Secret Nights

by Anita Mills

  "If you can reason that out, you ought to make someone a complaisant wife," he murmured.

  "Will you listen? Is everything a jest to you?"

  "No. Your pardon. I am nearly too tired to think."

  Despite her resolve, her face reddened. "Yes, well, at first he merely kept a female, but she proved a greedy harpy, and she threatened to tell Mama if he did not pay her money sufficient to satisfy her."

  "This is quite edifying, my dear, but what does this have to do with Annie Adams?"

  "I am getting to that, sir. I am merely asking that you attempt to understand him."

  He leaned forward to take his sand glass from his drawer, then he turned it upside down. "You'd best get done ere the sand is gone."

  "What happens then?" she asked nervously.

  "I go home to sup." Leaning back again, he rested his head against his interlocked hands. "Until then, you have my attention."

  "Barely, sir," she muttered dryly. Nonetheless, she plunged ahead again, trying to speak as calmly as she could. "After he paid her off, he began visiting the—"

  "Brothels," he supplied for her.

  "Yes." She looked down at her clasped hands. "This is not particularly easy for me to say, sir. I may be a Cit, but I have been brought to speak properly in public, if not at home. If you heard me say it before, it was because I did not know you could hear me. And somehow saying it to you is nothing like saying it to my mother." Sucking in her breath again, she let it out, then nodded. "He was afraid he would be remarked coming out of those establishments, so he turned to the worst sort of female, Mr. Hamilton. Last night, he encountered that unfortunate woman, and she agreed—well, they struck a bargain, and—"

  "I suppose one could count murder an unfortunate circumstance," he murmured, "particularly if one were Annie Adams."

  "Indeed." She dared to look at him, but for all that he sounded otherwise, he appeared to be regarding her quite soberly. "Yes, well, he was quite frank with me on this head, sir, and there is no way to wrap this up in clean linen at all. He—he said he was with her when her protector interrupted them to demand money," she recounted baldly. "Apparently Papa had already paid her, and there was a quarrel between her and her—"

  "Pimp. The word is pimp, Miss Rand."

  "Well, I cannot say I have ever heard that one. In any event, the man became incensed and began stabbing her. Papa said he managed to—-to disentangle himself—and—" At this point, Hamilton could not quite suppress a smile, and her face burned with embarrassment. "Well, he tore off his bloody coat and ran, sir. The next thing he knew Annie Adams's murderer and the watch were pursuing him, and 'twas he who was accused. The watch would not listen to him, Mr. Hamilton. There—that is everything, I think." Done, she breathed a deep sigh of relief. "So you see he did not do it."

  He sat up. "An edifying tale, Miss Rand."

  "Then you will not abandon him?" "I told you—he is lying."

  "You cannot know that! There is no way you can know that!"

  He appeared pained. "Miss Rand, I never believe a client who evades my questions, for I have found most defendants ready to babble their heads off to convince me of their innocence. Your father, on the other hand, either could not or would not tell me how his coat came to be left near Annie Adams's bucket of bloody water. Or how his ring came to be found there also. He gave me some farradiddle about having had it stolen."

  "Why don't you believe it was?"

  "It was found with his coat, and both were by the bucket."

  "What difference does that make?"

  "If he stopped to wash her blood off him, he could not have felt any particular danger from Annie's pimp, which in turn would indicate that she was dead before the fellow discovered him, which is precisely the story John Colley told the watch."

  "Maybe you gave him no chance to explain! Maybe you were as disagreeable to Papa as to me!"

  "Miss Rand—"

  "But I have told you how the coat came to be there!"

  "The Adams woman was not only stabbed, but she was also throttled quite brutally. This was a crime of passion, not greed, my dear."

  "There! Then he had no reason, for they—well, she was not refusing him, was she?" This time, she could not look into his face. "They had agreed on the money and everything."

  "Why would Colley kill her? He only had her, so one must suppose she was his golden goose, so to speak."

  "As you took Papa's money, you have no right to turn your back to him!"

