by Anita Mills
"No, ye look lovely. If he ain't at yer feet, I ain't Molly Woodson. Now all we got to do is dress ye."
As the maid moved to shake out the blue dress, Elise stood. Stepping behind her, Molly carefully eased the gown over her head and waited for her mistress to thrust her arms into the sleeves. Then she pulled the shimmering silk down over the slim hips, smoothing it as it fell.
"Now for the shawl," Molly murmured, enveloping her in the thin silk. "But ye got to drape it just so— aye, like this, I think." Catching a glance at Elise in the mirror, the maid declared happily, "If you ain't a vision, I don't know what is, miss. I'll get yer pearls."
But Elise stood still as a statue, staring at herself. / don't wish to do this, she thought almost desperately. / don't want to flirt with anyone again—not now—not ever.
Patrick mounted the steps of Bartholomew Rand's impressive Marylebone mansion with an almost eager anticipation. For much of the afternoon, his thoughts had turned far too often to Elise Rand, and now he would have the opportunity to see her again, to discover if she was even half as lovely as he'd thought her.
It didn't matter if she was, he told himself, for there was no room in his life for a Cit's daughter, not when he'd all but tipped his hand to Dunster, and the earl expected his imminent offer for Jane.
Now if Elise Rand were a widow or a bored wife, and if there was not the matter of dancing attendance upon Latly Jane, he could envision a definite affair in that quarter. But she was neither, and the mushrooms within the middle class tended to demand more than a slip of the shoulder, particularly when the female in question was possessed of an immense fortune. Unmarried women of wealth, he reflected regretfully, rarely succumbed to any offer short of a wedding ring.
A stiff, correct butler came to the door, looked him over discreetly, then stood back to admit him into a wide, marble-tiled foyer that seemed almost as cavernous as something designed by the Prince Regent. It was dominated by a huge double staircase, and the whole was illuminated by a chandelier worthy of an opera house. He looked around him, torn between awe and contempt for such an obvious display of the old man's money.
The butler cleared his throat, and when Patrick's attention returned to him, he gestured politely for the barrister's hat and cloak. "None of the family is yet down," he announced, "but I am to direct you to the front saloon. Shall I send a footman to attend you, sir?"
"No—I don't need anything."
Patrick started toward the saloon, then stopped to take one last look at the grandness Rand's bricks had bought. Above him, a slightly husky female voice told someone, "I don't care—I won't toadeat Mr. Hamilton, no matter what Papa says. I've no wish to even meet him. After all, he defended that awful brothel keeper when she ought to have been hanged."
"Elise!" another woman complained. "Oh, how I wish Bat would not speak so plainly before you. Gently bred females don't know of such things."
"Fiddle, Mama. Why must we pretend to be fools to please some silly notion of propriety? It is outside of enough that we always have to find clever ways of speaking when it is a given that we are speaking of harlots. At least Papa calls them the whores that they are."
"Elise, if you go on like this when Mr. Hamilton arrives, I vow I shall have need of my salts."
"Fiddle, Mama. Why should you care what Mrs. Coates's barrister thinks of us?"
"Mr. Hamilton is connected to the dukes of Hamilton, dearest," the other woman reminded her. "And if you are uncivil, your papa will blame me for it, when in truth the fault is his. If he would not-—"
"By now, I doubt Papa will blame anyone for anything," the girl retorted. "It would surprise me if he were able to come down."
"You are out of reason cross tonight," her mother chided.
"With reason, Mama," Elise Rand countered. "I am dressed like the veriest Cyprian to meet a man in whom I have not the least interest. Where is Papa, by the by?"
"Simpson is making him presentable." "I don't envy him the task."
"How can you say such a thing?" the woman protested.
"Because when last seen, my father was well into the wind and still had a bottle in his hand," came the exasperated reply.
"Elise!"
"Well, 'tis the truth. And one of us is going to have to tell him he drinks too much ere he is in his grave."
There was a nervous titter, followed by, "Well, in any event, I expect we'd best not wait for Bat, lest Mr. Hamilton should arrive and think us inhospitable."
As Patrick looked up, the two women reached the top of the stairs. When the younger one started down, he could only stare again, and for a moment, his breath caught in his throat. His earlier brief glimpse of her, haunting as it was, had not nearly done her justice.
