Secret Nights

by Anita Mills

  The mood of the milling mob was ugly, so much so that Patrick had to borrow the keeper of the Sessions House galley's cloak for the walk to Newgate. As he skirted the crowd, he could hear someone at the front shout, "We don't need no 'earing to 'ave a 'anging! Kill the old puddin' poker ere 'e flashes 'is way out with 'is gold!"

  The rest caught his spirit and chanted, "Kill 'im— I ill im!" rhythmically. Then, as the prison doors were secured, the chant changed to "We want Rand! We want Rand!"

  There was no way through the mob, and to risk identification might well mean being torn apart. Patrick crossed at the corner and was retreating toward the Bailey when a contingent of Horse Guards rode past him, sabers slashing, straightway into the crowd. The taunts and jeers turned into outraged howls, then to streams of terror. The mob broke and ran, fleeing pell-mell in every possible direction, taking refuge in doorways and crannies, as the horses trampled those who could not get out of the way. A soldier came close by Patrick and would have struck at him, but he threw the cloak and called out, "Officer of the court! I am an officer of the court!"

  Slopping, the horseman backed his mount to block Patrick from the surging, fleeing Londoners, while his fellow guards drove them through the streets. When the last appeared to have passed, he clicked his reins Hid moved away, leaving Patrick to survey the carnage. Several blood-spattered fellows appeared dazed as they were arrested, while two men lay ominously still. At the other end of Newgate Street, a few stared sullenly .ii soldiers who now formed a protective line around the prison.

  An officer spied Patrick and rode up, demanding to know his business, then apologized when another recognized him. He called out for escort, and two soldiers dismounted to accompany Patrick to Debtor's Door. In the shadow of the scaffold, he stopped for a moment to take a deep breath of the air, then he unit inside.

  "Ain't nuthin' like a Lunnon mob, eh?" a prison guard said cheerfully. "It don't do no good ter move 'em, 'cause they just come back when the soljers is gone."

  "Or else they go elsewhere."

  "They'll be back—they want to see old Rand swing, eh?"

  "I am come to see Mr. Rand."

  "Oh—aye. Jem! He's here fer the old man! The one as is in the keeper's rooms!"

  A slatternly woman roused from over a half-empty gin bottle, then grinned evilly. "Worms is going ter get 'im same as anybody else," she predicted. " 'Is money ain't saving 'im!" Her voice rose in a high-pitched laugh, then she lay down again to cradle her bottle.

  Another female called out piteously to him. "Eight pounds, sir—eight pounds and I'm out—eight pounds, sir!" He glanced at her, seeing her swollen belly, wondering if she'd gotten that way since she'd been there. As he walked on, he could hear her still crying, "Only eight pounds, sir!"

  A vacant-faced man sat with two half-naked little girls clinging to his legs, while a thin woman of indeterminate age lay curled in fetal position upon a pile of dirty straw, a direct violation of the rules banning wives and children from living with men in prison. But so many had no place to go, and guards were lax in enforcing the prohibition. As he passed them, Patrick wished he'd chosen another door. Fishing in his coat pocket, he drew out coins left from his hackney fare. He stopped to toss them inside. The two small girls scrambled on their knees to reach them, then grasped the shiny silver pieces in grubby hands.

  "How much?" he heard himself say.

  The man roused. "Thirty pounds as I couldn't pay." He slumped again.

  Patrick turned to the guard. "Remind me when I leave, and I'll apply to the magistrate for him."

  "And what's he ter do then wi'out nuthing, I ask ye?"

  It was a reasonable question, one for which Patrick had no answer. Nonetheless, he reached for his purse and took out thirty pounds in clean, new banknotes, then passed them inside. Hesitating, he added another ten.

  As he moved away, Jem told him, "He'll be in gin fer a month, that's all."

  “It smells better at Tattersall's than here," Patrick muttered. "At least there they muck up after the horses."

  “Ye get used ter it."

  "Never."

  He found Rand eating, the table before him spread with a three-course meal, while a servant stood nearby. The old man looked up, then with his mouth too full for speech, he gestured to a chair. Reaching for a cup of claret, he washed the food down noisily.