  "He engaged me under false pretense, Miss Rand. He said it was in the event he had a problem at his brickworks, and I told him at the time that I did not usually take such cases."

  "But you took his money," she repeated.

  "And it has been returned."

  "He could not have known he would be taken up, sir," she argued desperately.

  "He may have thought it but a matter of time. There are, after all, several unfortunate females who have been murdered rather brutally within the past year. Quite frankly, Mr. Peale is meeting with the magistrate to determine if there is reasonable suspicion to warrant an indictment in the matter of Fanny Shawe— or of Peg Parker. And they will search the records to see if perhaps there are others."

  "What?" she screeched indignantly. "Oh, of all the—"

  "I expect they will get around to interviewing the watchman who erroneously identified Maddie Coates as Peg Parker's killer."

  "Why are you telling me this?" she demanded furiously. "You know very well he could not have done those things—you know it! And he does not deserve to be held in fetters!"

  "You asked why I have refused Rand's defense, and I am merely giving you your answer."

  "But you must defend him! You yourself said you were the best damned barrister in London!"

  "I am. But there are others of repute."

  "Oh, now I see everything clearly! You are afraid Papa's case will be too unpopular for an aspiring Tory, aren't you?" She rose angrily. "You, sir, are naught but a sham! No wonder you account yourself the best lawyer to be had—you do not attempt that which you fear you cannot win! Or else you meet with the justice in chambers and do your dirty little deeds where none can witness!"

  He stood also, facing her across a space that might as well have been a gaping chasm. "I am sorry, but I have to believe that my clients tell me the truth."

  "But just this afternoon you were arguing for one who didn't," she reminded him bitterly.

  "Oh, but he did. He told me precisely what he told the magistrate."

  "Do you want my father to say he has done what he has not?" she asked incredulously. "For if that is what you are saying, I'll not countenance it! I am telling you that Bartholomew Rand would not, could not, and did not murder that woman!"

  "There is no need to shout at me," he said calmly. "We don't happen to agree, I'm afraid."

  She glanced to where the sand was half-gone from the glass, and knowing that she'd failed, she tried to collect what dignity she could. "I think perhaps I ought to just get my cloak and leave. Obviously, I cannot appeal to your conscience," she added bitterly.

  His gaze took in her dark blue walking dress, then traveled to her nearly perfect face. "It would take a great deal to change my mind," he admitted.

  "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "No. I should not have said it." He walked into his outer office and found her hooded cloak hanging on a mahogany hook. Taking it down, he held it out for her. She regarded him sourly for a moment, then stood still as he draped it over her shoulders. As she fastened the braided frogs, he stepped back.

  "It is a pity we could not have met under different circumstances, Miss Rand, for I admire you greatly."

  "And I would that I could say the same of you," she retorted, drawing on her gloves. "Good day, sir."

  As she started out the door, she encountered John Byrnes, who apologized. "I'm terribly sorry it took so long, Miss Rand, but there was a sad crush. I have acquired a jar of punch for you, however, and I can get
you a glass out of the cabinet."

  "Thank you, sir," she managed civilly, "but my business with Mr. Hamilton is quite at an end. Perhaps he will share the punch with you, for he is in sad need of warming his exceedingly cold heart." With that, she left.

  Patrick's eyebrow lifted perceptibly. "Punch, John?"

  "Well, she was here quite a long time, sir, and there was scarce anything else to offer her. I did not think you would mind it."

  "No, I suppose not."

  Byrnes stared after her before turning back to Patrick. "Miss Rand must surely be the loveliest female I have ever seen," he murmured. "An absolute Incomparable."

  "She's above your touch, old fellow." As the clerk's face fell, Patrick nodded sympathetically. "Alas, but she's above mine also."

  ''Yours, sir?"

  "She has money—and far too many principles. Come on, John, let's go home," Patrick said tiredly. "I don't even care if I eat ere I go to bed, but if I don't, I'm afraid my cook will give notice. And I have got to sort out the quarter's bills for Mr. Sinclair before I try to find a suitable precedent to justify transporting poor Findley rather than hanging him. Somehow it does not seem quite right for the state to kill him for butchering his neighbor's pig."

