Secret Nights

by Anita Mills

  "I’ll wager 'twas Weston's finest, wasn't it? Well, I don't mean to let you stand the loss, sir. If there's anything Bat Rand does, 'tis pay his honest debts."

  "It was an insignificant amount at best," Patrick said dismissively.

  "Insignificant? You saved my daughter from being run down, Hamilton! No, sir, I'm standin' you for a new one! What do them as caters to the bucks get for good coats anyways?"

  "I'm afraid you'd have to ask my secretary."

  "Ain't saying, eh? Well, I mean to find out." The man stared into the passing street for a moment, then looked again to Patrick. "Ellie's dear to me, Hamilton. Oh, she's got her queer starts, but she's a good gel. Pretty, too, but I don't need to tell you that—you saw her." ,

  "Yes, she is," Patrick agreed warily.

  "I might've been nigh to beneath the table the other night, but I still got eyes—I could see the way you was looking at her." When it appeared as though Patrick might speak, Rand lifted a silencing hand. "Told you—I ain't one as beats around the budget. If I think something, I'll say it." His pale blue eyes fixed on Patrick's face, and his expression sobered. "I want my gel to be happy, that's all."

  "She told me about Samuel Rose's son," Patrick said quietly. "I'm sorry."

  The old man's eyes went cold, then were veiled as he appeared to consider the watch fob that stretched across his rounded belly. "I ain't," he said finally. "I wasn't pleased about the boy at all, and I don't mean to say I was. I didn't make millions of bricks so as she could waste herself on no cent per cent. Rose!" he snorted. "Even the sound of it's namby-pamby, ain't it? A demned flower!"

  "I rather like Sam," Patrick murmured. "I've sent a few clients to him."

  "Borrowing money from 'em is one thing— marrying 'em is quite another!" Rand snapped. Recovering himself, he smiled again. "But it don't make no difference now, anyways, does it? Boy's gone wherever it is they go, ain't he? And I've been real patient with

  Ellie, but I got to think of her future. It ain't as I was going to be around forever, you know."

  Patrick picked at a crease in his black barrister's robe, then returned his attention to the old man. "There is much to admire in Miss Rand—she is possessed of beauty and kindness, which rarely come together. But if you are wishful of honesty, I will have to tell you that ere Christmas, I expect to be sending my own betrothal notice to the papers," he said gently.

  It was as though all the bluster left Bartholomew Rand. "I see. Aye, that does put a different complexion on what I had intended to say," he managed finally.

  "But even if my interest were not already fixed elsewhere, I very much doubt that Miss Rand would have me."

  The old man studied him for a moment. "What you was meaning to say is you wouldn't have a Cit's daughter, ain't it? I ain't one as needs sugar with my medicine, Mr. Hamilton."

  "Not at ail." Patrick's mouth twisted wryly. "If anything, Miss Rand is far too good for me."

  "Aye, and you don't know the half," the old man said, sighing. "Got too kind a heart. Even before the Rose boy, she was taking in all manner of creatures. Let me tell you, sirrah, I've had every sort of mongrel under my roof since she was old enough to cry over 'em. Why, there was dogs as would hurt you to look upon—aye, and a one-eyed cat even," he recalled with feeling. "But the worst was a chimney sweep as was so black 'twas only his eyes as could be seen above the filth. He had sores, she said. He was being beaten, she tells me. And he was naught but skin and bone, but I was wanting to give him back to his rightful master."

  "But you didn't."

  "Even Em agreed with me, but when the man came to get him, Ellie was in such a taking as I had to let him stay. The More woman's got him now, making him pray for his food, I'll wager."

  "Something ought to be done about the deplorable way we allow climbing boys to be treated."

  Rand's head jerked back, and for a moment he regarded Patrick. "You ain't a reformer surely?" he demanded suspiciously.

  "No. In fact, I expect to declare myself a Tory."

  "You don't say! Well now, I knew I liked you, sirrah—from the moment I saw you, I knew I liked you!" He leaned across the seat. "Aye, we got to let the females preach a bit, but we ain't for changing the order of things, eh?"

