Secret Nights

by Anita Mills

  "And the Lords would defeat every bill."

  "There will come a time when enough people realize that the Lords should not be entitled to stifle every piece of progressive legislation simply because they have been born to tides, Mr. Hamilton."

  She spoke with passion, reminding him much of himself in the days when he still believed a younger son could be what he wished, even an actor.

  "How old are you, Miss Rand?"

  "Twenty-two. Definitely not in the first bloom of youth."

  "I wouldn't say that"

  "Mr. Hamilton—"

  "No, no—I admire you, Miss Rand. You have chosen not to trade on your face to gain yourself some wealthy, tided, and altogether pompous husband." It was his turn to look out the window. "I had different dreams, I am afraid."

  "You wished to be a rich barrister."

  "No, not at first." His mouth twisted. "I wished to be the greatest actor since Kemble—greater even than Kean. As a youth I would practice alone in the Scottish hills, shouting into the wind to strengthen my voice."

  "You do not have a Scots accent," she said softly.

  "I read aloud the same passages over and over, trying to sound like a sophisticated Englishman, until I got the hang of it."

  "Well, you have succeeded in that. But why did you change your mind and read law?"

  "Because I am a Hamilton, Miss Rand. And even a poor Hamilton must remember the illustrious line from whence he has come. Hamiltons," he declared with a finality, "go to Eton, then to Oxford. My great defiance was to choose Cambridge."

  "And the law."

  "And the law. What is the law but a stage, and what are barristers but actors? The great body of common law provides the script, and we adjust the parts to suit the circumstances. I submit to you, Miss Rand, that we posture as much as Kean."

  "And you are exceedingly successful, sir."

  "Yes. But now I have my eyes set on another stage." He paused, letting that sink in as he would before a jury. "I am considering a run at Parliament."

  "You could do a great deal of good."

  "A position of power is perhaps the grandest stage of all." He smiled crookedly again. "All I need is the right wife, a powerful patron, and a platform from which to harangue my fellows."

  "I see. And do you have these already discovered?" she asked, smiling back.

  "Every one."

  "Well, I hope you choose the Whigs, for they are the only ones with any conscience at all."

  He didn't know why he said it, why he'd confided anything to her at all, but he shook his head. "I expect to cast my lot in with Dunster."

  "But he is a Tory! And they are against everything!"

  "But they are in power."

  Her smile faded completely. "Then you are no better than Mrs. Coates, are you?"

  There was no mistaking the censure in her voice. He stared again out the window. "Thankfully, Miss Rand, I do not have to answer that. You are at home."

  Still, he felt compelled to add, "Unlike you, my dear, I am quite practical."

  She knew she had no right to rip up at him, no right at all. And she also knew that both of them could have been killed beneath the runaway coach's wheels when he'd chosen to save her. She sighed.

  "My wretched tongue again. Too often it takes me where I ought not to go."

  "Brutally so."

  As the hackney driver opened the door, Patrick jumped down, then reached up for her. She hesitated, then leaned into his arms before sliding to the ground. As he looked into her upturned face, he forgot his anger entirely.

  She held out her hand. "I must thank you for everything, sir—my life, the lift home." She looked up again, then dropped her gaze self-consciously. "Yes— well, I doubt we shall meet again, so regardless of how wrongly you have chosen, I shall wish you well."

  "If you need my assistance to explain, I can come in with you," he offered, taking her hand.

  "No. For all his faults, Papa still loves me dearly." Pulling away, she quickly went up the steps. When she turned back, he was still watching her. "And if he is at home, I shall just have to tell him what has happened." She smiled. "Good day, Mr. Hamilton."

  Accompanied by Big Tom, Maddie Coates slipped through the narrow, cramped lane into a dead-end alley, passing those who'd stumbled out of the opium dens to lie in stupor amid garbage and filth. Holding a perfume-drenched handkerchief over her nose to mitigate the stench, she directed her manservant to bang upon an ancient door.

  Hinges creaked as it swung inward, then an attendant peered out before silently stepping back to let them pass. It was dim and smoky within, making those who hunched over hookahs as well as those who sat on the floor appear as vacant-eyed wraiths from some nether world. Big Tom whispered to the doorkeeper, who nodded, then directed Maddie to a corner table where a solitary man awaited, his face shrouded by the hood of his cloak.

