Secret Nights Page 3

  "Thank you."

  The older man held out his empty glass. "I'd have another, if you was to offer it." As Patrick took it and rose to pour him the drink, Rand conceded, "Oh, it ain't much—my business here, that is—nothing like what you are used to. I just want to know as I got the best in everything."

  While pouring the port, Patrick reflected that he could see what made the man successful. Rand practiced flattery as though it were an art. Returning to his desk, Patrick handed the older man his refilled glass.

  "Go on."

  "Bat Rand don't do anything halfway." Setting his glass on the desk, the older man reached into his coat to draw out a leather money folder. As he handed it across, he watched Patrick. "Go ahead—there's five hundred quid in there, and that's but the beginning."

  For a long moment, the younger man regarded him soberly. "Mr. Rand," he asked finally, "are you accused of a crime?"

  "Eh? No, of course not! Just want a bit of insurance, that's all. Ain't to say I won't need you someday, is there? A man of wealth ought to have more'n a decent lawyer," Rand insisted.

  length over more port," he coaxed. "Meet m'family— Mrs. Rand's one of your people—born Quality, I mean. And Elise—the gel you saw—is a great admirer of yours." Afraid Patrick might decline, he added slyly, "My only issue, you know."

  "No, but—" Patrick hesitated, torn between the opportunity to see the intriguing Miss Rand again and the prospect of an interminable evening among strangers not of his class.

  "Got all the fine manners, too," the old man declared proudly. "She wouldn't have been with me, but when she heard I was going to hear you, I couldn't keep her away."

  "And I rather thought she'd come to see—er— Pearl, was it?" Patrick murmured sardonically. "Yes, I think the girl's name was Pearl."

  "Oh, that don't signify! Told you—m'gel's got a soft heart, that's all. Besides, who's to say it wasn't you as drew her down there? Mebbe she was a-wanting to see you a bit closer, eh?" Rand winked. " 'Tis a handsome buck you are, Hamilton, and you got to know it."

  "As a general rule I regard work and pleasure rather like oil and water," Patrick said.

  "And you don't mix 'em. Aye, but you've seen my gel, and you will, eh? Good, good. Look forward to it." Rising with an effort, the old man held out his hand again. "See you about eight—or later, if you was to wish it. Damme if Emma and Ellie won't be pleased when I tell 'em you are coming, sir."

  As tired as he was, as little as he relished the prospect of dressing again for dinner, Patrick considered the girl and relented. "Then eight it is, sir."

  "Good. I can promise you a fine dinner, too. I got a Frenchy cook by the name of Jacques Millet as was in Napoleon's own kitchen once. Why, you won't know but what you are eating like a royal duke, I swear it." His business concluded, Rand started for the door, then turned back briefly. "My gel's going to be in Alt, sir—Alt," he predicted.

  After the old man left, Patrick settled back in his chair and contemplated his half-filled glass. Earlier

  Patrick eyed him skeptically. "A criminal barrister? Mr. Rand, I assure you I have not the least competence in civil law. You are better advised to seek a solicitor, and I do not hesitate to recommend my associate. Mr. Banks is as thorough as—"

  "Dash it, but you took the Voisky woman's case, didn't you? A man don't have to kill nobotly to engage you, does he?"

  "I believe we have discussed Latly Townsend alreatly."

  "Only meant she wasn't in the way of your ordinary client," Rand said hastily. Leaning forward again, he sobered visibly. "Look—I ain't forgot how the Luddites burned the looms and ruined businesses. Well, bricks—millions of 'em—is my living, don't you see? What if it was to happen to me? What if I was to have workers as despises the hand as feeds 'em."

  "If you notify the Home Secretary's office, the militia can be brought to defend your brickworks."

  "The militia be damned! They don't come until all's done, as far as I can see it," Rand scoffed. "I'd rather tend the matter in my own way."

  "I cannot countenance a crime before it is committed—or after, for that matter," Patrick said dryly.

  "What if I was to defend my business, and what if a rioter was to get killed?"

  "The circumstances would have to be considered, but in most cases, the law is on your side."

  "Circumstances be damned also, sir!" The older man's expression softened suddenly, and he coaxed, "Take the money—I'd rather pay you than a damned militia."