  "Even a Tory can have sympathy for the plight of children," Patrick retorted.

  "Aye, mayhap so," Rand conceded, "but that don't mean we ought to attempt fixing everything, does it?"

  "No."

  Apparently satisfied, the old man sat back. "I was hoping to find a husband as would steer Ellie better than I have," he said almost wistfully.

  "With her face and form, not to mention her fortune, I should not think it a difficult task."

  "No—no, I suppose not. Well, as we are nearly there, I wouldn't take it amiss if you was to want to take off the robe, sir."

  "Thank you."

  As Patrick unfastened the heavy black overgarment, silence descended between them. It wasn't until he'd struggled out of it that Rand spoke again, this time distantly.

  "She was fortunate you was at the whorehouse. Ain't no telling as what could have happened to her." "Yes."

  "I don't know what to do save clap her up at home like she was a demned prisoner." He stared out the window, then sighed heavily. "I thought I had the blunt to tempt you." When Patrick said nothing, he sighed again. "I thought as you would defend the whore, you could be bought."

  "Shall I return your five hundred pounds?"

  "Lud, no!" Turning troubled eyes back to Patrick,

  he shook his head. "If I wasn't to need you now, there ain't no telling but what I might ere long."

  Patrick's eyes narrowed. "We are not speaking of your daughter now, are we?"

  "No."

  "Mr. Rand, if you are truly in need of my services, nothing but the truth between us will suffice. I shall have to know the whole."

  "Aye, but now ain't the time," was the evasive answer. "We are arrived at Garraway's."

  "Mr. Rand—-"

  "Oh, I ain't hiding anything," the old man assured him.

  A chill, steady drizzle descended from the gray sky as the carriage weaved its way through clogged, muddy streets. Patrick stared moodily out the side window while the girl opposite him maintained a determined discourse, describing Lady Witherspoon's card party of the previous evening.

  She stopped midsentence. "You are not attending me at all," she said, accusing him.

  He managed to smile ruefully. "I am caught out, aren't I? Then I suppose I must plead the press of business, my dear."

  "Well, you are not very flattering either, are you? If you had no wish to accompany me to Hookham's, I am sure I would have understood."

  "No, no, you mistake the matter," he assured her smoothly, reaching to possess her gloved hand. "Dearest Jane, when we are at Dimleith, I mean to be all yours."

  "Papa's, you mean," she said peevishly. "He will have you out shooting all day, and I shall only have your company for the evening."

  "The best part of the day, then." He leaned closer. "Shall I tell him I wish to remain at your side?" he asked wickedly.

  She flushed and pulled her hand away. "As if he would listen to you." Sighing expressively, she added, "Sometimes I think I am but his political pawn."

  "Not with me, Jane. I think you quite lovely."

  Apparently the softness of his voice mollified her, for she sat back against the red velvet squabs of her father's elegant town carriage. Glancing out her own window, she sighed again. "We have been together so little, Patrick, that sometimes I think you must be avoiding my company."

  "I'm sorry, but I am one of those sad cases who has to earn his bread, I'm afraid."

  "There are times I find myself simply wishing to be seen with you, to use your consequence before the world," she mused wistfully.

  "My consequence? My dear, your father is the earl." Once again, he smiled. "I am the plain mister, lest you have forgotten."

  "But everyone knows who you are." Her dark eyes studie
d him as a slow smile warmed them. "And there is nothing plain about you, Mr. Hamilton—nothing at all, I assure you."

  "And I suppose you think no one knows Dunster?" he asked, lifting one eyebrow. "A whisker if I ever heard one."

  "But just now I am but Papa's daughter, you see. One day I—" She caught herself and stopped short. "Well, one day I shall be someone's wife—or at least I have hopes of it."

  "And that will give you more consequence than being the incomparable Lady Jane?" he quizzed her.

  "Yes. Then I shall preside over my own establishment, and I shall be as much the hostess as Countess Lieven, though we ought perhaps to consider a larger—" Again, she caught herself, biting her lip. "Well, I shall mean to be my husband's political partner, of course."