  As she sat down, Maddie's eyes darted with the eagerness of a lover to the small tannish cake on the shingle. "It looks good, it does." "It is."

  Her heart pounding, she watched him chip off bits of opium, then powder it with a pestle, mixing it with sugar before dividing it between them. His gold ring flashed, an odd bit of light amid the heavy haze that surrounded them. Her hand shook as she took a pinch and carried it to her mouth, where she tasted it. She made a face, then shuddered.

  "Oooh, 'tis bitter, it is," she complained.

  "The purest as can be had," he told her. "Wait and you will feel it."

  She reached into her reticule and brought out a tiny, blackened spoon. Dipping into the drug, she ate of it determinedly, wanting the pleasure she knew it would give her. Across from her, her companion watched, his expression one of contempt for her.

  “Your business, Maddie?" he prompted her. "You said you had a matter of import, as I recall. Something as cannot wait, wasn't it? And you was wanting opium, you said, else you would spill the budget. Well, I brought it, so's you can speak up anytime you was to want."

  But her eyes were closed as she tried to feel the first effects of the powder he'd made for her. "Aye," she murmured. "Where'd you get it? 'Tis strong."

  "Like it, don't you?" he said, nodding. "And well you ought, for 'tis the best to be got anywheres—had to pay good gold for it." This time, his ringed finger pushed his own small pile of sweetened opium toward her. "Best as can be got, Maddie—purest stuff. Pure as country snow." His voice was low, seductive, but his eyes were narrowed on her face. "Spill your business, and I got more for you."

  Already she thought she could feel the pleasant warmth, but despite her anticipation, she sensed there was something different about it. Her tongue tingled oddly. "Aye," she said. "Ye got something else in it?"

  "Ain't used to it like that, are you? You been getting the stuff as is more sugar than poppy, eh?"

  "I ain't rich like some, ye know." She ran her tongue over her lips. "My business," she began. "Aye, my business," she repeated more stoutly. " 'Tis about Peg."

  "Peg?" He seemed taken aback.

  "Ye know-—the one you was always pesterin'—the one as ye was wan tin' me ter swing fer." A slow, sly smile curved her reddened lips. "Ye know the one, don't ye? The one as was once under Maidenhope's protection until she was poppin' with his babe. Aye, ye know which one, fer ye paid extra fer her."

  His manner changed abruptly, and he sat back, his eyes malevolent. "Old woman, if I was you, I'd not tell this," he warned her.

  "I ain't no older'n ye—most likely younger, if ye was ter have the truth o' it." She leaned forward to stare beneath his hood. "And I know—aye, I know. Ye can fool the watch mayhap, but ye ain't giving the slip ter Maddie, I can tell ye. Ye was the one as dumped her in th' river, wasn't ye?"

  "You are a fool," he growled. "A silly fool."

  "Oh, but I ain't. I got it figgered out, don't ye see? And don't be thinkin' ye can do with me as ye did poor Peg, for I brung Tom wi' me ter watch as ye don't try ter snuff me out. I wouldn't want ter tempt ye, ye know, so I ain't going
nowheres with ye save where there's folks as can see ye." She waved her hand toward the big man, who waited for her by the door. "If ye was ter want ter harm me here, ye'd not live ter the alleyway. Tom—" She blinked again, thinking the opium was taking effect. "Tom's got a sticker as would carve ye like a goose—a big long 'un. Aye, ye'd be carved like ye was a big, fat goose."

  "You've eaten too much opium, Maddie," he responded coldly.

  The drug was potent, more so than any she'd had before. She tried to focus her eyes and return to the matter at hand. "But if ye was ter do right by me, why I'd be real fergitful, ye understand. I'd—" Her tongue felt too thick for speech. "I'd not tell the magistrate what I know."

  "Why, you old tart—you miserable old tart," he sneered, shaking his head. "There's none as would believe you."

  "Tart is as may be, ye old devil. At least I ain't killed a body, which is—" She stopped to pull at her tongue.

  He looked around uneasily, then laughed harshly. "If you was to tell a constable, you'd be clapped up in Bedlam for sayin' it was me—aye, there ain't a man in London as would believe you. I got money, Maddie, and money buys anything I was to want I could snap m'fingers, and they'd a be putting you away—away, Maddie."

