Secret Nights

by Anita Mills

"If I do, you will not defend my father!" she cried.

  "No."

  Clasping her hands tightly before her, she tried to control herself. "It is just that I—well, I have never—"

  "I know."

  He came up behind her to trace along the open silk where he'd unhooked her gown. Something akin to a sob broke from her, and she tried to turn into his arms, to hide her face against his chest that he could not see her, but he wouldn't let her. Instead, he kept her back against him.

  "No, it will be all right, I promise you," he whispered. "You won't be sorry if I can help it."

  She felt so taut she feared she would go to pieces as his fingers touched her bare skin lightly, moving along her shoulder, then back to her spine, dipping lower. Still holding her from behind, he lifted her heavy hair from her neck and kissed the sensitive skin at her nape, sending new shivers coursing through her.

  He could feel the tension within her as he nibbled along her neck and shoulders lightly. His hands slid beneath her arms to the soft rounds of her breasts, cupping them, rubbing over her nipples with his thumbs, hardening them until they strained against his palms. Her body trembled, telling him she liked what he was doing to her. And when one of his hands moved away to pull her gown down from her arms, she whispered her anguish.

  "What are you doing to me?"

  ''Shhhh. We've but begun, Ellie."

  As he spoke, his voice soft, caressing, he rubbed against her hips, giving her the feel of him while his hands explored her, touching the soft, smooth skin of her belly, the satin of her hips beneath her gown. Her flesh seemed to quiver beneath his fingers. He had her dress and petticoat loose now, held up only by the closeness of his body against hers. She turned against him, clinging to him as he worked her gown downward. Finally, it fell at her feet.

  He lifted her, freeing her from her clothes, then carried her to his bed, where he knelt to remove her slippers and stockings. Working feverishly, he peeled out of his shirt and breeches and rolled into the bed against her. He looked down, seeing the faint bluish tinge to her closed eyelids, the tangle of red-gold hair spilling onto his pillow.

  "God, Ellie, but you are beautiful," he said, touching her body reverently. "Truly beautiful." His hand skimmed over her breasts as he watched the nipples harden again. Settling his body lower, he teased them with his tongue, while he explored her until he found what he wanted.

  Shocked, she stiffened as his fingers touched her, finding the warm wetness there. But as they toyed with her, stroking before they eased inside, she was utterly unprepared for the exquisite sensation he aroused within her. She threw her head back, arching her body, moving her hips beneath his hand, no longer caring about anything other than what he was doing to her.

  Her breath came in gasps as her legs opened and closed around the movement of his hand, until he could stand the wait no longer. Rolling over, he eased his body above hers and guided himself inside.

  She panicked momentarily when her flesh tore, then closed around his. As she cried out, he lay still for a moment, whispering soothing words against her damp brow, then he began to move, slowly, deliberately at first, then losing whatever control he had as she rocked and writhed beneath him. He rode hard then, lost in her, striving for the ecstasy her body promised.

  Nothing could have prepared her for how he felt inside her. It was as though the very center of her being was where he was, as though she could not get enough of what he was doing to her. Her legs came up, trying to imprison him, as she bucked and thrashed beneath him, straining for more.

  Her breath came in gasps, mingling with his, then he cried out and collapsed to lie over her. His head rested against her shoulder as her arms held him tightly. She lay still, vaguely disappointed, thinking she'd not gotten enough of him.

  Finally, he separated from her and lay beside her, gasping. As reality sank in, she felt utterly mortified by what she'd done. Now she wanted to crawl away before he looked at her, but there was nowhere to hide.

  He turned over and drew her into the crook of his arm, smiling down at her. His fingertip traced her forehead, her nose, her chin.

  "I didn't hurt you very much, did I?"

  "No," she choked out.

  "It wasn't very good for you," he decided, sighing. 'You don't even have any notion how good it can be, you know."

  "Just now, I feel more than a trifle humiliated. I can not think how I—" Her voice trailed off, and she had to turn her head away. "I must have behaved like the veriest fool," she managed painfully. "I think I ought to go home."

