Secret Nights

by Anita Mills

  "I ain't standing for this, Ellie!"

  Finally, Patrick could stand Rand's browbeating no longer. On impulse, he went upstairs, meeting Emma-line Rand in the hallway.

  "Do you mind if I speak with her?"

  "I doubt it will help, sir, for each is as stubborn as the other. And when he shouts, I fear it only makes the situation worse," she said unhappily. "Now he must win—no matter what, he must win."

  He moved to the open door and rapped at the jamb with his knuckles to gain their attention. Elise spun around angrily, then saw him.

  "What are you doing here?"

  But he looked to her red-faced father. "Er—if I might be private with Miss Rand for a moment? I assure you I mean to do nothing to overset her further."

  For a long moment the old man stared back, then slowly his own anger ebbed. "Aye," he muttered. "Gel's naught but pigheaded. Mebbe you can speak to her."

  Her heightened color faded as she faced Patrick. "I cannot make him understand I have no wish to throw myself at your head, sir," she said, her husky voice low.

  "Miss Rand, I assure you I expect nothing of the sort," he responded gently. "I merely thought to take you up for a carriage ride about the park." His smile twisted diffidently. "Was it my mistake, or did we not cry friends?"

  She wanted to cry out that she had no wish to go anywhere with him, but she knew it was not entirely the truth. Glancing at the small watercolor she'd done of Ben, she felt acutely disloyal as she nodded.

  "You must think me terribly ungrateful for my life."

  "Gratitude makes for unequal friends, Miss Rand."

  "Is that what you want? To cry friends only?"

  "Yes."

  Her father turned to her mother, who still hovered in the hall. "Told you he had a way about him, didn't I?" he whispered loudly.

  "My hair is down like the veriest schoolgirl," Elise said finally. "And I look the complete dowd. But—" She met his hazel eyes for a moment, then looked away. "But I daresay it does not make much difference, does it?"

  "None at all."

  "And when I am seen, there's none as could think that I—"

  "No one could mistake you for a Cyprian," he said, interrupting her, forgetting he'd once thought it. "How cold is it?"

  "As I mean to purloin your father's carriage, I should say a light pelisse would suffice."

  "Yes. Well, London is rather short of company already, isn't it?"

  "Not so short that I could not have discovered someone else," he countered, smiling.

  "No, I suppose not. But I cannot think why you are come here."

  "I told you—I thought I would merely share a drive with a friend."

  "Go on, Puss," her father urged her. "Do you good to get outside when it ain't raining."

  "Mama—?"

  "I should think it rather pleasant to escape this house."

  "Very well," Elise decided without much enthusiasm.

  Turning to fetch a blue merino wool pelisse, she put it on with unsteady hands. Guilt washed over her again, but she put it aside, telling herself that Patrick Hamilton had no real interest in her and she none in him.

  "I'll have Mary get your bonnet," her mother said. "And perhaps you can take her with you for propriety," she added.

  "I can find one myself, Mama—and as I am not a tonish lady, I don't need Mary to maintain my reputation."

  "Puss!"

  "Well, I am not." Her chin came up. "I am two and twenty, and I am a Cit." "Here now—"

  "And I am proud enough of it, Papa."

  She found a rather plain felt shako trimmed only with pheasant feathers and tied the narrow grosgrain ribbons beneath her chin. "Yes, well," she managed, sighing, "I expect I am ready, sir."

  It was not until he was handing her up into her father's town coach that he asked, "Was it necessary to poll your parents ere you could decide?"

  "Yes," she answered simply. Taking her seat, she fixed her gaze on the gleaming brass sconce for a moment. "I suppose I wanted Ben to know that I am not particularly disloyal."

  "Ben Rose?"

  "Oh, I know he is dead, Mr. Hamilton, but I like to believe he knows I still care."

  "All, I see the reason behind the military hat," he murmured. "You have made yourself into a citadel."

  "Actually, I merely happen to like the style." She forced a smile. "Well, which park is it to be—Green or Hyde?"

  "Neither."

  "Neither? But you said—"

  "I know, and it was as good an excuse as any I could think of at the moment. Actually—" He paused as her eyes widened. "Actually, Miss Rand, I'd thought to visit Pearl."

  "Pearl!"

  "Maddie Coates is dead. You might have read the tale in the morning papers."

  "No," she said faintly. "No, I did not. I was rather occupied with writing a letter to Mrs. More—I have hopes she can be persuaded to find a place for Pearl in the country, where the air is better."

  "Do you really think the girl will be able to travel, Miss Rand?"

  "Yes—no." She sighed. "But I have prayed she will survive." She looked up at him, her expression sober. "She has had such an awful life, you know."

  "And I suppose it has never occurred to you that everything cannot be fixed, has it?" he asked, smiling.

  "I know that, sir," she retorted. "I am not a complete imbecile. But I do think that God expects us to attempt alleviating the suffering of our fellow man, Mr. Hamilton."

  "Ah, I forgot—the Methodists."