  “About time you was coming," he said. ''Thought you'd be here ere before now."

  "I was in chambers with Justice Russell and the magistrate."

  “And taking your time, you was," Rand observed irritably. "Well, don't stand there—sit down, sirrah. You got news—I can tell it." As he spoke, he got another cup and filled it. Pushing it toward Patrick, he laid impatiently, "Go on—spill the budget."

  Patrick sat down, then nodded. "All right. The short of it is that the evidence is sufficient to try you, but I expected that. I was given the choice of presenting arguments in a hearing or going ahead to trial."

  "I ain't understanding the difference," Rand muttered. "Six of one, and half a dozen of the other, ain't it?"

  "No. If I agree to waive the hearing, you will be tried before Christmas. Otherwise, there will be a formal hearing to determine whether you will be bound over, which will be merely for show, I assure you."

  “When will that be?"

  “Monday, if I make that choice." Rand appeared to digest that with his meat.

  "And the trial—when would that be, then?"

  "During the first session of the new year, if you have the hearing. Without it, I would expect to go to trial next month."

  "What? No, sirrah, I won't have it! By God, I won't! You got to get me out of here before then! Go bail—I don't care what it costs, go bail!"

  "Mr. Rand, neither Peale nor the magistrate would recommend it," Patrick replied flatly. "They believe a conviction is inevitable."

  "Then bribe the demned justice! No, sir, Hamilton—I ain't spending Christmas here. I ain't spending Christmas without Em and Ellie—that's all there is to it!"

  "Then you wish to go ahead with the trial?"

  "Of course I don't! I ain't ready to swing yet, am I? That's why I got you, ain't it? You are going to keep me out of the noose!"

  "Then you prefer to go with the hearing and delay the trial?" Patrick persisted.

  "What do you think?" the old man sneered.

  "I think I'd rather try it now."

  "You got enough to get me off?"

  "No, but if you will cooperate with my solicitor, Mr. Banks, when he conducts the interview with you, I shall be prepared either way," Patrick lied.

  Rand eyed him shrewdly, then shook his head. "Pulling the wool over my eyes, ain't you? It ain't my neck as concerns you—'tis the demned elections. And saying you are prepared ain't quite the same as saying you are getting me off."

  "If you are to have a chance either way, you will have to cooperate with Mr. Banks," Patrick said patiently.

  "I told you all I got to say."

  "We are already pursuing information in Covent Garden and St. Giles, and I expect to have statements in a matter of days. It is my intent to compare those against what you tell my solicitor, and hopefully we will discover a possible perjury in one of them—or at least something that will cast doubt on John Colley's veracity. Otherwise you are as sunk as an anchor."

  "They ain't going to tell no fancy fellow nothing," Rand snorted.

  “Mr. Thompson can scarce be called a fancy fellow, I assure you. It is my hope that someone will be loose-lipped enough to tell him either that Colley tended to roll Annie's customers—or that he at least had a violent temper."

  "Bribe 'em to say it."

  “No."

  "Mighty hoity-toity for a lawyer cove, ain't you?" the old man observed nastily.

  “You will answer every question Mr. Banks puts to you with candor," Patrick continued mildly, ignoring the barb.

  "Didn't hire him—hired you," Rand muttered. And you got to tell the justice I want out"
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br />   "One does not in general tell Russell anything. In fart, one maintains an utterly respectful mien before him—do you understand that?"

  "No."

  “All right. Then perhaps I ought to restate the matter more plainly. Justice Russell believes the answer to ending crime is to execute everyone accused of any infraction whatsoever. This year alone, he has sent two children to the gallows for the theft of a bucket of paint in one case, a goose in the other."

  “Ain't a man alive as cannot be bribed with some-thing, Hamilton." But the old man's manner had sobered considerably. "He's got to want something."

  "I don't intend to make the offer."

  "Ewen you—you got your price, ain't you?" Mr. Rand, this isn't a mill conducted with our fives. I am tired of sparring with you, of playing games where you believe you can bluster and intimidate." Patrick's eyes met Rand's and held. "I am not a five-mud lawyer, sir—I am the best barrister to be had in London. Do you understand that?"

