Secret Nights

by Anita Mills

  suitors, for despite her plain speaking, she was as rich as she was beautiful.

  "Do you have a townhouse—or do you merely lease one for when you are here during the social seasons?" Mrs. Rand inquired, breaking the silence.

  "I own a house, I'm afraid, for I have to be in town much of the year."

  "And do you have a country estate?"

  "A modest one," he answered. "I have but recently bought a place in Kent."

  "Well," she admitted wistfully, "I have long wished to have a house in the country, but Bat insists that his business is here."

  "He lets us visit Mama's brother at the vicarage, and he thinks that is quite enough of rusticating, I'm afraid," Elise said.

  He guessed she was not just out of the schoolroom—she had too much aplomb and too sharp a wit for that—but neither did she appear to be on the shelf. He supposed she was perhaps a year or two past twenty. Wondering idly what she thought of him, he sipped his wine as he continued watching her.

  He'd been on the town far too long to take whatever anyone told him at face value. There was no question in his mind what the old man wanted—none at all. The retainer, the dinner invitation, all of it, were but lures to draw Patrick in, to intrigue him with the girl. As he looked at her, he wondered whether she protested too much, whether she and the old man had their caps set on him.

  If so, it wasn't the first time someone had set the parson's mousetrap for him, and he'd alreatly proven himself more than adept at extricating himself from the matrimonial ambitions of a number of heiresses. He'd been an eligible parti long enough to recognize nearly every possible blandishment designed to attach him.

  Elise pushed her peas about her plate without eating them until her father noticed. "Eh, what's this? You don't like ‘em? Paid the greengrocer—"

  "I know, they are quite dear," she said tersely.

  "Would you care for some more of them, Bat?" her mother asked quickly.

  "Take some—" He stopped to belch loudly, then lifted his glass. "More port, boy!" he called out to one of the servants.

  When she dared to look up, Elise was well aware that Hamilton studied her. He was a handsome man, no doubt about that. The light from the center candelabra made his brown hair shine softly. He turned his head briefly to address her mother, showing a profile as strong and well defined as that of a statue—straight forehead, chiseled nose, good chin. When he looked back to her, the light caught hazel eyes far too beautiful to belong to a man.

  But even if there had never been Ben, even if she'd met the barrister under different circumstances, she would not have thrown her cap over the windmill for him. As handsome as he was, Patrick Hamilton was of a different class, and no matter how much her papa wished otherwise, money could not bridge the gap between a merchant's daughter and the poorest younger son.

  "Tell me, Mr. Hamilton, how do you choose your clients?" her mother asked him, trying to draw him into conversation again.

  "Usually I believe in them—or I believe the punishment does not fit the crime."

  "Oh. Well, I am afraid I know nothing of the law, sir."

  When he turned his attention to her again, Elise met his gaze steadily until he began eating once more. The next time he looked up, his hazel eyes betrayed a glint of amusement that irritated her.

  "Mr. Hamilton, are you in the habit of staring at females?" she asked acidly.

  "Only the pretty ones," he assured her, smiling. "And—" He let the word hang for a moment, then finished with, "—I could ask a similar question of you, Miss Rand."

  "You do not keep your bargains very well, do you?" she told him tartly, fixing her gaze on her plate. As

  she carried a bite to her mouth, she was acutely aware that she hadn't deterred him at all. Defiantly, she forced her thoughts to Ben, trying to bring his face to mind. It would not come.

  "Puss!" her father called out, startling her.

  "What?"

  "Wash th' matter with th' food? First the peash, and now you ain't eathing nothing." "I'm not very hungry."

  He turned bleary, reddened eyes to Patrick. "Hate a sh-shinny female," he mumbled.

  "You wouldn't wish me fat," she countered evenly.

  Once again, an uneasy silence settled over them, broken only by an occasional, polite inanity uttered by Emmaline Rand, while her husband abandoned his food in favor of his wine. Every time he drained his glass, he held it up to be refilled, until Patrick wondered how long it would be before the old man slipped under the table. Not that it was an unusual occurrence for a man of any class, he conceded. Despite his best intentions, he found his gaze straying again to the fair Elise.

