Secret Nights

by Anita Mills

  The Rand house appeared nearly dark, an odd circumstance given the earliness of the hour. Nonetheless, with the muddy puppy under his arm, Patrick mounted the mansion steps and banged the brass knocker against the strike plate.

  The door opened scarce a crack as Graves asked cautiously, "Who is it?"

  "Patrick Hamilton."

  The butler stepped back just far enough to let the barrister pass, then he hastened to close it and throw the latch. Turning around, he got a better view of Patrick, then gasped.

  " 'Pon my word! What has happened, sir?"

  Before Patrick could answer, another door opened off the wide foyer, and Elise came out, speaking irritably before she saw him. "If it is another crack-brain come to throw something, I shall—" She stopped mid-sentence to stare, and die color drained from her face. "Oh."

  He smiled crookedly. "Hello."

  She swallowed, fighting the urge to flee from him, and came no closer. "Whatever are you doing here?" she demanded. Seeing the mud on his clothes, she recovered enough to say, "You look as though you have been in a mill, sir."

  "Something very like it." His smile broadened as he held out the dog. "I have brought you something."

  "A puppy? But why—? Oh, my—he's hurt, isn't he?"

  "Well, he can stand up," Patrick answered.

  “Yes, well, it is rather late for company." She hesitated until the small animal wagged its tail. "Oh, very well!" she snapped. "Bring him in."

  "Thank you." He followed her into her father's bookroom. "Er—I don't suppose you have something to put him on, do you?"

  "Yes." She picked up a newspaper from a refuse basket, then spread it out over a reading table. Looking down, she saw where she'd marked another story about her father. "I hope he does not mind standing upon a pack of lies," she muttered. "Joseph," she called out, "fetch me rags and water!"

  "Perhaps I ought to stand on a paper myself," Patrick offered.

  "No. If you get mud on the carpet, it will dry, and then someone can beat it out." Turning her attention back to the small, quivering animal, her expression softened. "You are in sad case, aren't you?" she told it.

  "You'll get dirty if you touch him," Patrick warned her.

  "As if I cared for that, sir." Bending over the puppy, she crooned softly, "Aye, but you will be all right now, little one." Her hand touched the animal's soft muzzle tenderly. "Did your carriage hit it?" she asked Patrick.

  "No. Some young fools were kicking him about."

  "And you stopped them? I must own you have surprised me, Mr. Hamilton. I thought Tories cared for nothing beyond themselves."

  "Now that, my dear, was unworthy of you."

  "I am not your dear!" she snapped. With one hand still stroking the puppy's head, she pushed back her straggling hair with the other. "Your pardon," she managed more civilly. "If I am out of reason cross, it is that we have been considerably harassed today."

  “Oh?"

  "Yes. Awful people have written the worst sort of things and shoved them under the door, while others have thrown filth at the house."

  "That doesn't surprise me."

  "Well, it does me," she retorted. "And had it not been raining, I daresay we should have been subjected to a great deal more of it. It is the papers' fault—they are doing naught but rousing the rabble!"

  "I'm sorry."

  "Sorry? It isn't your fault, is it? You are not amongst those that say drawing and quartering is not good enough for my father, are you?"

  "No."

  Hot, angry tears welled in her eyes. "If they could get at him, they would tear him apart!" Wiping her eyes furiously, she cried, "And he has done nothing worse than most of them! Why must everyone believe him guilty ere there is a trial? Already they would have it that Papa is some sort of awful ogre—as though he eats children!"

  "I went to see him today," he said quietly. "I kept my bargain with you."

  She stood very still, then stared at the floor. "Yes," she said finally. "He told me."

  "Then you went also?"

  "I could scarce stay away, I think. He must know that someone believes him." Not daring to face Patrick, she went back to stroking the dog. "But you were there earlier, so I daresay you do not yet know the whole of it, do you?"

  "The whole of what?"

  "Just before I visited, they took Papa out in shackles to an empty room, where they threw his cloak over his head." A shudder went through her, then she mastered herself. "They brought in the watchman who earlier said it was Mrs. Coates, and this time—" She slopped to suck in her breath, then let it out in a sob.