  "They do a great deal of good."

  "And preach while they dole out the bread, my dear."

  "Is it so terribly wrong to wish to make things better? Is it wrong to give people hope?"

  "Not if they wish to hear it, Miss Rand. But to make preaching the price of survival seems rather dictatorial to me."

  "Yes, well, I suppose a man of your stamp might think so, sir," she countered evenly. "I happen to think that a belief in some higher being can sustain one through life's tragedies."

  "My stamp? What the devil is that supposed to mean? My dear Miss Rand, I take leave to tell you that I have helped my share survive."

  "And they pay you handsomely for it." She looked at her gloved hands for a moment, then spoke more slowly. "I am not a Methodist, Mr. Hamilton—indeed, I am not nearly good enough to be one."

  'You relieve my mind," he said dryly.

  "Is everything a jest to you? Do you care about nothing, sir?"

  "I care about a great deal, but I happen to think a good dollop of pragmatism is worth far more than a prayer." A smile twisted his mouth. "Come, can we not avoid a brangle every time we are met?"

  "You could have asked for Pearl's direction, you know. I would have told you she is still abed at the Royal."

  "I thought she might be afraid to answer my questions," he admitted. He leaned back, regarding her intently, then exhaled fully. "According to the newspaper, Maddie Coates died of an acute overdose of opium, taking her butler with her."

  "Her butler?" She appeared taken aback. "But how—?"

  "That is precisely what I should like to know. I have encountered a number of opium eaters, but she must surely be the first experienced one who did not succumb alone. 'Twould seem odd that Big Tom also perished, wouldn't it?"

  "Well, I—that is, I cannot say that I know much about the subject at all. But unless they both partook of something tainted, I should think it quite odd myself."

  "Precisely."

  "But what has Pearl got to do with it? She was not even there," she pointed out reasonably.

  "I don't know. But Maddie started to tell me of one of her clients." As her expression changed to one of disbelief, he tried to mollify her. "I realize this is a rather indelicate matter, Miss Rand, but having encountered you at Maddie's establishment, I did not think you the sort to be unduly missish."

  "No, of course not," she managed, "but I must say I am unused to the subject."

  "Your pardon, then. In any event," he went on, "she spoke of
an old gent whose peculiar appetites got him turned away from the place."

  "And you think Pearl might know of this person?"

  "Yes."

  "But what has this got to do with Mrs. Coates and Big Tom?"

  "I think that Maddie intended to bite into the old gent's purse."

  "You mean extort money from him." "Precisely again."

  "You think she knew something," she mused, "but if that were so, why did she not speak up during her trial?"

  "I don't think it occurred to her at the time. I think something must have happened to remind her of him after the trial ended."

  "I see. But if it was not an overdose, don't you think that the authorities would investigate the matter?"

  He looked pained. "My dear Miss Rand, Magdalene Coates was a brothel keeper and an opium eater. I do not doubt for so much as a minute that her demise is counted other than a good riddance."

  "But that is absurd!"

  He cocked his head slightly, his eyes on hers. "Is it?" he asked softly. "Do you count her a loss?" "No, but—" "I rest my case."

  "But I am not a constable nor a coroner, Mr. Hamilton. If I were, and if I believed she died by other than her own carelessness, I should consider it a matter of justice to investigate the matter thoroughly."

  "May the Almighty deliver me," he murmured, grinning. "Never say you are one of those who believe that justice comes down like manna from heaven."

  "There is the rule of law, sir," she retorted stiffly.

  "The law, Miss Rand, suits the judge—not the judged."

  "Do you believe in nothing?" she countered, her voice rising. "You, sir, are a lawyer!"

  "And I believe in me. I am the best damned barrister to be had," he declared flatly.

  "Yes, so Papa is wont to tell me."

  "If I were in danger of facing the hangman, my dear, I should wish to conduct my own defense."

  She looked out into the street and recognized the Royal Hospital building. "If you are so filled with your own conceit, sir, I cannot think why you wished to bring this mere mortar with you."

  This time, his smile warmed his hazel eyes, making them seem nearly gold. "I suppose I felt the need for company," he murmured, reaching for the door.

  "I cannot think why. Perhaps you ought to have asked Lord Dunster's daughter. She seemed quite ready to hold your sleeve, as I recall."

  He jumped down, then reached up for her. As she slid into his arms, he could not help feeling a pang of regret. "Lady Jane would frown on poor Pearl. You, on the other hand, are possessed of a great deal more charity."

  He was so close that she could smell the Hungary water he'd used after his shave, and for a moment she was acutely conscious of the strength of his arms, of the solid feel of his man's body. As she pulled away, he released her and stepped back.

  To cover the sudden awkwardness she felt, she told him, "I shall take your recognition of my charity as a compliment, for it is possibly the kindest thing you have said to me."

  "It was so intended."

  Straightening her wool pelisse over her plain blue muslin day gown, she passed him and climbed the hospital steps. Without waiting for him to catch up, she approached a man behind a desk.