As she took each step, the tips of her blue satin slippers could be seen beneath the skirt of her blue gown. His gaze moved upward slowly, noting her slender figure, her graceful carriage, her nearly perfect lace. And again, her brilliant blue eyes were utterly arresting. When she inclined her head slightly, her red-gold hair shone as though it reflected the light from the hundred candles above. No, he'd not been mistaken at all—the girl was truly a Diamond of the First Water, an Incomparable absolutely worthy of the epithet.
She saw him and was for a moment nonplussed. Her face flushed becomingly, then she murmured wryly, "Oh, dear," followed by, "my wretched tongue—you heard everything, didn't you?"
He ought to play the gentleman and deny it, but he nodded. "Yes." Then, flashing his most devastating smile, he declared, "But I assure you I am perfectly willing to be toadeaten."
Instead of covering her face demurely with her fan, she looked him up and down nearly as boldly as he had her. "Well, at least you do not lie overmuch," she said finally.
' 'Alas, but I am a barrister and therefore prize the truth," he countered.
She inclined her head slightly, then a faint smile formed at the corner of her mouth. "Ah, yes, but then we must remember Shakespeare's opinion on the worth of lawyers, I think."
"I cannot say he held them in much esteem," he admitted cheerfully. "I should hope that you do not alreatly wish me dead on such short acquaintance."
"No, of course not. Actually, I don't wish you anything."
"Except at Jericho?"
Her smile widened, warming those eyes. "As you are alreatly here, I doubt it would do any good to wish you there, would it?"
"I shall try to take that for encouragement,'' he murmured.
"Please don't—I assure you it was not meant to be." "Are you always so frank, Miss Rand?" "Not always, sir—only when the occasion demands it."
She came the rest of the way down, while her mother hovered somewhat anxiously behind her. "Really, Mr. Hamilton, but I cannot think what you must—"
"Mama, there is no need for dissembling now—Mr. Hamilton has alreatly overheard my worst." Stepping off the last step, Elise met his gaze steadily. "But I suppose I ought to beg your pardon for at least some of it."
"About your opinion of my client—or about your refusal to throw yourself at my head?" he asked lightly.
"Should I have called her a purveyor of flesh instead? Or perhaps a manager of impure wares?" she riposted, ignoring the second half of his question.
"Well, actually no matter what you choose to call her, Miss Rand—as an English citizen she has a right to be defended in a court of law."
"With such feeling?"
"One must persuade a jury, after all."
She sighed. "I suppose I ought to know better than
to fence words with a barrister, shouldn't I? Very well—shall I offer you a bargain?'' "Cry friends?" he suggested.
Again, a smile played at the corners of her mouth. "No. The most I am prepared for is civility."
"Really, Elise—" Mrs. Rand protested weakly. "What Mr. Hamilton is to think—that is, sir, you must forgive her—but Bat—my husband, that is—has always encouraged her—" She hesitated, then looked anxiously upward. "Well, there has always been an easy discours
e between them, I'm afraid."
"Until Ben, Mama." Looking at Patrick again, Elise explained, "What she means, Mr. Hamilton, is that when it suits him, Papa treats me like a son— otherwise, he bullocks me shamelessly, which is how he treats most females." Elise cast another sidewise glance at her mother. "That is what you wished to say, isn't it?"
"Not precisely," the woman said weakly.
It was Patrick's turn to smile. "And what do I contribute to your bargain, Miss Rand?"
"You don't stare—and you don't make bad poetry of my eyes or my hair. Nor do you flirt, sir."
"You make it sound like a common dinner-table occurrence."
"Common enough that I never wear sapphires anymore, I'm afraid." The corners of her mouth twitched. "My hair, however, usually defeats them— one of Papa's clerks wrote of my 'rose-gold halo,' which was a great deal of nonsense. There is nothing angelic about me, you see."
"And for my restraint, what shall I get in return?" he inquired softly.
"The civility I have alreatly mentioned."
"Mr. Hamilton, I don't know what to say," her mother tried again. "Usually she is possessed of manners. Indeed, but I have never—"
"We have never had Mrs. Coates's lawyer here before," Elise finished for her.
Stutlying the girl before him, thinking that the slight huskiness of her voice made him think of a great deal more than her eyes and hair, he murmured regretfully, "And I had such hopes of being toadeaten." "Not before pigs fly, sir."