  A faint smile played at the corners of Patrick's mouth. "Mr. Rand, if you were to actually be accused of harming anyone, I'm afraid I should require a great deal more than five hundred pounds."

  "And like I was telling you, I got it—whatever you was to ask, I got it. All you got to do is name the price. Tell you what—your time's short, ain't it? Listen, you come to dine with me tonight in Marylebone—got the biggest house there—and we'll discuss the matter at

  he'd dismissed any hope of ever seeing the fair Elise again, but given a freak circumstance of chance, he was now going to dine with her. Not that he could have any real interest in that quarter, he reminded himself, for no matter how wealthy her father, he couldn't afford to ally himself with a female of inferior social standing.

  "Mr. Hamilton-—sir?"

  Patrick looked up. "What is it, John?"

  "Mr. Johnson declined to wait, sir—said he'd be 'round tomorrow, and he wouldn't talk with Mr. Banks either, saying he needed someone who could conduct a defense before the bench. I collect it is something concerning his brother's arrest for larceny—it seems he was a footman caught inside Lord Brompton's house in possession of a piece of Latly Brompton's jewelry."

  "If he was caught in the act, about all I can do is plead him," Patrick decided.

  "Mr. Johnson was hopeful that perhaps you could get him transported. Otherwise, he is very much afraid his brother will hang."

  "I'd say it is a certainty he will."

  The clerk cleared his throat. "He says his brother was wrongfully discharged for dallying with the latly. The brooch in question was supposed to be a parting gift from her."

  "Ah, now that could make the difference. I doubt Brompton will wish to chance washing his linen in court. I suppose," Patrick mused, "I could suggest to Peale that it is in everyone's interest to avoid embarrassing Brompton."

  The young man cleared his throat again. "And Mr. Johnson was wishful of knowing if you could be paid later, sir. I did suggest that he visit the cent per cents, but I am not at all certain he can afford a moneylender."

  Patrick drummed his fingers on the folder containing Bartholomew Rand's money. Finally, he sighed. "When Mr. Johnson returns, you may inform him that I shall speak to Mr. Peale, and if it can be

  arranged between us, I will plead for his brother." He stared unseeing for a moment, then sighed again. "God grant that Mr. Justice Tate sits on that one; otherwise, if it should be Russell, Johnson can count his brother as good as hanged alreatly." "Oh?"

  "Last session he sentenced a twelve-year-old boy to the gallows over a bucket of paint," Patrick recalled dryly. ''Anything else?"

  "Mr. Banks finished researching Lord Pender's case, sir, and has prepared a summary for you."

  "Did he include the depositions?"

  "Yes." Byrne hesitated, then blurted out, "I have read them, and I think Mr. Thirske perjures himself. What he told Mr. Banks yesterday does not at all agree with what he said to the magistrate."

  "One day, John, you are going to practice before the bar," Patrick predicted.

  "Thank you, sir."

  "I don't suppose you have seen the Gazette, have you?"

  "I put it in your drawer."

  Leaning over the desk, Patrick found the paper. "Ah, yes. That will be all for the moment." He unfolded the newspaper and scanned the front page for the previous day's account of the Coates's trial. It wouldn't show that she'd been acquitted, but it would still provide diversion from the usual announcements and scarce-veiled on dits.
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  To his disgust, there was nothing of interest beyond the lurid account of another murder, once again a prostitute, judging by the reference to "the soiled dove." He read on, drawn in by the writer's clever mix of righteous indignation and condemnation. "The poor unfortunate," one Fanny Shawe, had apparently fallen victim to a dissatisfied client, resulting in a vicious attack that left her dead, her botly dumped into the Serpentine. She'd apparently attempted to fight, for no fewer than fifteen slashes to her arms and face had been counted. Either that, or her killer had vented a great deal of fury upon her botly.

  "One more thing, sir," John Byrnes murmured apologetically from the door. "Yes?"

  "I almost forgot—Lord Leighton stopped by to see you."

  "On business?"

  "No. He wished me to tell you that Latly Townsend is supremely happy."

  "I know—she wrote me also."

  Byrnes's gaze dropped to the Gazette. "Shocking business—that poor girl, I mean." "Yes."