  As much as he intended to offer for her, it still rankled him that she could consider him as much as leg-shackled already. Nor could he fathom why it was so important to her to parade him about every opportunity she could find, even when she knew he was extremely busy. And now it was as though she not only hoped to force a declaration even before he went to Dunleith, but she also was desirous of a larger house.

  "My dear Jane," he said dampeningly, "my establishment is well situated to my office and to the Bailey."

  "Well, I was not speaking of you precisely," she retorted. "But I cannot think that you could wish to continue in your current endeavors forever, Mr. Hamilton. I mean you surely do not intend to associate yourself with the likes of that—that awful Mrs. Coates when you stand for Parliament. There I have said it."

  "Mrs. Coates is a client merely."

  "I know, but she is not the sort—well, she certainly does nothing for your consequence, after all."

  "My dear, there are not many peers or peeresses accused of capital crimes, I am afraid. Were I only to defend them, I should starve."

  "Yes, but—well, there will be settlements, of course, and I cannot think you will wish to practice law forever. I mean, in the general way, a gentleman does not earn his money."

  It was time to disabuse her of that notion. "Lady Jane, I do not mean to be led about by my wife—or by her money."

  "Well, I did not think—"

  'Yes, you did," he declared bluntly.

  She knew she'd gone too far, and she sought to retrieve the situation before she lost him. "Mr. Hamilton—Patrick—I assure you that I should never attempt to interfere. But Papa said—that is, he said you would probably not continue in the practice of law when—"

  His jaw tightened, but he forced it to relax, telling himself that the last thing he needed was to lose a powerful patron for the sake of his own vanity. Reaching across the seat again, he possessed both her hands with his. Looking into her eyes, he managed to smile.

  "Jane, we have talked a great deal of ifs and whens, but I have always tried not to count my chickens ere they are hatched. If you are asking my intentions toward you, that is your right, but until the matter is settled between us, I should very much rather not discuss the rest of my future."

  "Yes, of course." Clearly disappointed, she looked at her lap. Tears brimmed, threatening to overflow, as she swallowed hard. "Well, then I suppose I ought to dare to ask, shouldn't I?" she whispered. "What are your intentions, Mr. Hamilton?"

  "When we are at Dunleith, it is my intent to ask you to be my wife," he answered quietly.

  "Then why must you wait?" she cried. "If you would wed me, why cannot you puff it off to the papers while I am still in London? While my friends may yet see it and felicitate me?"

  "Don't you think I ought to speak to your father first?"

  "But he has already counted your chickens, sir! And he will make no objection, I assure you," she managed, trying to calm herself. "If you want me, I would you asked me now."

  Outfaced, he nodded. "I'd hoped to do this with a bit more style, my dear," he murmured. Lifting her chin with his knuckle, he forced her to look at him. "My dear Jane," he asked huskily, "will you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?"

  Her tears spilled over, streaking her face. "Oh. Patrick!"

  "And if you say no, I'll take it for a hum," he warned her.

  "Yes," she answered happily. "Oh, yes!"

  He'd been piqued and repiqued, and he knew it, yet he'd not been forced into anything he'd not planned to do eventually, he reminded himself. But as he looked into her lovely, tear-stained face, he felt oddly empty.

  "I still would that you said nothing until I have spoken with Lord Dunster," he managed, still trying to maintain his smile. "As you said, there are the settlements to be decided."

  "Oh, Papa means to be most generous, Patrick, but I shall leave it to him to speak to you of that," she told him coquettishly. "But we shall both have everything we want, I assure you."

  Despite the wealth he himself brought to the match, he still felt as though he'd been bought and sold. His fingers closed over hers for a moment, squeezing them, then he released her hand.

  "Well," she demanded archly, "aren't you wishful of kissing me?"

  For answer, he leaned across the space between them to take her face in his hands. With slow deliberation, he brushed her parted lips, then he kissed her. When he drew back, she smiled her triumph.

  "Oh, Patrick, I have loved you for such a long lime," she said breathlessly.

  "I know," was all he could think of to say.

  "We shall be quite suited, you know," she went on eagerly. "With Papa's help, you will have a brilliant career, and I shall have quite the handsomest husband in all of London."