"Very well, then." He held out his hand as he would to a man, daring her to take it. "As much as I am distressed by the message, I must admire your candor, Miss Rand."
Elise hesitated, then nodded. Reaching out, she clasped his warm fingers, shaking them. "Done."
At that moment, Bartholomew Rand appeared above them, and his voice boomed downward. "You are alreatly met with my family, I see! Well, sirrah—no need to stand on ceremony, is there?" he demanded heartily. He started downward, negotiating each step unsteadily. It was obvious that he was drunk.
"Think I got a pretty little gel, don't you, Hamilton?" he said, his voice thick, his words slightly slurred.
As Elise Rand flushed, Patrick answered, "A true Toast, I'd say."
Mrs. Rand, torn between decorum and potential disaster, hurried up the stairs to meet her husband. Possessing one of his arms, she tried to steatly him, saying, "Put your hand on the rail, Bat."
"Don't need it! Ain't an invalid, Em!" He shook loose, nearly missed a step, and caught the banister with both hands, muttering, "Don't know why the females in m'family don't think I can hold m'wine."
One foot caught an edge, and he pitched forward. As his wife watched helplessly, he slid down several steps. Patrick ran upward to catch him, and as Rand fell into his arms, the old man blinked up at him. "Gout—got the demned gout," he insisted. "Knee gave out."
Mortified, Mrs. Rand cast a stricken look at Patrick. "Please, sir—he is unwell. Elise, call a footman to help."
"Help me where?" Rand demanded. "Damme if you will! Got company—Hamilton's here, ain't he?" "Papa!"
There was no mistaking the reproof in the girl's
voice. Her father seemed to collect himself, drawing his portly botly erect with an effort. "Wouldn't disgrace you, Puss—swear it." Once again, he looked at Patrick. "Females—surrounded by 'em sir." Then, still trying to recover his dignity, he spoke slowly, carefully, attempting to control his uncooperative tongue. "Got to present m'daughter—Miss Rand. Puss, come do the pretty for Hamilton. Fellow's a lawyer—best demned barrister—"
"I know—we are alreatly met."
"Taking little thing, ain't she?" Rand mumbled to Patrick. "Paid to make her a latly—watercolors— demned dancing fellow—had to let him go, though."
"I can see she is accomplished."
"I waltz miserably," she murmured. "Poor Mr. Tweed did not last beyond 'sapphire stars embedded within an alabaster sky,' you see," she added with a straight face.
"Ah, the turned-off dancing master."
"Yes."
"Demned fellow wished to take liberties—wrote silly verses," Rand recalled, frowning. 4 4 Quite understandable.''
"You wretch," she muttered at Patrick under her breath. "You will encourage him."
But her father's attention had turned to his wife. "Met Mrs. Rand, too, ain't you? Em—Emmaline—was a Bingham, y'know. Been reforming me for nigh to twenty-five years, ain't you, m'dear?" He blinked his eyes and shook his head again to clear his thoughts. "Why ain't we in the demned parlor, Em?"
"I am sure I don't know," Mrs. Rand answered grimly. "But if Mr. Hamilton—"
"Come on, Hamilton—got to sit down. I told Old Starch—where's Old Starch?" the old man demanded.
"Mr. Graves is behind you, Papa."
"Eh? Oh—good name for 'im, eh? Got the manner of an undertaker, don't he?" Leaning closer to Patrick, he whispered loudly, "The stiffer they are, the more y'got to pay for 'em, eh?"
Rand's wife took his arm, guiding him toward the
saloon. As she neared Patrick, she spoke low, "He usually isn't like this, I assure you."
"Ain't like what?" her husband demanded truculently.
"Foxed," Elise Rand answered for her mother.
"I ain't foxed! Tell 'em, Hamilton—tell 'em as we ain't begun to drink! I got good port—best Madeira— anything you was to want—best there is, too!"
"Allow me," Patrick offered, holding the door.
"Got Old Starch for that," Rand protested. "Pay 'im for it. The demned cook, too. Aye, the Frenchy has done himself proud, and I ain't spared a penny. 'Make me something as Boney would've liked,' I told him." Lurching away from his wife, he swept a room grand enough for one of the royal dukes with his hand. "Can't say there ain't a fortune in making bricks, eh?"
"It is impressive," Patrick acknowledged politely.