  "He seems to like the river, doesn't he? The killer, I mean."

  Patrick refolded the paper and set it on a corner of the desk. "It almost reminds me of the Peg Parker thing, but in that case, there was little struggle."

  "Third girl to be discovered in the Serpentine this year," Byrnes remembered. "Except for the suicides, that is." When Patrick said nothing, he added, "You'd think they—those girls—would be more careful, wouldn't you?"

  "A hazard of the profession."

  "I suppose." Byrnes sighed. "Well, in any event, I'm off—unless you need me, of course."

  "No, not at all. I'll walk out with you. We shall leave Mr. Banks to toil alone, poor fellow."

  "Oh, I think he likes being shut up with the books, sir."

  "And you, John—what do you like?" Patrick wondered.

  "I should wish to be precisely what you are," the clerk answered without hesitation.

  Patrick heaved his tired botly up from his chair and twisted his head to ease his aching neck, 1 le could hear the vertebrae in his neck pop beneath the back of his stiffened cravat. His eyes were almost dry from lack of sleep, telling him he ought to be going home to bed. Instead, he was looking forward to freeing a Cit's daughter, who was probably possessed of more hair than wit.

  Aloud, he said, "You'd best lock the door—Henry can let himself out when he wishes, but I doubt he will want to speak with anyone who should wander in."

  " 'Tis a wonder he does not go blind from preparing papers, sir."

  "Being a solicitor is a good, solid profession," Patrick reminded the clerk.

  "I should still wish to be a barrister." Retrieving the office door key from a coat pocket, John Byrnes waited for him to step outside. "A man cannot burn both ends of the candle forever," he observed as Patrick passed him. "Though you and Mr. Banks seem to think so."

  "Two more weeks, John—two more weeks," Patrick promised, "and then I shall enjoy hunting grouse with Lord Dunster in Scotland."

  "And upon your return, I expect we shall be wishing you happy," the younger man said matter-of-factly.

  "Where did you hear that?"

  "Everywhere—'tis common gossip in the Bailey, sir." The clerk grinned. "I've got ten quid on it myself." He looked up, his expression sobering suddenly. "But if you do not mind my saying it, sir, I should think it a shame if you ceased the practice of law."

  "Actually, I have been thinking of standing for Parliament."

  "I know. There's wagers on that also, sir," Brynes acknowledged. "But I still think it wrong for you to be anywhere other than arguing in the Bailey."

  "I shall take that under advisement," Patrick murmured dryly.

  "I hope so," the clerk declared sincerely. "I truly hope so."

  Reading again, Puss? It ain't no thin' to do with Holy Hannah, is it?" he asked suspiciously. "Ought to be like other females—readin' novels and that fellow Byron."

  Elise Rand looked up guiltily. Her father stood in the doorway, a nearly empty glass in his hand. One glance at his florid color told her that he'd alreatly imbibed more than he ought.

  "But you don't like Byron," she reminded him mildly.

  "Don't like his politics, that's all."

  "You called him a faithless libertine, I believe," she added, smiling.

  "So what's that?" he demanded abruptly.

  She sighed. "I am caught out, I'm afraid. It is The Christian Observer"

  "Methodist pap!" he snorted.

  "Not entirely," she responded mildly. "Mr. Wilberforce not only has supported the abolition of slavery, but he has also wished for the emancipation of Catholics."

  "And Catholics is Papist fools! As for Wilberforce, he ought to keep his Methodism out of Parliament! He's naught but an infernal meddler, I tell you! Next thing he'll be wanting is women in politics!

  "They are alreatly there, Papa."

  "You know my meaning, Puss—no need to be roundabout with me! I was meaning the next thing you know he'll be wanting 'em to vote!"

  "Is that such a bad notion, Papa?" she asked, feigning innocence.

  "Eve was made to serve Adam!"

  It was no use provoking further argument with him, and she knew it. He had little use for any sort of reform at all. "I am only reading what the man has to say, Papa."

  "Aye, and afore long you'll be wantin' to go to the demned meetings, won't you?"

  "I have alreatly heard Mrs. More and Mr. Wilberforce speak, and while I tend to agree with them, I am well aware you would threaten to disown me if I actually joined them. And," she added impishly, "I have not heard either of them suggest that females ought to vote—-though I cannot think it would not be a good notion."