  "Aye, but—"

  "But I will not go into court with half a deck when you are hiding the other half. This is a game of distinct rules dealing with evidence, precedence, and the presumption of innocence. I don't have to convince Peale or Russell you did not commit murder, sir. But I do have to cast enough doubt in the minds of your peers to make them waver, to question what the prosecutor tells them. To accomplish that, sir, you must arm me with the truth."

  "I said I didn't do it, didn't I?"

  "You do not listen well at all, I'm afraid. You think you are too clever by half, that by obfuscation you may muddle through, but it won't serve."

  The old man exhaled fully. "All right. What was you wanting me to tell them?"

  "You cannot tell them anything—you cannot even sit in the witness box. All that stands between you and the gallows is myself and the jury I present my case to. So if you have killed Annie Adams, Peg Parker, or Fanny Shawe, I want to know it. If I find you are leaving me out to be blindsided, I shall withdraw from your defense—do I make myself clear on that head?"

  "I ain't going to break my gel's heart, Hamilton."

  "If you are asking if I would tell Miss Rand, I will not. Anything you tell me is between us and no one else."

  "All I was wanting was to go home."

  "Then you are a fool," Patrick declared bluntly. "If you left here, you would not live to get to Marylebone. Surely you are not deaf, sir."

  "Aye, I heard. But I can afford the Runners."

  "It took the Horse Guards to get me inside."

  Rand drank from his cup, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "You are a cold man, Hamilton," he said sourly. "Cold."

  "I hope not." Patrick rose without touching his wine. "I'm afraid I cannot stay, but you may tell Banks tomorrow whether you want the hearing or not. And if I have not heard by two o'clock, I shall inform Mr. Peale we are ready for trial next month."

  "You already got your mind made up, ain't you? You want to try it, and the devil take me—I can tell."

  "It would be better for me to try it quickly."

  "But not for me." .

  "Either way, I mean to do the best I can for you, sir.”

  The old man waited until Patrick called for the guard, then he murmured, "Ellie was here to see me today." When Patrick said nothing, he added, "She read the announcement in the Gazette, She said—"He paused for effect. "She said as she ain't expecting to hear from you again, I should wish you happy for her."

  Patrick felt almost sick as his stomach knotted.

  “She's got a kind heart. Said I was to tell you the little dog is fine also," the old man went on slyly. "You ain't to worry over 'em—not at all. Not that you would, eh?"

  As he followed Jem out, Patrick wondered how he ever could have thought of Bartholomew Rand as affable. He walked back toward the Bailey, his mind on Elise, knowing there was no way he could say anything to her that would excuse him. He couldn't expect her to understand that he still wanted her, but he was marrying Jane.

  She said as she ain't expecting to hear from you again … As his mind echoed the message her father gave him, he was certain she'd told him good-bye. And he was equally certain that Rand knew everything. In his own way, the old man had played the pimp using his own daughter.

  Despite the fact that it was supposed to be a happy occasion, conversation at Dunster's dinner table was stiff and lagging, and for once Patrick was in no mood to make up for the lack. Beside him, Jane attempted to engage everyone with plans for the Brockhaven house and her wedding. And her wedding it was going to be, for she informed Patrick that she wished to be married from her father's estate before they took a wedding trip abroad to Italy "where the weather is warmer in early spring." Moreover, she intended to entertain with "an elegant reception upon our return, which must include members of parliament and officials of the government, of course."

  "Have you shown Mr. Hamilton the house you have picked out?" her mother asked mildly.

  "Not yet, Mama, for he could not go as planned."

  "Perhaps tomorrow then. Indeed, but I should like to go with you, and I believe we ought to tend to the matter before we go home to Scotland."

  "Tomorrow I am in court, I'm afraid," Patrick murmured.

  There was another silence, broken once more by Jane. "I was thinking perhaps of early March—or late February even for the wedding date. What do you think, Patrick?"

  "I think we will be in Italy during Lent."