  "Well, lookee at that!" Rand shouted drunkenly. "Moon-—moonin' like they wash calflingsh, eh? I got fifty thoushand saysh you can 'ave 'er, boy!"

  Humiliated, Elise flushed to the roots of her hair. She rose angrily, dropping her napkin on the floor. "Enough, Papa—I have had enough! I have no wish to be thrown at anyone—and so I have told you!"

  "Sit down, missy!"

  "No!" Her cheeks hot, she looked to her mother. "Good night, Mama—your pardon, Mr. Hamilton," she choked out. With that, she turned on her heels and marched from the room.

  "Missy! Elise!" His own face in high color, the older man tried to shove back his chair, but could not. "Afore God, you'll come back! A—ashamed of you!"

  "You shame me, Papa!" she shot back.

  For a moment Patrick was rooted to his chair, then he rose hastily, hoping to catch her before she went upstairs. "I daresay she is merely overset," he murmured low to her mother. "I assure you I thought nothing of it."

  "Mr. Hamilton, I have never been so mortified in my life," the woman answered. "I can only offer my deepest apology, and—-"

  But Patrick was alreatly nearly running for the door. "Miss Rand—wait!"

  "No!"

  At the bottom of the staircase, he caught up to her, taking her elbow from behind. She jerked it angrily, but he managed to hold on.

  "I would you left me alone!"

  "Miss Rand, there is no need to flee-—the man was in his cups, nothing more."

  "Nothing more?" Her voice rose incredulously. "When I would not flirt with you, he threw me at your head! And you—you stared at me like I was one of Elgin's marbles!"

  "The same could be said for you, couldn't it? Look, I didn't expect—"

  She rounded on him. "You expected us to behave like fools, and so we have! Well, you have had your amusement, Mr. Hamilton, and now you are free to go home!"

  "Miss Rand, don't—" Afraid she meant to cry, he attempted to comfort her, smoothing her shawl where it lay over her shoulders. "Please."

  She swallowed visibly as she met his eyes. "Mr. Hamilton, there is no need. I—I am quite all right, I assure you. I am merely humiliated."

  Again, the husky quality of her voice enticed him. His hands slid from her shoulders down her arm, taking the silk shawl with them. As it fell to the floor, he drew her closer, savoring the smell of dried lavender on her warm skin.

  Her eyes widened in shock as his lips brushed hers, then she pushed him away. Turning, she fled up the steps and did not stop until she looked back from the safety of the top.

  "How dare you, sir? For all that I am born common, I am not one of your fancy pieces!" With that, she

  gathered her dignity stiffly and disappeared into the upper hallway.

  "Miss Rand," he said too softly for her to hear, "there is nothing common about you at all." As he heard a door slam somewhere above, he reluctantly turned back to the dining room.

  Mrs. Rand still sat in her chair, but her husband had slumped forward, and his head rested in his plate. As Patrick entered, she sighed unhappily.

  "There is nothing I can say, is there?" she managed, her voice low. "Graves has gone to fetch two footmen to help him upstairs."

  "I think I'd best leave."

  "Yes." But as he turned to go, she spoke again. "I wish you could have known him before—well, before—"

/>   "I have seen men in their cups, Mrs. Rand," he said gently.

  "But he was not used to—that is, before he was beaten and robbed, Bat never drank so much, Mr. Hamilton."

  "There is something about having a man's purse lifted that makes him feel rather mortal and vulnerable," he observed soberly. "Perhaps that has happened to Mr. Rand."

  "He despises weakness, Mr. Hamilton."

  "I daresay he will eventually recover."

  She looked up at that. "If he does not drink himself into his grave first, sir."

  "How long has it been?"

  "Since the first time? Five—perhaps six months, I think. There were two times not far apart, then, well, it happened again, but not so severely, only yesterday. Thankfully, they got nothing, and he suffered no more than scratches when he fell. The watch said—" She caught herself. "Well, it doesn't signify, in any event. He was gotten home safely."

  Two sturtly fellows, both in livery, arrived to lift their master from his seat As they righted him, he seemed to rouse, then was heartily sick. It was a good time to withdraw. While Emmaline Rand bent over her husband to dab at his face with a napkin, Patrick took his cloak and hat from the rack in the foyer and let himself out.