  This time, the man said, 'twas Papa who dumped that woman in the river! But he is lying—probably rather than admit he cannot remember!"

  "He said he saw Rand with Peg Parker's body?"

  "Yes." She leaned over the table, grasping the edges until her knuckles were white. "But there is more also," she went on, her voice now toneless. "I think they mean to blame him for the deaths of every prostitute killed in the area for at least a year. They have told him he is suspected of the Shawe murder also."

  "I expected that."

  She whirled around. "Why?" she demanded hotly. "Because he is convenient? So that they can say they have solved everything? How very neatly they are wrapping all their linen!"

  "Ellie, Ellie—" He moved closer and drew her into his arms. "There is nothing you can do about what anyone says," he whispered. "I shall just have to try to prove them wrong."

  "Can you? Can anyone help him now?" she cried. "Or will they try to appease the public by hanging him?"

  His arms closed around her as she began to sob. Smoothing her hair over her shaking shoulders, he said soothingly, "There will be a trial, Ellie—there has to be a trial. A jury will hear all the evidence."

  "The justices can direct a verdict! Mr. Parker said they could!"

  "Parker only wanted out."

  "And you? When they are throwing eggs and all manner of filth at you, will you wish out, too?"

  "No. No matter what the outcome, I will see it to the end," he promised. As he held her, he was acutely aware of every curve of her body, and desire washed over him. His palm smoothed her dress over her back as his mind remembered the feel of her bare skin against his. "Ellie, it will be all right," he whispered.

  She rested her head on the solid hardness of his shoulder, seeking comfort from the masculine feel of wool superfine beneath her cheek, the strength of his arms about her, wanting desperately to believe his words.

  "I am getting your gown dirty," he said finally.

  "I don't care," came the muffled reply.

  The pup, left unattended, wriggled to the edge of the table, then fell to the floor with a painful yelp before wriggling between their feet.

  "Oh!" Pulling away from Patrick, Elise dropped to her knees to gather die animal close. Holding it, she cradled it much like one would a baby. Her hand smoothed its matted fur against its bony back. "When you are cleaned," she told it huskily, "there will be food for you."

  "Oooh, 'tis a wee thing, ain't it?" Molly said, coming into the room with rags draped over one arm and a steaming pan of water in the other hand. Behind her, Joseph carried a bucket.

  "Give one of them to Mr. Hamilton, and I shall take the other," Elise ordered. With the muddy puppy still snuggling against her neck, she managed to rise. "Put it there—on the table where you see the papers."

  "Aye, miss. Er—was ye wanting me ter clean it?" the footman inquired dubiously.

  "No. See to Hamilton, will you?"

  "I brung ye soap," Molly added. "Good strong stuff from the laundry."

  "Thank you."

  Elise went to work, wetting the clumped mud, then soaping the matted fur carefully as she looked for wounds. As though it knew she meant to help it, the little dog sat patiently beneath her hands.

  "I shall need more clean water."

  Joseph, who'd watched curiously, agreed. "Aye, he's a dirty little bugger, ain't he?"

  "Actually, I
think he is a she," Elise murmured as she soaped beneath its tail.

  "Ye ain't supposed ter say it," Molly admonished her.

  "Fiddle—as if I do not know the difference."

  Patrick, who'd washed his face and hands with water from the bucket, carried it to her. "Here—you'd best let me help before your clothes are ruined also."

  Elise looked down on her wet and dirty muslin gown. "I think you are too late, if you would have the truth." She wiped her forehead with her hand, leaving a streak of dirt across it, then met his hazel eyes. And the acute memory of his touch brought the heat to her face, forcing her to turn away.

  "Yes—well, I guess you'd better," she managed.

  As Patrick submerged the wriggling puppy up to his floppy ears, Molly looked over Patrick's shoulder, declaring, "Well, if it ain't a taking little thing—would ye just look at them eyes? Like little black buttons, ain't they?"

  Recovering enough to look at the animal, Elise nodded. "Yes, she does. In fact, I think we ought to call her Button, don't you?"

  "Well, we got ter call 'er something," the maid agreed.