  "Ain't anything as says I got ter tell—I might, and I might not, ye know." This time when she dipped her opium spoon, her hand was almost too heavy to lift. "Ye see, I might be persuaded ter keep what I know close—real close—ter me. Then ye could be knowin' yer secret was safe within me bosom." "I ain't your mark, Maddie."

  "Fer a bit o' yer money," she went on, " Maddie'd fergit as how ye treated me gels—-or what ye wanted from Peg, don't ye see? Aye, ye do, don't ye? And I figger I got the blunt comin' as 'twas me that nearly went ter the Nubbing Cheat for what ye done."

  For a long moment he glowered at her, then spat out, "How much? How much was you wanting?"

  "Fer five thousand quid, I'd be real quietlike—why, m'lips'd be tight shut, they would. Aye, be a sort of justice fer Peg, wouldn't it? Ye'd be a-paying fer what ye did ter her."

  "I ain't the fool as you'd take me for, Maddie. Why, there's none as would believe such a tale," he said again.

  "But being a respectable gent, ye'd not be a-wantin' 'em ter ask ye about it, would ye?" She closed her mouth around the spoon and sucked on it, scarce tasting the bitterness. " 'Tis good, it is," she said thickly, "but next time I'd have—more sugar in it. Got too much opium—" She was feeling it now, the lethargy that wanted to overwhelm her. "Where was we? Oh—money. Aye-—money, it was." She dropped her spoon onto the table. "Mebbe they won't believe me, but when there's more gels in th' river, mebbe they'd remember, eh?"

  "You'd not stop at five thousand, you old bitch."

  "If they wasn't findin' more, I would." It was getting hard to speak, and her limbs seemed to be going numb. "Don't know if I was ter want more o' this," she mumbled. "Real good, but—" As she said it, she felt an enveloping dizziness. "Pure," she decided. "Too pure."

  "I brought you what you was askin' for, Maddie."

  His voice seemed to be coming from a distance, whispering to her brain. "Too strong by half," she gasped. "Too—strong—by—half."

  "You ain't used to the good stuff, eh? Perhaps you would wish for more?" he asked, pushing the remainder of the cake toward her. "Here—you got it all, Maddie—all."

  "Cannot—" This time, when she blinked her eyes, they did not want to open. "Sleepy—too sleepy." Her shoulders slumped forward, then she managed to lift her head back one last time. "Too much."

  Again, she felt the overwhelming weakness, and she knew she could not fight it. Her head was heavy, her mind confused, and as the blackness enveloped her, she was unable to cry out for help. She scarce felt it when he reached across the table to fold her arms and ease her head onto them.

  "Old whore," he muttered contemptuously.

  He glanced furtively around them, but most were too befuddled with drug to note anything. Rising carefully, he bent as though he would speak to Maddie, then he straightened, pulled his hooded cloak closer, and went to the door. The big man there glanced to where Maddie Coates seemingly dreamed over her opium, and he shook his head.

  "Have ter carry 'er home, eh?"

  The hooded man handed him a guinea. "Mrs. Coates said you was to buy a pipe while you wait fer her." He looked back, shaking his head. "It might be hours ere she wakens."

  Big Tom considered it for a moment. "Aye, if I was ter tarry a bit, mebbe she'll come 'round enough ter save me the trouble," he decided, brightening. "Got twelve stone ter her, she does."

  "And I'd not waste the stuff on the table, you hear? Like I told her, 'tis the best to be had."

  With that, he ducked out, leaving Big Tom with the coin. For a long moment the manservant hesitated, then he went back to the dim corner where Maddie slept. Torn between spending his guinea or pocketing it, he took a seat. She wouldn't care, he decided, or if she did, she was too gone from the drug to know it. Reaching beneath her arm, he helped himself to what was left of the pressed opium cake, scarce bothering to cut it with the sugar.

  It had been a satisfying morning in the Bailey, ending with a decision not to bind Patrick's client over for trial. Dodging a chagrined Ned Milton, Patrick emerged into crisp autumn air. Without waiting for the privacy of a hackney, he tore off his barrister's wig and loosened the neck of his robe. "Hamilton!"

  Patrick spun around as Bartholomew Rand hailed him, then waited, forcing a smile. The older man approached hurriedly, puffing from the exertion.

