Secret Nights

by Anita Mills

  "The Good Book can be used to justify or condemn nearly everything, Ellie. If you doubt it, look up the first two verses in 1st Kings, chapter 1."

  Curious, she opened it up and thumbed to the place, where she read, " ‘Now King David was old and stricken in years; and they covered him with clothes, but he got no heat. Wherefore his servants said unto him, Let there be sought for my lord the king a young virgin ...' " She stopped. "Yes, well, I should have expected such from a lawyer, shouldn't I? You can even twist the Bible to suit you."

  "A point of information merely," he said, smiling.

  "Did you seek your own revelation as I told you?"

  "Yes." His smile quirked downward at one corner. "And I found ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.' "

  "Well, that ought to tell you something."

  He reined in. "Ellie—"

  She looked away. "If you are wishing for someone to give you heat, Hamilton, I'm afraid I shall have to suggest Lady Jane Barclay, providing you wed her first, of course," she said flatly.

  "Are you a jealous woman? I wonder," he asked softly.

  "No, but I find myself feeling sorry for her."

  "All right." He clicked the reins, letting his horses move forward. "I will not press you further."

  As she sat there beside him, she tried to tell herself she was relieved, that those words were welcome, but as she glanced sideways at his strong, set profile, she knew differently. What she wished for was to be Dunster's daughter. To have Patrick Hamilton wish to wed her as well as bed her.

  After he had set Elise down at Rand House, he drove home, where he dutifully wrote Lord Dunster, explaining that he could not in conscience rush Bartholomew Rand to trial. Nonetheless, he thanked the earl for his efforts to minimize the political liabilities associated with the case.

  He leaned back in his chair, pondering his words, carefully composing his thoughts, then he dipped his pen again to add, "It is with great regret that I will be unable to join you before Thursday next, owing to the press of business. I would that you conveyed my continuing regard to Jane, for I know she will be disappointed. Indeed, I shall write her under separate cover, but I would that you explained my position here as gently as you can. Tell her that the preparations for trial are tedious but necessary, and assure her that she is in my thoughts often."

  Hoping that it would mollify both Dunster and his daughter, he sprinkled sand over the letter to dry the ink, then shook it over a wastebasket before folding the single sheet. Sealing it with wax from a candle, he carefully addressed it in his neat, bold hand. Taking out another piece of paper, he dipped his pen again and poised it pensively.

  He didn't really want to write to Jane, but there was no help for it. He sat there for a long time, then dipped his pen again and began with "My dear Jane, I trust your journey was a pleasant one and that you are arrived home safely. As for me, I fear there is not much to say. I have been sadly busy since you left, and given that I shall be defending an exceedingly difficult case, which will require my personal attention for another week at least, I do not foresee arriving in Scotland for several days beyond that. I do hope you will forgive what must surely seem inattentiveness on my part."

  It was, he reflected soberly, not a very romantic letter. He stared into the fire, seeking inspiration, finding none. Closing his eyes, he tried to bring her to mind. It was no use. He wasn't the frivolous sort of fellow who could rhapsodize about a woman's eyes or the arch of her brow, at least not Jane's, anyway. Not that she was not lovely, not at all. But even if he'd been so inclined, she simply did not inspire him.

  Briefly, he allowed his thoughts to wander to Elise Rand, seeing her, her eyes closed, her lips parted for his kiss, and the ache he felt was nearly unbearable. Resolutely, he returned to Jane.

  His pen scratched across the page deliberately, adding, "It is that I am nearly too tired to think tonight, but tomorrow I shall try to do much better, I promise you. For my sake and for your own, I pray you will take care of yourself. Your servant, Hamilton."

  It rather sounded like something he might have written his mother, but it would have to do for the moment. He reread it, wondering if perhaps he ought to have said he loved her, but he simply could not bring himself to write the words. Besides, with the exception of that one day in her father's carriage, she'd not said it to him either. And he suspected he'd been trapped, for since then she'd appeared much more interested in being married than in him. It seemed as though he were merely around to give her the consequence of being engaged. Not that he blamed her, for his part in the betrothal was nearly as calculated as hers.