  Lifting it out of the water, Patrick put the puppy onto the muddy paper, where it tried to shake itself. Elise wrapped it in the towel and rubbed it vigorously. She set it back onto the wet papers. "Can you tell how badly she is hurt?" she asked Patrick.

  "I'm a lawyer, not a doctor, my dear." Nonetheless, he ran his hand over it, feeling for broken bones. As his fingers found a knot on its side, the puppy whimpered. "I think she may have a broken rib here, but as the lung isn't punctured, it will heal." Supporting its back, he probed its abdomen. "Not much swelling," he decided, "so probably no harm done there." Reasonably satisfied, he straightened. "She looks as though she'll survive."

  "I daresay you are right." He was too close. She had to move away, to turn her thoughts elsewhere. "Joseph," she said, looking to the footman, "you will get her a basket and a pillow. And, Molly, if there is any cold tongue, perhaps Monsieur Millet can be persuaded to chop it finely and add it to a bit of milk."

  "The Frenchy ain't going ter like it," Molly predicted.

  Elise picked up the pup and held it close to her cheek, feeling the soft velvet of its muzzle. Looking at Patrick from a safer distance, she noted his ruined clothes.

  "If you were to get out of the coat, I expect that Papa's valet might be able to—" Even as she said it, she could feel her face flush. "That is—"

  "I assure you it is beyond repair."

  "Well, you could wear something of Papa's home." Still holding the puppy beneath her chin, she crossed the room to pull the bell strap, and as another footman appeared, she ordered, "Tell Mr. Simpson to come down, will you?"

  "Aye, miss."

  As Patrick regarded her skeptically, she said defensively, "Well, Papa was not always fat, sir."

  "But I cannot think he was ever tall, was he?"

  "Of course he wasn't, but at least his clothes are clean. So unless you mean to stop by one of your clubs, you ought to be able to wear short trousers home in the dark."

  'Yes, miss?" A man capable of supplanting Old Starch in condescension looked Patrick over.

  "See what you can do with Mr. Hamilton's clothes, will you? If all else fails, give him Papa's."

  To his credit, the valet did not blench. Instead, he walked around Hamilton as though he measured him. "If you would follow me, sir," he murmured politely, "I am sure I shall contrive something."

  "Really, but I ought to just go," Patrick protested halfheartedly. "There is no need to bother."

  "Outside, sir?" Simpson asked awfully. "Oh, I should think not—not at all."

  "Well, perhaps you can brush the coat at least," he murmured.

  As Hamilton followed Rand's valet upstairs, Elise sank into a chair. Idly stroking the cuddling puppy, she stared into the fire, her thoughts in utter turmoil. She'd thought she'd have some time before she had to face Patrick Hamilton again, some time to distance herself from what they'd done. But he'd merely shown up, catching her utterly unprepared, making her feel somehow weak and foolish, a circumstance she despised.

  She looked down at the pup in her lap, its soft muzzle burrowed against her muslin skirt, and she could not help feeling a tenderness for it. "Molly was right," she murmured softly, "You are a wee thing, Button." As she rested her hand on its tiny head, the animal nudged her palm, seeking to be petted. She stroked its still-damp fur, marveling that something so little could have survived such violence.

  "Well, the monsoor says he ain't got nothing fer a dog," Molly reported, breaking into Elise's thoughts.

  "Did you tell him I ordered it?"

  "Aye, but ye know them Frogs, don't ye? Anyways, I brung some milk as I warmed fer it myself."

  "I would that you ceased calling Monsieur Millet a Frog," Elise said severely. "I have enough to contend with without his giving notice, thank you."

  "Well, I ain't calling him it ter his face," Molly grumbled. "And if ye was wanting ter avoid the brangles, ye ought not ter have sent Joseph neither. He and Missus Graves is a-going 'round and about o'er the laundry baskets. She said he wasn't a-taking one fer no dog—and no pillow neither. Here—ye best let me take die creature, else it'll be a-piddling on yer papa's rug."

  Reluctantly, Elise yielded the puppy, who whimpered as Molly lifted it. "Come on, ye wee worthless creature," the maid told Button. " Tis out inter the hall we are going. And when yer done, that Joseph is gonna be a-taking ye outside ter do yer business."

