Mr. Banks, I'm afraid I don't hang any letters of recommendation on the walls."
"Don't need 'em," the older man assured him, sitting heavily in a chair. "Ain't a soul breathing in London as ain't heard of Patrick Hamilton, sirrah! 'Hamilton will take those cases as cannot be won, and afore God, he'll win 'em,' 'tis said."
"I'm afraid you flatter me."
"Why?" Rand asked bluntly. " 'Tis the God's truth, ain't it?"
Without answering that, Patrick took his seat and turned over a large sand-filled glass, then sat back, his hands folded over his plain buff waistcoat. "You behold an intrigued man, sir."
"One of them as wants me to get to business, eh? Well, in the ordinary way, I'd be wanting to, but just now I'd rather be getting to know you." For a moment the man's bluff affability slipped as he looked at the small hourglass. "Eh, what's that?"
"It merely tells me when half the hour is passed. In consult, my fee is measured by time. Mr. Banks requires five pounds for his work, and I expect no less than twenty. Beyond the consult, if I choose to defend a client, I'm afraid I require a great deal more than
that based upon the nature of the charges filed against him."
"I'll say one thing, sir—you are dashed plain-spoken, ain't you? Well, I like a man as can tell me straight out, so's there ain't no mistaking what's expected, eh?"
"Yes."
"But there ain't need for that glass, is there? Any as knows Bat Rand knows as he's got all the gold as you could ask." He stopped to dab at a deep scratch on his neck, then rubbed his balding pate with a fine lawn handkerchief before asking, "You ain't got any wine, have you? A bit of sherry or hock even—I ain't too proud to drink most of it. And put away that demned thing—a profitable arrangement ain't made in half the hour."
Rising, Patrick went to the sideboard, opened a door, and drew out a bottie and two glasses. "Which is it—port or Madeira?"
"Please yourself, sir—either one'll wash the dust from m'throat. Like I told you, I like all of it well enough."
When Patrick turned around with the filled glasses, he noticed that the brick magnate had removed the sand timer from the desk and placed it on the floor. Before he could say anything, the fellow grinned. "Caught me out, didn't you? Well, all you got to tell me is the tariff, and I'll pay it—I ain't one of your fancy gentlemen as dodges the tradesmen, no sir. When I deliver the bricks, I get m'money on the spot—and you can expect the same from me."
"An admirable trait." Handing one glass to Rand, Patrick sat down and took a sip from his. It was, he knew, considered the best port to be had in London.
Rand drank deeply, then nodded. "Good stuff, damme if it ain't." He met Patrick's gaze. "Got you a wonderin', ain't I?"
"Yes."
"Been followin' you for a good bit of time—saw you first when they was hearin' the Volsky mess, in fact. You was brilliant, sir! When they was a-tellin' it like
she was a demned adventuress, you was a-getting her a fine setdement from that Russian."
Patrick's expression did not change. "Scarce my usual business," he said. "I merely took it on as a favor to a friend of Latly Townsend's. Under ordinary circumstance, I should have referred the matter to Mr. Banks."
"But there was money to be made there, eh?"
"More than you might expect," Patrick admitted. "And I wished justice for Latly Townsend."
"Come to think of it, I did read it somewheres as she snared Viscount Townsend, wasn't it?" Rand recalled. "Well, if you was to ask me, I'd say each deserved the other." The older man peered at Patrick from beneath heavy brows that nearly met above his rather red nose. "Then there was the Coates thing." Leaning closer as though he were a conspirator, he asked, "Did you really believe the mort innocent?"
"I believe the murderer was a man," Patrick answered.
"You don't say it!" For a moment Rand seemed shocked. "No!" Then, "But how was you to think that?"
"The dead girl's weight."
"But the Coates woman is fat! And the watch said—"
"If you had attended the arguments earlier, you'd merely have heard him say he saw a stout female just after he heard something hit the water, and he presumed that female to be the murderer."
"Aye—Mrs. Coates."
"Not necessarily. In the course of examination, the watch admitted the fog was so heavy that he could scarce see the next street lamp, and whoever passed him had a hooded cloak pulled over the head. I'm inclined to think he saw a man."
"Aye, but she passed right by him! I read it in the papers! He saw her, sir—he saw her!"
"He saw someone, Mr. Rand. But when pressed, he had to admit he did not see Mrs. Coates's face."
"But the Coates woman had reason, didn't she?"
the old man argued. "The girl had run away from her, they said. And you heard her today—she ain't going to let that other girl go neither. Woman's a demned flesh peddler, that's all—no skin off any of us if she was to hang," he muttered.
"If any had bothered to inquire of Mrs. Coates's female employees, it would have been learned that the Parker girl wished to return to her, that life on the street was more difficult than she expected."
"Employees!" Rand snorted. "Her tarts, you mean."
"Moreover," Patrick continued, unperturbed, "it might also have been learned that Mrs. Coates suffers from an inflammation of the bones. It is her physician's considered opinion that she could never have lifted Margaret Parker's weight." Patrick paused much as he would have before a jury, then drove home his winning point. "But you see, Mr. Rand, you have
made the same assumptions, based on little more than contempt for Magdalene Coates's profession, that the prosecution did. In truth, because Maddie is a madam, you failed to note that no one asked any questions that might have exonerated her."
"You don't say! Well, I wasn't there for all the arguments, of course—just went to hear the verdict read." Setting aside his empty glass, Rand wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, then stuffed it back into his coat. Leaning forward, he asked curiously, "What d'you think will happen about it all now?"
"Nothing. By tomorrow, Peg Parker won't even be a memory."
"Aye."
"And unless the murderer is caught while killing again, he will never be brought before the bar of justice."
"How'd she afford you—the Coates woman, I mean? I'd heard—well, you said yourself you wasn't to be had on the cheap, you know."
Patrick took a sip of his port. "That, sir, is a matter of confidence."
At first, Rand appeared taken aback, then a low
chuckle rumbled somewhere beneath the wide expanse of his waistcoat. "Damme if you ain't as good as they say! Without you, it would have been 'damn the evidence and hang her!' "
"Probably. But we are afield. You wished to discuss some business, I believe," Patrick prompted him.
"Now I ain't about to be rushed," Rand protested. "Like I said, I got to know you first." Leaning toward Patrick again, he said, "But I'm liking what I see, sir— d'you know why?"
"No."
"I can tell you got a passion for what you are doing." As Patrick's eyebrows lifted, Rand nodded. "Aye—passion. Like I said, I heard you at the Volsky trial. Went home and told Mrs. Rand you was worth the gallery ticket—I been to plays where the demned actors ain't had half the feeling, I can tell you."