  "Well—"

  "Oh, but you are! Everyone says so, you know—la, but I can scarce wait to see the look on Latly Witherspoon's face—or on that presumptuous Miss Mars-den—when it is known that you have chosen me. Patrick Hamilton, I vow I am in alt!"

  "Thank you," he murmured dryly.

  "I think we should have no more than two children, for I should not like to become stout like so many females," she decided. "Alter all, you would not wish for a fat wife, I am sure."

  "Even if both children should be girls?" he quizzed her.

  "Well, we shall have to have an heir, of course," she admitted judiciously. "But we can hope one of the first two is a son, can't we? After all, I shan't wish to be forever increasing, for I mean to be the most dashing Tory hostess you will have ever seen."

  "An admirable ambition."

  "Now I know you are funning with me," she retorted, "but I am quite serious, I assure you. Everybody will wish for an invitation to my salon."

  "I doubt we can get everyone in it, my dear."

  "Well, once we are wed, I expect you will see the wisdom of a larger establishment."

  "For our two offspring, my dear?"

  "For our consequence."

  He leaned back, cocking his head slightly as he regarded her lazily. "Have you never thought it might prove impossible to, er—restrain ourselves? That we might err through passion and parent more than a pair of small Hamiltons?"

  "Passion," she pronounced definitely, "is for the lower classes. But if you are like my father, who is the soul of discretion, I shall try not to notice when you indulge yourself with the demimonde."

  "After we have done our duty to name and fortune?"

  "After we have done our duty." She caught the faint twitch at the corners of his mouth. "What amuses you?"

  "Your naivete, my dear—your utter naivete. First you would have me kiss you, then you would prate of a future devoid of passion." He straightened and sat up. "I'm afraid, Jane, my love, that I have not the least intention of straying from your bed for the sake of your figure."

  "Really, Patrick—"

  "No, if we take each other, you'll simply have to eat in moderation."

  She stared incredulously at him for a moment. 'You're quite serious, aren't you?"

  "Let us merely say I don't take solemn oaths lightly."

  She opened her mouth, then shut it. "Well," she said finally, "I daresay you will not feel that way forever. I mean, Mama say
s that every man eventually seeks amusement elsewhere."

  "And," he went on, ignoring that, "I take leave to tell you that I not only intend that my heir resembles me, but that every child after does also."

  "Sir," she said faintly, "I really do not think we ought to be speaking of such things."

  His mouth twisted wryly. "Actually, my dear, I believe it was you who brought up the indelicate matter of children."

  "Then I must beg your pardon for it," she said, her voice low.

  "Jane—" He reached across to lift her chin with his hand. "I would hope that when we are husband and wife, we can discourse freely on everything. I want more than a female decoration for my establishment—much more. You have said you have loved me forever, and—" "And I have!"

  "Then when we are wed, I shall expect you to prove it." He released her and looked out his rain-streaked window. "We are arrived at Hookham's my dear." Reaching down, he drew out his watch and flicked the cover open. "I pray you will hurry, for I am engaged to meet with clients this afternoon." Closing it, he returned it to his waistcoat pocket, then he opened the carriage door and jumped down, trying to avoid the muddy puddles. "Come on," he said, reaching up for her.

  She leaned into his arms, letting him lift her. As she slid down effortlessly, she looked into his face.

  "And what will you prove to me? I wonder," she asked softly.

  He set her down upon the curb, then offered his arm. "I shall attempt to be an exemplary husband."

  As he held the library's door open for Lady Jane, he saw Elise Rand at the desk inside, and his breath taught when the girl turned around, recognizing him.

  "Why, Mr. Hamilton, what a surprise."

  He recovered quickly. 'You thought perhaps that I do not read?"

  "Not at all. Actually, I thought you must spend most of your time at the Bailey—and other places, of course," she added knowingly.

  Jane's fingers closed possessively on his sleeve. "You must make me known to your acquaintance," she murmured.

  Nodding, he smiled at the brick merchant's daughter. "Miss Rand, may I present Lady Jane Barclay? And," he added, gesturing to Elise, "Jane, Miss Rand."