  At the curb, he looked back at Rand's grand house. Upstairs, a woman stood watching the street, her slender botly silhouetted against the window. Certain it was Elise Rand, he raised his hand to her. But instead of acknowledging she'd seen him, she closed the shutters, and he heard the sound of the latch clicking into place. Beyond having no wish to flirt with him, she obviously did not want to continue any acquaintance.

  Weary almost beyond reason, he mounted the step of his carriage and flung his botly into the seat. Leaning back, he closed his eyes and saw Elise Rand in his memory. She was considerably smaller than her temper, he guessed she could not be more than a couple of inches above five feet, but she'd felt uncommonly good in his arms. For a moment he remembered smelling the clean scent of lavender on her skin, then he caught himself. For a man noted for sense and reason, he was behaving more like a mooncalf than one about to promise himself to the Earl of Dunster's daughter.

  In the house behind him, Elise Rand watched from a crack in the shutters while Hamilton's carriage rolled slowly down the nearly deserted street. As the coach turned the corner, her fingers crept to her mouth, and she remembered the warmth of his breath against her cheek, the intimacy of his lips touching hers, and her thoughts turned again to Ben, recalling his all-too-few kisses. But despite his lower birth, Ben Rose had been the greater gentleman, she reminded herself.

  Wait around the corner for me, if you please," she ordered her driver crisply. "I shan't be above ten minutes."

  "Got to go with ye," a liveried coachman insisted, jumping down to the street.

  The fewer tales carried home the better, but even as she thought it, she knew her father was going to be mad as fire anyway. As if he were not alreatly angry enough about Hamilton. But, looking at the narrow building that housed Magdalene Coates's infamous establishment, she wavered. Too many stories had come out about how innocent females had been coerced into prostitution.

  "All right," she decided. "I may need you to carry her things."

  Determined, she screwed her courage to the sticking point and marched to the door. Behind her, the coachman eyed the building skeptically. "Sure ye got it right, miss? It don't look like no place fer ye ter be."

  "Yes."

  Before she could bang the knocker, a beefy fellow opened the door, looked her up and down, then started to close it.

  "Wait! I'd speak with Pearl—please."

  The doorman paused, but the expression on his face was utterly inhospitable.

  Elise licked her dry lips. "All right. You may tell Mrs. Coates that Miss Rand begs a word with her."

  "She ain't receiving."

  "I shall make it worth her while."

  He eyed her curiously. "And how'd ye do that?"

  Glancing down the street first, she furtively dug into her beaded reticule and drew out a money purse. Smiling at the doorkeeper, she held out a gold guinea. "For you—if I am allowed to see Mrs. Coates."

  He took the money, then assessed her person more boldly, his eyes lingering on the swell of her bosom before returning to her face. "Ye ain't her kind."

  "I should hope I am not, but I have come to her on a matter of business." Daring to step closer, she tried to calm the rapid beating of her heart. "Tell her I wish to purchase one of her girls. And—and if you think to attempt anything, I have brought Will with me."

  Unimpressed, he shrugged. Turning around to speak to someone she could not see, he apparently argued about something. When his attention returned to Elise, he opened the door wider.

  "Sorry, miss, but there's a gentry cove with 'er."

  "Please." She licked her lower lip again. "Tell her—tell her I can afford whatever she asks."

  He shook his head.

  "Listen to me—the girl Pearl is in need of a doctor—and I will see she is seen by a good one. Otherwise, I fear she will die of consumption."

  "Ain't no cure fer it."

  "But can you not see? It will spread amongst all of you."

  "Not ter me. She don't let me 'ave any of 'em."

  Nonetheless, he disappeared, leaving his post unattended, and she took the opportunity to follow him inside. Behind her, her father's coachman muttered something profane, followed by, "This ain't no place fer a respectable female, miss."

  The big man hesitated outside a closed door, then rapped on it loudly. From inside, voices stopped in midsentence, then a woman called out.

  "Told ye I wasn't ter be disturbed!"

  "Aye, but ye got a fancy mort a-callin' on ye! Got th' Lunnon mint on 'er back, if ye was ter ask!" the fellow shouted through the closed door.