  "Should not Mr. Sinclair collect the bills, sir? He's the secretary, isn't he?" Byrnes reminded him-

  "Yes, but I keep an incredibly disorganized desk, old fellow. Would you want me rambling through yours?"

  "No, I suppose not." Byrnes looked down at the jar in his hands. "But the punch—"

  "Take it with you. Perhaps you can share it with someone more able to appreciate it. Just now I feel as though the blood has been drained out of me."

  Feeling as though she were living a nightmare, Elise came down early to discover her mother already at breakfast. Taking her place at the table, she stared for a long moment at her father's empty chair, then looked up.

  'T suppose you could not sleep either," she said finally. "No."

  "Poor Papa," she murmured, sighing. "It is such an awful place. And to make everything worse, they have got him in irons."

  Her mother said nothing.

  "I dread telling him that I could not persuade Hamilton at all."

  Her mother looked away without speaking. "Mama—"

  "There is nothing to say, is there?" came the toneless reply.

  "He needs you, Mama." "No."

  "I know you cannot understand it, but he said he visited those women to save you." When her mother did not respond, she tried to plead her father's case. "He said you nearly died having me, and he could not risk losing you." She cast a sidewise glance, but her mother sat still as a statue, almost as though she did not hear. "Mama, he didn't kill that woman—he didn't"

  "I shall never hold my head up again. Never."

  "We shall get another barrister, and he will prove Papa innocent-—I swear it"

  Emmaline Rand stared unseeing at the polished table, then shook her head. "It doesn't matter, Ellie."

  "It doesn't matter! Mama, you have got to come out of this! We have got to fight to save Papa's life!"

  "No." The older woman sighed deeply, then shook her head. "No," she repeated, her voice scarce above a whisper. "If they will have me, I am going to my family."

  "If they will have you?" Elise demanded incredulously. "Mama, what nonsense is this? You are Papa's wife—you cannot mean to desert him now."

  " 'Twould appear as he deserted me, don't you think?" Emmaline bit her lower lip and turned away again. "All these years he has lived a lie, Ellie—a lie."

  "I know you are disappointed, Mama, but—"

  ''Disappointed? Disappointed? Is that how you would call it?" her mother cried. "I know not how I shall face anyone!"

  "Please—-come with me today-—listen to him."

  "No."

  " 'Tis the least you can do for the life he has given you," Elise argued. "He needs you, Mama—he needs you."

  "He has never needed me," Emmaline declared bitterly.

  "He loves you. He has always been so very proud of you, and you cannot deny it. Why, he has boasted to nearly everyone how you were born a Bingham— how you are Quality."

  "Because I gave him consequence, Ellie—because I gave him consequence, and that is all." Her mother raised her head to meet Elise's eyes, and there was no mistaking the pain in her face. "I am worth no more to him than this house—than the rug beneath our feet, Ellie—and too long I have denied it."

  "That is not true, and you know it! Mama, he has worshipped you!"

  "He left my bed for those—those cheap little tarts!"

  "He said he did it for you."

  "For me? I never denied him—not once did I ever deny him! And he has repaid me with this!"

  "Mama, you are overset. Please—come to see him with me, and let him explain—"

  "He was caught with a whore!"

  "But he didn't murder her."

  "He has murdered me, Ellie—as surely as he pricked my heart with a knife, he has murdered me."

  "If you could see how he is kept, Mama—if you could see how miserable he is, you would know that for whatever sins he has committed, he is paying dearly. He may even pay with his life."

  A footman came in and placed a dish of porridge in front of her mother, then withdrew discreetly to get another for Elise. The older woman unfolded her napkin and laid it carefully in her lap, then reached for her spoon.

  "He loves you," Elise repeated.

  "I am going home to my brother's vicarage, dearest," the woman said flatly. "If you wish, you may go with me."