  "Oh, yes—you are quite right, of course. They are mostly Catholic, aren't they? Well, that will not serve, for I should miss a good English joint."

  "What do you think, sir?" Lady Dunster asked Patrick.

  "I think I should prefer summer."

  "One could almost believe you did not wish to marry me," Jane complained.

  "Nonsense," her mother said. "He is being sensible merely."

  Throughout the meal, Dunster seemed unusually preoccupied, almost distant, entering into the conversation only when directly addressed. Upon an appeal from his daughter, he allowed that he should like the matter settled before the election "so that Hamilton may benefit from the connection."

  Later, Jane remarked wistfully that she had wished for the engagement earlier, for she had wanted to "bedazzle everyone with my betrothal ring."

  "You haven't considered that, have you?" her mother asked, turning to Patrick. "Indeed, but if you ire in need of an opinion, I shall be most happy to accompany you to Rundell and Bridge, sir—providing we go before next Thursday. I have seen some lovely ruby rings there."

  "But I had hoped for sapphires, Mama." Nonsense, my love. Rubies flatter your complexion."

  Jane looked to Patrick. "What do you think? Should you buy me sapphires or rubies?"

  Having done nothing in that quarter yet, he managed to smile. "Actually, I was thinking of giving you the ring over Christmas."

  Her disappointment evident, she said archly, "But you have not answered me—which is it to be?"

  "It is my intent to surprise you," he murmured.

  "Well, a family heirloom would be quite acceptable," Lady Dunster allowed judiciously.

  I'm afraid what there was of my mother's jewelry went to my oldest brother."

  "Yes, of course. Quite proper, really. Well, then it will have to be something from Rundell's, won't it?"

  "Yes."

  Jane turned to her father. "Did your man of affairs contact Lady Brockhaven?"

  "Yes." Dunster stopped eating for a moment to fix his eyes on his daughter's. "She wants thirty-five thousand for it."

  "That sounds like rather a lot," Patrick observed.

  "Oh, but it isn't!" Jane insisted. "You cannot have seen it! The rooms are commodious and perfectly situated for entertaining, Patrick. And we shall only have to redo the reception rooms. Besides," she added smugly, "Papa means to buy it for us."

  "If Hamilton does not want it," her father ventured, "I am sure between you, you can settle upon something else."

  "But I want it, Papa."

>   "Yes, well—" The earl coughed to clear his throat. "We shall discuss it."

  "But there is nothing to discuss!" She appealed to Patrick. "You must tell him you want it."

  "I have not yet seen the house," he murmured.

  "But I have told you of it," she said, her voice coaxing. "I know you should like it."

  "Jane, I am sure Mr. Hamilton does not wish to be badgered over his dinner." Lady Dunster gestured to a hovering footman. "I daresay Mr. Hamilton could wish for more sherry."

  What he devoutly wished was to be elsewhere. But he reminded himself that Lady Jane Barclay was his entree onto the political stage, and therefore she deserved better of him. Sipping of the sherry, he schooled himself to pleasantness.

  "Tell me, Mr. Hamilton," Lady Dunster asked, "how is it that you have chosen to practice your profession alone?"

  "I am not precisely alone, my lady," he responded politely. "I am associated with a solicitor and we employ a clerk."

  "But you have not joined a firm. One should think that with your outstanding reputation, you would perhaps have gone in with Parker and Jeffries, for I am certain they would have welcomed you."

  "When I arrived in London, I applied to them and was roundly turned down," he admitted.

  "Turned down? How so?" she wanted to know.

  "I had no money—and no reputation as yet."

  "Oh. Yes, I suppose that must signify, mustn't it?" Recovering, she smiled faintly. "But you seem to have rectified the problem, haven't you?"

  Before he could answer, the earl intervened. "Of course he has, Bella. You are talking a great deal of nonsense, my dear, for Hamilton means to quit the practice of law in favor of the enactment of it."

  "Well, I have not entirely made up my mind to leave all of it," Patrick demurred.

  Nonsense," Dunster declared flatly. "You have a brilliant career ahead of you, if you will but let me manage it. Follow me, and one day you shall have your own portfolio."