  He opened his desk drawer to look for another quill and saw the sapphire bracelet. Now if he were truly wanting to appease her, he ought to send that, but he couldn't He'd bought it for Elise Rand.

  Hayes cleared his throat behind him, and Patrick looked up. "What is it?"

  "You scarce touched your supper, sir, and Mrs. Marsh was wondering if perhaps you wished your dessert served in here."

  "No. Actually, I am rather at a loss tonight."

  "It did not go well in court today?"

  "No one was satisfied, if you would have the truth of it. Rand was bound over for trial after Christmas."

  "It seems rather a long time away."

  "You also, old fellow? Are you one of the legions unwilling to wait for him to hang? No, it isn't as long as you would think, considering there are poor souls who have waited in Newgate for years without being died."

  "Well, I am sure it does not matter to me, sir. Shall I bring your after-dinner port now?"

  "No." Patrick heaved himself out of his seat, then stretched. "I think perhaps I may go to White's while I am still welcome. Once I stand as a Tory, no doubt I shall have to forgo the place for Brooks', eh?"

  Hayes frowned. "I would that you did not ask my opinion of that, sir, for I quite favor the Whigs myself."

  "I know."

  "But no doubt you will improve the Tories immensely," the butler declared loyally. "For all that you would hide it, you have a kind side to your character."

  "Doing it too brown, Hayes," Patrick murmured dryly. "And I pray you will not say it too loudly, for I am a lawyer."

  "While you are readying, shall I send a fellow for a hackney?"

  "No. I'll take my own gig tonight, so you may order the pair put to it."

  But when freshly shaved again and in his evening clothes, he swung up into the tilbury seat, and started not for White's, but rather for Elise Rand's house. Not that he expected her to relent, but conversation with her held more appeal than drinking himself under the gaming tables. Besides, he felt incredibly lonely. Behind, on the back step, his coach boy whistled a mournful tune.

  As Patrick drove the Marylebone Road, he could hear them, and his blood ran nearly cold. The glow of torches gave a deceptively rosy glow to the night sky. He flicked his whip, urging his horses to speed, hoping what he smelled and saw had nothing to do with Rand.

  He heard the horses behind him, and then he was swallowed within the ranks of surging Horse Guards, leaving no doubt that he was not mistaken. They passed at full gallop. His heart in his throat, Patrick applied the whip and shouted at his horses. They broke into a run, and the tilbury careened after them.

  Angry jeers taunted the riders, then shots rang out, and die acrid smell of gunpowder met the smoke of torches. Ahead of him, Patrick could see the fire, while behind him water wagons rumbled. All he could think of was that the mob had burned Rand's house. He dismounted and ran pell-mell for it, encountering a wall of dirty, screaming Londoners. Horses reared, and the troops continued firing, adding to the unbearable din.

  He cut off at the corner, running for the side street, then coming around the back of the house. Frightened servants were pouring out of a service door, carrying what little they could save. Patrick gulped of the smoke-filled air, and ran harder. As he reached the lawn, he could see soldiers scrambling up the brick walls, trying to reach
someone hanging out a window.

  Scanning those who'd gathered outside, he saw Elise, and the relief he felt was indescribable. But before he could reach her, a small, soot-streaked tweeny broke away from the others and ran back inside. Elise screamed at her, then ran to catch her, disappearing into the smoke. Above, a window broke from the heat of a burning curtain.

  The old butler turned to go back, but Patrick pushed him aside. A soldier caught at Patrick's coat, nearly tearing it off him, but he broke loose and plunged into the heat

  The smoke was so thick he couldn't see, burning his eyes, his throat, and his lungs. He dropped down to crawl on his hands and knees, shouting hoarsely, "Ellie! Ellie! For God's sake, answer me!"

  Somewhere in the darkness, a child cried fearfully, "Button! Button, where are you?"

  He looked up, seeing the girl outlined by the fire behind the smoke. Still on his hands and knees, he scrambled up the steps and caught at her skirt, pulling her down. She tumbled over him, and lay coughing at his feet. The soldier, who'd followed him, grabbed her dress and dragged her toward the door.

  "Ellie! Ellie! Answer me, Ellie!" Patrick croaked out. "Where are you!" The banister above the foyer came crashing down, and a flaming piece of it nearly struck him. "Ellie!"