  "Do you now?" he asked lazily. His free hand reached to touch her breast, stroking the nipple until it hardened once more. Knowing that he watched her, she closed her eyes to hide, then felt him roll over her again. "I don't break my promises, Ellie—I promised to make it good for you, and so I shall," he told her huskily.

  Later, she crept down his stairs, her wicked body wrapped in her velvet-lined cloak, her hood pulled up over her disheveled hair, and she hurried around the corner to her carriage. It wasn't until she was safely within it that she dared to touch her swollen lips and relive the memory of his touch. She was no better than a harlot, she decided bitterly. But instead of selling her body for gold, she'd pawned it to Patrick Hamilton as security for her father's defense.

  Drawing her knees up on the seat, she stared into London's dark streets. Well, she'd made her devil's bargain, and now she would have to live with it. She dosed her eyes, remembering how it was to lie beneath him, to feel his body within hers, and regardless of the shame that nearly overwhelmed her, the hunger was undeniable.

  He arose late, and by the time he'd bathed, shaved, and dressed, it was nigh to eleven, an unseemly hour given the work that awaited him. But despite having spent half the night in Elise Rand's arms, he felt exhilarated rather than tired when he came down the stairs.

  Hayes regarded him reproachfully before inquiring stiffly if he meant to eat. Upon the negative reply, he'd disappeared, a clear indication that he thoroughly disapproved of Patrick's night of debauchery with a female of the bourgeoisie.

  As Patrick started to leave, he noticed there were already a couple of letters in the foyer basket. Stopping, he recognized the slanted scrawl of Lord Dunster on the top one, and he felt more than a little guilty. He picked it up, broke the seal, and read the brief note begging his attendance for later in the day.

  He knew what Dunster wanted. Already he'd delayed far too long in presenting himself before the earl to ask for Jane's hand. But the tenor of the note wasn't reproachful, so Patrick supposed now would have to be as good a time as any to get the matter settled and over. In fact, since he'd committed himself to Rand's defense, he'd probably have to delay the grouse hunting trip for a few days. But no doubt an announcement in the Gazette ought to mollify Lady Jane and her fond parents.

  If he were fortunate enough to get it set for the current session, he might be able to have Rand's initial pleading over almost before Dunster got wind of it. There was no question that Jane's father would wish Patrick to avoid controversy until well after the next election, no question at all. And equally unquestionable was the certain notoriety any association with Bartholomew Rand would bring him.

  But a bargain was a bargain, and Elise had more than kept her end of it. No, he was going to have to mount the best defense possible for the old man. And if he managed by some special grace of God to get Rand off, he reasoned, it would surely enhance rather than harm his reputation. If not . . . well, he was not prepared to think of that.

  He glanced at the tall hall clock. Fifteen past eleven. No time to stand there woolgathering—no time at all. Looking out the narrow pane by the door, he could see that Hayes had managed to get him a hackney. And there was a steady, gray drizzle.

  ''Your robe and peruke are already out, sir," the butler announced behind him. "Wilson put them in a box between tissue to keep them neat despite the rain."

  "Give him my thanks, will you?"

  "And he took the liberty
of bringing your cloak rather than a greatcoat, sir—said it would be less cumbersome in a public hackney."

  "If he had his way, I should have a town carriage with my name blazoned on it," Patrick murmured, taking the cloak.

  "Well, as a man of fashion, perhaps you ought to consider it," Hayes suggested.

  "I prefer my tilbury myself. Unfortunately, there isn't much of a place to leave it standing at Sessions, you know—nor is there sufficient room to enlarge my carriage house for anything beyond one conveyance and a pair without evicting my coachman from his quarters," he added, smiling. "So there you have it, I’m afraid."

  Hayes looked at the opened letter for a moment, i hen inquired slyly, "And did Lady Jane like the roses?

  "Yes, she did, as a matter of fact." He looked at Hayes for a moment. "Ah, I see-—you are still out of crease, aren't you?"

  "I am sure 'tis not my place to criticize my betters," the man answered stiffly.

  "Then see that you don't." His hand on the door, Patrick hesitated. "I don't mean to be at home for dinner, so you may tell Mrs. Marsh she may have anything she likes."