"Impressive! Five thousand pounds says it is—five thousand pounds in one demned room!" Lurching to the mantel above a blazing fire, he picked up a Sevres vase. "Humph! Useless gewgaw, ain't it?" he asked contemptuously. "Em calls it art, sirrah—art! Only difference between art and nonsense is money, I say."
"Bat, I am sure Mr. Hamilton has no wish to know how much we have spent on anything," Mrs. Rand told him dampeningly.
"Eh?" For a moment, he seemed bewildered, then he mumbled, "Just want 'im to know I can afford what I want, Em—that's all. You ain't offended, Hamilton?"
"No," Patrick lied.
"Mr. Hamilton has come to dine, Papa, not to buy any of our furnishings," Elise said. "If you will but sit down-—" She led him to a chair and held on as he sank into it. "There."
"Even the chairs is dear," the old man grumbled. Then he looked at Patrick almost sheepishly. "Aye. Going to have a good dinner, ain't we? Celebrate—■" His brow furrowed deeply, then cleared as he remembered. "Got to celebrate as you got the whore off, don't we?"
"Bat—please!"
"Can say what I think in m'own house," Rand grumbled. "A whore's a whore, Em."
"Bat, I am sure Mr. Hamilton does not know what to think. Mr. Hamilton," she tried desperately, "would you care for something before dinner? Perhaps some tea ..."
"Tea!" Rand exploded. "He'll have the port! Good God, woman! What was you thinking of? Tea!"
"She was thinking you've alreatly had too much," Elise spoke up calmly. "And I daresay Mr. Hamilton thinks we are the Cits he expected."
"Ain't. Your mama—"
"Was a Bingham," she finished for him tiredly. "I know, but we are Cits, Papa, and I expect Hamilton wishes to escape our clutches alreatly."
"Actually, I don't wish for anything of the sort," Patrick countered.
"Then I suppose you find this amusing," she decided acidly. "But Mama is quite right—he can be most charming when he is sober."
"Now where was I? Damme if you ain't made me lose—oh—the whore as got off—"
"Bat!" Now there was no mistaking the anger in Mrs. Rand's voice. "You will not speak thus befor
e your daughter!"
"The Coates woman, then," he muttered, unrepentant. "Ain't anything I'd say as she ain't alreatly heard from me." Nonetheless, he turned to Elise. "Was that better, Puss?" he asked her.
"Yes."
"Best there is, ain't you, Hamilton?" Rand looked to him expectantly. "Tell 'em."
Embarrassed for him, Patrick managed to say, "I have enjoyed a measure of success."
"Success!" Rand snorted. "The old whoremonger was hanged without you!"
Mercifully, the butler interrupted them, announcing, "Monsieur Millet informs me dinner is reatly to be served, sir." Unable to stand unaided, Rand tried to push away from his chair, then fell back. Reaching
a hand toward his daughter, he mumbled, "Got to have help, Puss. M'gout—"
Before the girl could go to her father, Patrick grasped the old man's arm and as he pulled him upward, he thrust a shoulder beneath him. They both staggered from Rand's weight, until Elise caught her father from the other side.
"I think we'd best call a footman to get him to bed, Mama."
"No! Best demned peas to be had—apricot tarts— got to feed him—got business after."
"I cannot stay overlate," Patrick demurred. "I have to be in court in the morning."
"More whores, eh?"
"Proper barristers do not discuss other people's business," Elise said dampeningly. "Come on—let's get you up to your bed."
"No—ain't going. Hamilton—knee's gone—help me to the food."
With an effort, they managed to get the old man into the dining room, where he nearly overturned his chair before they got him into it. As liveried retainers began serving, he stared glumly into his port. It wasn't until the turtle soup was placed before him that he roused. "Best demned turtles to be found anywheres. Aye, and best demned joint coming, I'll wager you on it. Best demned peas, too."
"You have alreatly mentioned the peas, Papa."
"Oh."
"And the tarts."
"You like apr'cot tarts?" Rand asked Patrick. "You got to—all the nobs—"
"I have a fondness for them," the younger man admitted.
"Aye. Then we got to eat 'em, don't we?"
Despite his host's condition and the subdued manner of the Rand women, Patrick found the meal quite excellent. Across from him, Elise Rand ate in silence, her attention seemingly on her plate. As he ate, Patrick took the opportunity to stutly her, wondering how the old man had managed to fend off a legion of