  "Was waitin' to take you up, sirrah—aye, thought mayhap you'd be a-thirstin' from all the arguments you was making. You was masterful, Mr. Hamilton— masterful. Damme if you didn't have that Milton fellow nigh to apoplexy."

  "Thank you. Actually, I was thinking of merely going home for a quick nuncheon," Patrick admitted.

  "Aye, you are afeared I mean to disgrace you, ain't you?"

  "No, not at all," Patrick lied politely.

  "Aye, you are-—I can see it in your face." Rand smiled diffidently. "Didn't make m'fortune without knowin' what folks was thinkin', you know. Cannot blame you though if you was to turn your back on me."

  "No, I am merely tired, and my day has scarce begun."

  "Well, Em and Ellie would have it as I made a fool of myself the other night. Allowed as though they was mortified, but I was hoping you wouldn't cut the connection," the old man went on. "Was in my cups, that's all."

  "You are not the first man to drink too much," Patrick assured him.

  "Then you wasn't offended?" Rand asked hopefully. "No."

  "Well, then I got just the ticket! Come along to Garraway's—I got me a table there, don't you know? Coffee's good for drowsiness, ain't it? Be a better man in no time." The old man clapped Patrick on the back familiarly. "Got excellent meals at fair prices, if I do say so."

  "I have appointments in my office beginning at two."

  "Got plenty of time! Carriage's waiting 'round the corner, and I won't be offended if you was to wish to take off your robe in it" When Patrick still hesitated, Rand persisted. "Look, I got to make amends for the other night, don't I? And I owe you for seeing my gel home yesterday-—ain't no telling what was to happen to her if you hadn't come along. Near thing it was, or so she said."

  "She told you about it?"

  "Course she did! Oh, I ain't saying as we don't disagree mightily on this reformist business, but she's a good gel."

  Not knowing if Elise Rand had mentioned Pearl to him, Patrick forbore saying anything more than, "I was happy to oblige."

  "Got no business there though—didn't mean you, of course, 'cause you're a man—but I ain't liking for her to be where she might be harmed." As he spoke, the old Cit took Patrick's arm, directing him to the waiting coach. "Been given too free a rein, I guess, but as I only got the one, I been inclined to indulge her, probably more'n is good for a gel, if you want the truth of it But we've been pretty open in the budget with each other, which is good 'cause her m
ama ain't the sort as understands me or Ellie. M'gel's always come to me when she was in the basket. Not that Mrs. Rand ain't a good woman, mind you,"

  he added hastily. "Proud of her—demned proud of her. I think I told you she was a Bingham, didn't I?"

  "Yes, I believe you did," Patrick murmured.

  "Good blood there, but none of 'em has got much more than a farthing to pay the porter with, no matter how it pleases 'em to look down on me. But now as I got the blunt, they ain't shy about hangin' on m'sleeve."

  "I trust Miss Rand suffered no real harm, then?" Patrick asked, hoping to distract him before he launched on another discourse about his wealth.

  "No—though she's a bit bruised where she went into the pavement, but she'll come about. Brave thing, Hamilton—deuced brace—and like I was saying, I owe you for it." As they'd reached the curb, Rand nodded to his liveried coachman, who responded with alacrity, opening the carriage door with a flourish. "Don't go to the coffee houses much, do you?" the old man went on. "Or if you do, I ain't seen you about."

  "No, not very often."

  "Aye, being Quality, I'd expect you was to prefer the clubs, eh?" Without allowing any time for an answer, Rand rambled on. "Ain't been any of the gentie-men's places—to the nobs I ain't but an encroaching mushroom, you know." He stepped back to allow Patrick to swing up onto a padded seat, then he climbed with an effort to take the one opposite. Wiping his brow with a lace-edged handkerchief, he muttered, "Ain't as young as I was to wish. No, sir, I ain't a young buck like yourself."

  "Sometimes I don't feel particularly young anymore," Patrick admitted ruefully.

  "You didn't take any harm when you was saving Ellie, did you?"

  "No."

  "She said you ruined a fine coat."

  Patrick shrugged. "Nothing that cannot be replaced, I assure you." As the ornate town carriage lurched forward, he wondered why he'd committed himself to an hour or more of the old man's company.