  "And if any is to ask, where might I say you are to be found?"

  "I am not on leading strings," Patrick reminded him. "And I don't know."

  "I merely meant if a client were to express a need, sir."

  "I rarely bother with fools taken up by the watch."

  "I am sure I only meant if you were at one of your clubs, I might direct—"

  "No, you did not."

  He turned the door handle and let himself out before Hayes could feign further innocence. But the man hurried after him, holding an umbrella over Patrick's head.

  "I am sure I meant no insolence, sir," he protested.

  "Of course you didn't," Patrick murmured. "Good day, old fellow." Looking up at the hackney driver, he ordered, "The Bailey."

  He'd meant to go to his office, but there was too little time. Instead, he settled into his seat and considered whether he ought to have called upon Dunster before he saw Rand, deciding no, he owed Elise the greater debt. Closing his eyes briefly, he could still see her offering herself in exchange for his services. As long as he lived, he would always remember the pause he'd felt when she'd said, "There is me."

  Nor would he ever forget the feel of her warm skin, the sight of her hair spilling across his pillow, the ecstasy of possessing her. Nor the shame she'd felt when it was over. For that and that alone, he was sorry. But not for any of the rest of it. A man could live a lifetime and never come close to having a female like her.

  He looked out onto the grim, gray street, then sighed. He'd told the driver the Bailey, but it didn't matter. Newgate was scarce a walk from there.

  Reviewing everything he knew of Bartholomew Rand, he realized he ought to believe him. The old man had worked hard, pulling himself from a bricklayer's son to a factory owner worth more than ninety percent of the ton. Three hundred thousand pounds, one newspaper had reported. There was something about the fall of the mighty that engendered glee, a sort of validation of one's sense of proper order. Men like Rand weren't supposed to get rich. That was a privilege better reserved to aristocrats and landed gentlemen.

  And Rand was surely not the first defendant willing to lie to his lawyer. The old man was probably so used to the power that came with his money that he merely resented having to answer for anything. That much Patrick could accept.

  But why had Rand gone to such subterfuge to engage him? Why had he thrown his daughter at a man he did not know? If either answer indicated a need to be prepared before he was arrested, then he had to be as guilty as sin itself. Or some sort of fool who really believed he might be facing labor unrest in Islington. And whatever he thought of Bartholomew Rand, the man was scarce a fool.

  No, he was canny and manipulative, willing to admit he'd patronized the very prostitutes he'd professed to despise, blaming it not on his own weakness, but rather on his wife. But again he would not be the first client ready to point a finger elsewhere.

  And there was the matter of the witness, registered in record as one "John Colley, of St. Giles." Actually, it was St. Giles Rookery, where the alleys lent themselves to every sort of vice and degradation. The man's address alone ought to be useful in prejudicing a jury, flitting the word of a wealthy businessman against that of a pimp, even if the pimp's statement rang the truer.

  But there were also the London mobs, coupled with an irate citizenry, who already were demanding Rand's head in a noose. And with each new newspaper revelation, their cries got louder, something that would certainly affect a jury intent on its own survival.

  The hackney stopped, and the driver hopped down to open the door. As Patrick stepped into the street, the fellow reached for the string-tied box.

  "Get that fer ye, sor," he offered.

  Patrick proffered a half-guinea. "Just take it inside, and leave it with Mr. Cranston at the door, will you? He'll keep it for me."

  "Aye."

  Glancing up at the sculpture of the Recording Angel held up by Fortitude and Truth above the Bailey entrance, Patrick settled his shoulders and turned the other way to Newgate, where the scaffolds conveniently sat outside Debtor's Door. Today, the street was uncrowded, probably due to the rain. On a good day, he'd seen it fill within minutes with a rioting, surging mob eager to watch a hanging. Eighty thousand riffraff, the papers had estimated the last time, which made one wonder if England were half so civilized as its government would have it.

  Above, in the windows of houses, were printed signs offering "a fine breakfast and a good view of the gallows, ten pounds." It cost more to properly see a hanging than a good play in Drury Lane, Patrick reflected, well aware of die irony of that.