  He saw her then. She was above him, the puppy in her arms, and she appeared dazed. Somewhere behind her, more glass broke, and the rush of air fed the flames. For a moment it looked as though she might go back, but she caught at the wall, choked by coughing.

  "Down here, Ellie! Down here!" he shouted at her. "Get down! For God's sake, Ellie, get down!" His lungs were raw, and his breath nearly gone. "Roll down the stairs!"

  It was obvious that she could not see for the smoke billowing up. But she dropped to her knees, out of his sight, then he heard rather than saw her hit the steps as she came down, rolled into a ball around the dog. He pulled her burning skirt off her and lay down beside her. With one arm tightly grasping her beneath her shoulder, he crawled for the door.

  Someone caught him, pulling at his shoulders, dragging both of them, and he finally tasted air and felt the cool earth beneath him. He opened his burning eyes as a soldier knelt over Elise, lifting her arms above her head, pounding on her back.

  "Got to get the smoke from her lungs," the fellow said, his own voice rasping.

  Another soldier wiped at Patrick's face with a wet handkerchief. "We are taking you to a hospital," he reassured him.

  Somehow, Patrick managed to sit up and look at his black hands. "No, I am all right. Ellie—"

  She was coughing—a good sign, he hoped. The guardsman who'd been pounding on her sat back, nodding. "She ain't burned," he said, "but the dog's a mite singed."

  "Lizzie?" she croaked.

  "Silly little chit ain't hurt," someone told her, taking the limp puppy.

  She sat up shakily, then felt of her hair, discovering she still had it. Then, whether from relief or exhaustion, she began to cry. Deep, whooping sobs wracked her body.

  Heedless of those around them, Patrick pulled her into his arms, cradling her in his lap. His hand pressed her head into his shoulder while he said over and over again, "You are all right, Ellie—you are all right, Ellie."

  "They burned my house, Hamilton!" she cried, her voice nearly too hoarse for speech. "They burned the house where I was born! They have destroyed Papa's house!"

  "I know—we'll build you another," he promised.

  "I got 'im!" a begrimed guardsman announced gleefully. "I got 'im!" In between shouts, he kept blowing into the dog's mouth. "Tough little cove, he is!"

  "Oh, Button!" the tweeny cried as the pup wagged its tail.

  "Did—did everybody get out?" Elise managed through her tears.

  "Aye." Molly stood over her, shaking her head. "Ye was a fool ter go back, and ye know it."

  "Lizzie—Lizzie went in—"

  "And ye ought ter birch her fer it," the maid said sourly.

  "I went atter Button!"

  "Aye, and ye nearly kilt yer mistress fer a dog!"

  Fighting the urge to turn her head into Patrick's smoky coat, Elise forced herself to look at what was left of her house. Flames were coming from broken windows, licking up the brick walls, while inside the whole place was an inferno. Something crashed loudly from within.

  People made a line from the water wagons, passing buckets in an impotent attempt to save what was left. And then a piece of the roof caved in.

  "Tell them to save the water," Elise choked out "It is hopeless."

  Still holding her, Patrick struggled to get out of his coat, then he laid it over her torn petticoat to cover her bare, soot-streaked legs. Looking up at Graves, he asked, "Is there anywhere you can stay?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And the others?"

  "Most of us have relations in London."

  "I'll find a place for Miss Rand—and her maid, of course. If you need anything, you may apply to my office, and I shall leave instructions for Mr. Byrnes."

  "I cannot go home with you," Elise protested. "A hotel—the Fenton—"

  "No. I want you out of London. I'd take you where you are safe from this," Patrick told her.

  "Ye'd best listen ter him, miss—he went into the fire fer ye," Molly added.

  "But Papa—"

  "Yer papa's going to want ye safe," the maid declared. "Ye got to listen to Mr. Hamilton."

  Forcing a smile despite the awful ache in her breast, Elise looked into Patrick's smoke-blackened face. "I owe you my life, Hamilton. I couldn't see anything in there—if you'd not called out, I'd not have found my way down," she whispered.

  His arms tightened about her shoulders. "I wouldn't have come out without you, Ellie. You are—"

  A guardsman cleared his throat, interrupting Patrick. "If you are taking her with you, sir, you'd best leave by the back. She ought not to see what's out front."