  "Go with you—? Mama, you cannot cut and run! Look around you—look at what he has built for you!" Seeing that her mother's fine profile was like that of chiseled stone, she pleaded, "Please—at least see him once. Once—'tis all I ask, and then if you can leave him, so be it. But you owe him that much at least—you owe him that much at the least!"

  The older woman carried the spoon to her mouth, then swallowed the bite of porridge. "I owe him nothing, for I have asked for none of it."

  "But surely you loved him once!"

  "He left me long ago, Ellie, and I have but now come to know it." Once again, her mother looked at her. "I have listened to too many of his lies to ever believe in him again."

  "Mama—"

  "He doesn't love either of us."

  "He loves both of us, and you know it."

  "Does he?"

  "Yes."

  "As for this house and everything that is in it, they were all his, Ellie—his. He had to have everything, to boast that he had the best. That's all I was—I was but the best he could buy."

  "Because he wanted you."

  "He wanted to own a gentrified wife, that was all. No, my dear, what he really wanted was—well, I shall not say it. I'm sorry if I have disappointed you, but you cannot know the whole."

  "What he wanted was what?" Elise persisted.

  Her mother sighed. "Yes, I suppose you are more like him than like me, aren't you? Both of you are so very strong-willed, after all."

  "I have always been proud of both of you. If I have been more like Papa, it is that he treated me like I could have been his son."

  "And filled your head with a great deal of nonsense, I'm afraid."

  "But you were going to tell me why you are leaving him, weren't you? Go on—say it, else I shall believe you care more for saving face than for him."

  "I suppose you have heard everything, anyway, haven't you? He wouldn't let me rear you into the lady I wanted, you know."

  "He let me think, you mean."

  "Except for Mr. Rose."

  "Except for Ben. But we shall leave Ben out of this, I think."

  "All right, I will say it." Emmaline laid her spoon on the edge of the charger plate. "What your father wanted was a lady by light of day and a whore beneath him at night. And if he said he turned to those women because of your birth, I shall call him a liar."

  "He told me—"

  "I was too stupid to kn
ow it then, but upon looking backward, I can see far too many times when he had excuses for not coming home, for not being—"

  "He worked hard, Mama—he worked night and day to provide us with the comforts of his wealth."

  "No."

  "He honors you."

  At that, her mother carefully refolded her napkin and laid it beside her barely touched porridge. Rising, she looked down at Elise.

  "My mind will not budge, dearest. No, I am going home to the house where I grew up, and God willing, I shall never have to come out into the world again."

  "No, you are turning your tail and fleeing!" Throwing down her own napkin, Elise stood to face her. "You are a coward, Mama!"

  "Your loyalty is admirable, my love, but I fear it is misplaced," the older woman said mildly.

  "Well, I don't mean to desert him!"

  "If you change your mind, I am sure your uncle Charles will welcome you also."

  "Only if I bring Papa's money bags! That's all the Binghams have wanted from him, you know—they've all tried to hang on his sleeve, and well you know it!"

  Her mother turned and walked slowly from the dining room, leaving Elise to stare after her. As she heard the woman's steps on the stairs, the girl's anger faded to dejection. Sinking into her chair again, she put her head into her hands and fought the urge to cry. Now she would have to tell him that not only would Patrick Hamilton not defend him, but that rather than face the ignominy of his trial, his wife was leaving him.

  Having discreetly avoided the quarrel between mother and daughter, one of the footmen coughed apologetically behind her, then set her plate next to her elbow.

  "Cook is wishful of knowing whether you'd be having coddled eggs with the porridge or not, miss."

  She sat back and took a deep breath. Looking up at him, she managed to show him a calm that she did not feel inside. "I'm not very hungry, I'm afraid." Pushing the plate and bowl away, she said, "I think I shall merely have a tea tray brought up to my chamber."

  "Aye."

  "I have to visit my father."

  "Aye. And a bad business that is, miss—there ain't a body here as don't feel sorry about it."