  Going round to the keeper's gate, he asked for permission to visit Rand.

  " 'E's been moved agin, sir—to the keeper's apartments." A knowing grin split the jailer's face. "Fer 'is pertection 'til 'e's 'anged."

  "At a cost, no doubt," Patrick observed dryly.

  "Thirty guineas a week," the fellow acknowledged, "and extra fer 'is board."

  "He can afford it."

  "Aye—and oo'd begrudge 'im a bit o' ease ere 'is neck is stretched, eh?"

  "Precisely."

  The jailer motioned to a man standing against the wall. "Show 'im ter Bat Rand, eh?"

  "Aye."

  Rand's cell proved to be a single, well-appointed room, complete with a featherbed, a chest for his clothing, a small table with chairs for meals, and a writing desk. Not to mention a window with a view of the street.

  "I see you have come up in the world," Patrick murmured from the doorway.

  "Eh? Oh, collect you was meaning the room. Aye, 'tis better, ain't it?"

  "Considerably."

  "It ought to be—I'm paying dearly for it."

  "Thirty guineas."

  "Fellow told you that, eh?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, it ain't home, but it suffices, I suppose." Rand eyed him shrewdly. "Came back, did you?"

  "Yes."

  "I thought mebbe as Ellie could persuade you."

  A surge of anger rose within him, but Patrick managed to control the urge to hit the old man. His jaw working, he managed to say tightly, "She spoke to me, if that is what you mean."

  "Aye. Taking little thing, ain't she?"

  "You, sir, are offensive," Patrick snapped.

  "I got money, sirrah—so I don't have to be nice unless I was wanting to." Rand shrugged. "But it don't matter, does it? You are back, and that was what I was wanting."

  "On condition."

  One heavy brow rose. "Condition? What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You are going to have to tell me everything, Mr. Rand. I don't intend to go into court playing hood-man blind with Peale."

  "Aye."

  "You are entitled to the best defense I can mount— whether you are innocent or guilty."

  "Glad to hear it," Rand acknowledged.

  "But I have to know whether you did in
fact murder Annie Adams."

  The old man looked up suspiciously. "I ain't a fool, Hamilton—no sirrah, not at all. I wasn't born under no three-penny planet."

  "Mr. Rand—"

  "Well, I ain't about to say I was guilty, sir—how the devil was that to sound, eh?"

  "It would be privileged information totally inadmissible as evidence."

  "Still, I ain't going to say I did it."

  "Without your promise of complete candor between us, I shall simply walk out that door." When Rand did not respond, Patrick could not entirely control the exasperation he felt. "And given that you have managed to insult both Mr. Parker and myself, you will have whistled two of the best criminal barristers in London down the wind," he added irritably.

  Rand peered intently into Patrick's face, then seemed to relent "You are a man as knows how to lay the cards down, ain't you?"

  "Yes."

  "You got to understand, Hamilton. I didn't make m'money by being loose with the chatter, and I ain't used to letting anybody tell me how to go on."

  "Your life is in my hands, sir."

  "Aye. Then you'd best sit down, eh? It ain't going to be no easy thing to tell you all of it."

  "All right."

  As Rand sat down on one side of the table, Patrick took the opposite chair. "Now—tell me everything that you know, everything that has happened, beginning with Peg Parker."

  "Parker!" Rand yelped. "Now I ain't charged with that!" He hesitated a moment. "Am I?"

  "You might be. Did you know her?"

  "Course not," the old man muttered testily. "Never laid eyes on the woman."

  "You never frequented Maddie Coates's establishment? Before you answer, I might point out that the answer is easy enough to prove."

  "Aye, I suppose so." Rand looked suddenly glum. "All right—I been there," he admitted grudgingly.

  "When?"

  'How the devil should I remember that? I been to lots of 'em."

  "No doubt," Patrick muttered. "I would that you are precise in every detail, sir."

  "I said I'd been there."

  "When?"

  "I dunno. Two or three times last year maybe," came the sullen reply.

  "Did you see Peg Parker there?"