  "When Joseph wins the brangle," Elise said after her, "tell him to take Button and the basket to my bedchamber."

  Molly turned back at that. "And I suppose ye think I'm going ter clean the messes?"

  "Yes."

  "Aye," the girl sighed. "I figgered so."

  The room was so very empty then, so empty that Elise could hear only the sounds of green logs popping in the fire and the clock ticking on the mantel above. Bat Rand did everything on a grand scale, and now his huge house seemed utterly empty without him or her mother. Never in all her life had she ever felt quite so overwhelmed or alone, not even when Ben had died. She was not at all certain she could hold everything together until her father was acquitted, but she dared not give in to the bout of tears that threatened, else she'd never stop crying.

  She would survive—she had to. For Bartholomew Rand's sake, she would survive, she told herself fiercely. Rising from the chair, she hugged herself with her arms and walked closer to the crackling fire, staring into red-orange flames licking life from the logs.

  "Papa, I wish you were here to tell me how to go on," she whispered.

  Glass shattered, followed by obscenities shouted into the house. She ran into the foyer, nearly colliding with Graves, who stood staring at the broken panes. She would have wrenched open the door to confront the knaves, but a footman grabbed her elbow to stop her.

  "Let me go!" she cried. "Let me tell them! Let me tell them!" She pulled free and threw open the door. "Why are you doing this?" she demanded. "My father is innocent!"

  Patrick ran down the stairs in his shirtsleeves and caught her arms from behind. She kicked and struggled, then sagged against him. "Why will none listen? Why do they want to see Papa hang?" she sobbed. "He is one of them! Do you hear me?" she shouted as Graves bolted the door. "He is one of you! He started with nothing! He is one of you!"

  "You are all right-—you are all right," Patrick murmured soothingly against the crown of her hair. Looking over her shoulder, he ordered Graves, "Get someone to make a punch, will you?"

  "Yes, sir—something with rum in it perhaps?"

  "Yes—something strong."

  "You don't understand—I've got to make them know he did not do it!"

  Patrick half dragged, half carried her back to the bookroom, where he forced her into a chair. "That was a deuced idiotic notion—they could have brained you with a brick ere you said anything," he declared flatly.

  He was standing over her, his hands holding her down. She looked u
p into his hazel eyes defiantly at first, then she dropped her head into her hands. Helpless, he stroked her shoulder, trying to give comfort. Finally, she seemed to collect herself.

  "I'm sorry," she managed low. "I must've sounded like a madwoman."

  "No, you were frightened," he responded more gently.

  "It has been like that much of the afternoon. They have come and gone at will, and we cannot catch them. Before you arrived, we counted five windows that the cowards have broken."

  "You need to hire Bow Street runners to guard the house, Ellie. Either that or you should consider leaving until this is over."

  "No, I cannot go anywhere." She sat very still now. "But you are right about the runners."

  "As your attorney, I can engage them for you."

  She looked up again. "No," she repeated more definitely. "I shall have to learn how to do more things than hand out pamphlets in Covent Garden, I think. Now that there is but me, I shall have to engage them myself."

  "You cannot do it all."

  "There is nobody else."

  The firelight played upon her shining hair, making it seem more red than gold, and as he looked into her face, desire for her nearly overwhelmed him. He dropped his hand and moved away.

  "Would you like for me to stay?" Even as he said it, the strained voice he heard did not seem like his own. "Merely as a guest, I mean?"

  "No. No, that will not be necessary, sir." She swallowed to hide her embarrassment. "I am quite all right now."

  "And what if they come back?"

  "What could you do? You cannot stop them any more than Joseph or the others," she countered. "Indeed, but we had James sit in the carriage outside, but then we feared they should destroy it with him in it."

  "I thought perhaps you might feel a little safer, I suppose. I know—it sounds foolish to say it"

  "Yes, well—" She glanced at the fire for a moment, then sighed. "And who is supposed to make me feel safe from you?" She studied her hands in her lap.

  "I have never thought of myself as a weak woman, Mr. Hamilton."

  She was using the formality of his name to distance herself, and he knew it. "I don't think you weak at all," he assured her.