  "What? Now you see here, missy! You'll not—" He caught himself and peered suspiciously at her. "Humph! Well, I collect you was running with your papa, wasn't you?''

  "Yes."

  Somewhat mollified, he muttered, "Well, you ain't going to any demned meetings, gel—see as you don't forget that." He drank from his glass, then regarded her almost soberly for a long moment. "What was you thinking of today, anyway?"

  She knew he meant the scene in the Sessions House courtroom, but decided to feign ignorance. "Today?"

  "Sly puss, ain't you?" He walked closer, until he stood over her. "You ain't got no business with the Coates woman."

  "But did you not see the condition of Pearl—of the thin girl with her? Papa, I think she has consumption!"

  "It ain't none of your affair, Puss."

  "But that woman will not seek medical attention for her," she argued. "It doesn't mean anything to Mrs. Coates if Pearl should die—no doubt she will merely go to the poorhouses and buy another girl to sell for a few shillings to the tumble."

  "Puss!" he remonstrated sharply. "You ain't supposed to say that sort of thing! And where in the deuce did you meet that sort of female?"

  "What difference does it make?" she countered, un-

  repentant. "And I've heard you say something very like that."

  "I want you to talk like a latly, that's the difference—and don't you be forgetting it. Now—where did you meet the tart? I ain't asking but once!"

  Her chin came up and her bright blue eyes met his. "I was handing out leaflets in Covent Garden, if you must know." As his color darkened ominously, she decided to appeal to his conscience. "Papa, she buys those girls! It is as though they are slaves!"

  "Shows what you know of it!" he snorted. "If they wasn't there, they'd not eat, Elise. You think they'd be better begging in the opium dens?"

  "Surely you do not condone the practice of—of selling female flesh to—to the worst of men!" she sputtered.

  "Course I don't condone it! Now, damme, you are putting words in m'mouth! But there's been bits of fluff since the Garden of Eden!"

  "Where? 'Twas only Adam and Eve then, Papa."

  When it came to matters of religion, he knew he was on decidedly shaky ground. "You was knowing my meaning, Puss," he muttered defensively.

  "Have you ever been to a brothel, Papa?"
she asked him directly.

  "Course not," he lied. "But that ain't to say as they don't serve a purpose."

  "I'd like to know what it is—besides pandering to the worst sort of perversion."

  "It ain't your affair," he reminded her testily. "There—must be the third time I've said it, and that's the end!" Reaching out with his free hand, he snatched the paper from her lap, then flung it into the fireplace, where it was quietly consumed by the flames. "A pox on Hannah More, on Wilberforce— aye, and on the tarts also! A man's got a right to peace in his own house—and don't you be forgetting it, missy."

  "But I cannot—"

  "And you ain't bringing one of 'em here to reform neither, that's all there is to the matter. I still ain't forgot as how I had to pay off that chimney sweep's master afore you was arrested," he recalled with feeling. "As though I wanted the little heathen underfoot."

  "And he is in Mrs. More's school, which is where he belongs. Surely you would not wish him to die of soot sores, would you?" she countered reasonably.

  "Don't want to hear of it," he muttered. "Just don't bring me anything else, or I shall deliver it back to its rightful master—or mistress, as the case may be."

  "You would not."

  "Aye, I would." He stared down into her upturned face, then looked away as his manner changed. "Aye, you are a good girl, Ellie—the joy of m'life. Aye, a good girl," he repeated almost soberly. "But you've too kind a heart. You ought to be worrying about a house and husband instead of the riffraff."

  "I thought Mama was the joy of your life," she reminded him. "I am the bane, as you will recall."

  "Never said it."

  "In the carriage today."

  "Was vexed with you, that's all. Always wanting to do good instead of what you was made to do. A female is meant to be married, you know. You are two and twenty, Puss—if you was a nob, they'd be a-calling you an ape-leader ere now."

  "But I am not a nob, am I? I don't have to pretend as though I know nothing of the world around me— and I don't have to waste my time doing nothing."

  "With my money, Puss, I could have made you a latly. There was Sir Richard Hanford—or Darlington even."

  "There was Ben."