  "Me arse she does!" But there was the scraping of chairs within, the sound of footsteps on carpet, then the door cracked open, revealing Magdalene Coates's shrewd eyes. "Where? Oh, 'tis ye, is it?" she said nastily. "Out wi' ye! I ain't got nuthin' ter say ter the likes o' ye!"

  "I have money."

  "Fer what? Me gels don't—" The woman's words died as she watched Elise hold up several banknotes, "what was ye a-wanting?" she said instead.

  "I want to buy the girl you call Pearl."

  "Gel's a bit beneath the weather."

  "I know. Now—may I come in?"

  "Aye," the woman muttered grudgingly. She stood back, letting Elise and the Rand coachman pass into the room. "Tom, ye were ter watch as none came in," she grumbled.

  "Tried, missus—did."

  "Another time and ye'll be turned off, ye hear?"

  As he slunk back to his position, Elise looked around the room curiously, thinking it garish yet oddly opulent. Everything was dark and heavy, with red moire-covered walls, red couches trimmed with heavy gold tassels and gilded legs, red velvet window coverings. And there was a surfeit of gold paint everywhere, while above it all hung a chandelier nearly half as large as the one in her father's foyer.

  "When ye be done gawkin', ye can talk."

  But Elise's gaze had rested on long, trouser-clad legs, and as she watched in horror, they unfolded, and Patrick Hamilton stood. A faint smile played upon his mouth as he bowed. When his eyes met hers, they seemed to mock her.

  "An unforeseen pleasure," he murmured politely.

  "Not to me, I assure you. But no doubt you are quite familiar with the place." Turning her back on him, she addressed Magdalene Coates. "I spoke to Pearl on the street when we were handing out pamphlets."

  "As if yer papers was going ter feed a botly!" the woman snorted.

  "Pearl indicated then that she wished to leave your—er—employ, Mrs. Coates, but I understand she is bound to you. If that is the case, I am prepared to give you what you paid for her."

  "Ain't that kind o' ye! Ye hear her, Mr. Hamilton? The fancy mort is wishful o' robbin' me!"

  "Ten pounds," Elise said firmly.

  "Oh, did ye hear
it? Ten quid! A gel can bring me more'n that in a night!"

  "Not if she is dead. Besides, I should think that cough would drive your—um—your custom away."

  "She ain't takin' any just now, but—"

  "Mrs. Coates, I have heard her cough, and I assure you—"

  "Gel's got the ague, that's all," the madam maintained stoutly. "I don't keep 'em if they was ter stay sick."

  "She needs a doctor."

  "Doctor! Humph! Gel's more in need of a birchin' than a physicking, if ye was ter have the truth. Cough's made her lazy."

  Elise sighed. "All right—how much do you wish for her?"

  "Ye was with the stout gent, wasn't ye? Aye, ye was. Well, now—" Maddie eyed the younger woman speculatively. "I got ter have more—much more'n ten quid." Her gaze raked over Elise's clothes as though she were estimating their worth to the penny, then she smiled. "I paid fifty quid fer her."

  It was a lie, and both of them knew it. Girls came out of the poorhouses for a few shillings every day, bought like the horses at Tattersall's for vastly less money. Elise decided to gamble.

  "I'm afraid I don't have quite that much in my reticule, Mrs. Coates. I could perhaps afford twenty pounds."

  "Twenty pounds! Not fer yer life! Twenty pounds says she stays, missy—fifty says she goes, and that's that, it is."

  "Er—if it is merely a matter of funds, perhaps I may be of assistance?" As he spoke, Patrick drew out a leather money folder and counted out the full fifty pounds.

  Elise knew she'd been caught out, but she had no wish to be indebted to the lawyer for anything. "That won't be necessary," she retorted. Opening her reticule again, she dug into her money pouch. "All right—fifty pounds it is, but you are a disgrace to—"

  "Me profession?" the madam supplied sarcastically. "Well, afore ye go a-lookin' down yer rich nose at me, missy, I can tell ye as I take in more'n a night than ye see in a quarter."

  "Where is Pearl?" Elise asked, ignoring the woman's gibes. "I'd take her and everything she owns with me now."