  "Aye, there's five as won't be settin' any more fires," another announced grimly. "And that's not counting the ones as trampled each other. Some of 'em is plain flattened."

  Molly surveyed her streaked dress sadly. "But we ain't got nuthin' ter wear, fer there wasn't no time to save anything. E'en m'Sunday gown's gone. And ye— ye cannot go about without no skirt—" She looked about her helplessly. "Well, ye cannot, but—"

  "Just now I am beyond caring about that," Elise countered wearily.

  "I brung yer papa's money box," Joseph mumbled. "I thought you might 'ave need of it. I think we got all his boxes out, but I don't know what's in some of 'em."

  "Thank you." Elise sat up and reached for the money box. It wasn't locked. "You are all going to need something." Opening it, she stared almost numbly into the neat stacks of banknotes and the small sacks of coins. "Will ten guineas each—? I don't know—you will need everything—"

  "It ought to suffice for a few days at least," Patrick said gently. "After that, they may apply to my office, and Banks or Byrnes will see they have what they need." Looking to Graves, he directed, "Just take whatever of import that you have managed to save to my office. Later, when she is more able, Miss Rand will sort through everything." Seeing that the man hesitated, he added, "Mr. Byrnes will give you a receipt listing what you give him that she may have a full accounting."

  "Aye, sir."

  Elise handed out ten guineas to every one of them, then as most left, she finally struggled to stand, holding Hamilton's coat over her legs, while Molly stood behind her, shielding her from the soldiers' and servants' eyes.

  Leaving them in the company of a solicitous lieutenant, Patrick walked the block and a half to where he'd left his tilbury, only to discover his frightened coachey had apparently fled in it. Disgusted, he walked back.

  One of Rand's neighbors, a wealthy sugar merchant named Joshua Clark, came forward to offer the use of his carriage, but one of Rand's coachmen spoke up then saying that the carriage house hadn't burned and that while the horses were a bit skittish, they'd all survived.

  "Glad enough for that, at le
ast," Clark declared bluffly. "Bat's demned proud of his horseflesh— always gets the best of everything, you know."

  His wife, who'd watched silently with their servants, offered to provide Elise with clothes and a cloak, saying, "By rights, you ought to stay here with us, my dear."

  "Here now—" Clark growled. "Hamilton's tending to that, ain't you, Mr. Hamilton? Bat's lawyer, after ill."

  'Yes."

  "Well, the least we can do is see that she does not go off looking like the veriest ragamuffin," Mrs. Clark insisted.

  "I don't—" Feeling at an utter loss still, Elise hesitated until the older woman took her by the arm and led her toward a pretentious sandstone mansion nearby.

  "You, too, Mr. Hamilton," the sugar merchant said. "Best get off the street ere anything more happens, eh?" Falling in beside Patrick, he added conversationally, "Been an admirer of yours, sir—followed you in the newspapers. And if I wasn't to tell you it's in the coffee houses as how you are meaning to sit with the Tories, I'd be remiss."

  “Oh?"

  “Aye. Good thing if you was to do it, you know," Clark went on. "Too demned many reformers amongst the Whigs, as I see it—why, if we was to listen to them, I'd not make a profit, I'll be bound. Why, the Whigs is bad for business!"

  Emotionally drained, Patrick had no wish to discuss politics just then. "You flatter me," he managed to murmur.

  "Ain't no flattering to it," Clark assured him bluntly. "The Whigs is wanting in my pockets to make everything right—like it is Joshua Clark's fault as the shiftless don't eat. No, sir—put 'em to work, I say— and them as don't, well, they don't eat! Simple enough, ain't it?"

  "A lot of the displaced are soldiers come back from the war," Patrick reminded him grimly.

  "And we don't need 'em anymore. They was somewhere ere they went off to fight, wasn't they? Well, let 'em go back where they was come from!" Clark paused and caught himself. "Not as we don't owe 'em something, sir, but damme if it's coming from me, that's all." His eyes raked over Patrick, taking in his streaked face. "Best have Tinney—that's my man— fetch you a cloth and bowl, eh? Margaret ain't going to want you in any of her chairs like that."