  "We are come to visit Miss Pearl Smith."

  The fellow looked up, then without saying anything, he rose and disappeared into a narrow hall. Patrick Hamilton came up behind her.

  "Is something amiss?"

  "No, I don't think so—I merely told him we intend to visit her." She looked around. "Perhaps he must tell someone."

  But a solemn-faced man came back with the hospital clerk. "Miss Rand?" When she nodded, he shook his head. "I'm terribly sorry, miss—indeed, but we have dispatched someone to your house to tell you."

  An awful premonition sent a chill through her bones. "Tell me what, sir?"

  He looked to Patrick. "Miss Smith passed on a scant two hours ago, poor soul."

  "She's dead?" Elise asked blankly. "But she cannot be! She was getting better!"

  The clerk shoved a chair behind her, and the other man looked acutely uncomfortable. "Yes, well, I have seen it many times before, Miss Rand. Often in cases like these, where the patient cannot get well, there is a marked improvement just before the end. The mind becomes clearer, the body stronger, and then when the patient is unable to sustain the rally, he lapses rather quickly."

  "But she was getting better! I was here but yesterday, and she was sitting up," Elise protested.

  "She cherished your visits, Miss Rand," he said soothingly. "She spoke often of your kindness."

  She sat down and clasped her hands in her lap. "I cannot believe it," she said hollowly. "I thought with care she would get better."

  It came to Patrick that it was more than merely a patronizing charity to her, that she had truly cared about the pitiful girl. His hand dropped to her shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly. "I'm sorry," he said gently. "You did all you could."

  "No." A tear escaped her brimming eyes and trickled down her cheek. "No," she whispered. "She died alone, when I could have been here."

  "Miss Rand, I assure you she had the best of care," the clerk said awkwardly. "Dr. Adams—"

  "In many ways, it was a mercy," the doctor told her. "I have seen far too many struggle, spitting up blood, being frightened of the end. Miss Smith passed on quietly."

  "Yes, of course," she managed. Squaring her shoulders, she looked up at Patrick. "At least she did not die in that awful place."

  "No."

  "Where would you that we sent the body?" the clerk asked.

  She hesitated momentarily, then decided, "I'd give her Christian burial, sir. If you will but allow me the rest of the day, I am sure I can speak with Mrs. More. In any event, I should like any charges sent directly to me. You have my address, do you not?"

  "Yes."

  'Yes, well—there does not appear much else to be done, does there?" Rising, she held out her hand to Adams. "I thank you for the care you gave her, sir." Turning to Patrick, she said, "I should like to go to Mrs. More's, sir. If you wish, I can set you down somewhere."

  "No—I'll go with you."

  "I cannot think you would wish to."

  "I don't think you should go alone."

  Outside, he handed her up into the carriage, then swung up to take the seat opposite, where he watched her swallow back tears. For one of the few times in his life, he felt helpless.

  "People will say she"—she sniffed audibly—"that she was naught but a fallen creature, but—"

  "But she could not help what she was."

  "Yes." Turning her face away, she succumbed to weeping. "It was n-not fair," she sobbed against the velvet squabs. "Not fair at all!"

  "No, it was not." He watched her shoulders shake until he could not stand it. Sliding across to her side, he drew her against him and closed his arms around her, letting her cry against his coat. With unaccustomed awkwardness, he tugged at the grosgrain ribbons, then cast the shako onto the floor. Shifting her against his shoulder, he smoothed her red-gold hair much as one would with a child. "It's all right—it's all right," he murmured softly.

  "It's not all right!" she cried. "She had no chance!"

  "Perhaps she has gone to a better place."

  "You are like Papa when my dog died!"

  "It was not my intent, Ellie," he assured her.

  She lay silently against his chest, hearing his heartbeat beneath her ear, feeling oddly comforted despite her words to him. And then she thought of Ben, and she wanted to cry anew, but she could not.

  His arm still about her shoulders, Patrick managed to reach his handkerchief and began dabbing at her tear-stained face. "That's better," he said softly. "Much better."

  She sat up and wiped her eyes with the back of a gloved hand, then managed shakily, "You think me a fool, don't you?"

  "No, not at all."

  "I do not usually display an excess of sensibility."

  "I did not think anything of it." Knowing the moment had p
assed, he reluctantly released her and took his own seat again. He smiled crookedly as he regarded her. "Actually, I prefer a little sensibility to a total lack of it."

  "You jest, of course."

  "Miss Rand, you are a truly kind female, which surely must be a gift of God amongst your sex."

  "I did not think you a believer," she retorted, embarrassed by the gold warmth in his eyes.

  He looked heavenward. "How is it that everyone would have it that I have no religion?" he asked. "Miss Rand, I am as certain of an omnipotent power as you are. My only question is whether He intervenes, or whether He expects us to muddle through as best we can before He sorts it all out in the end."

  "You sound like the American Benjamin Franklin."

  "Do I?"

  "I think they call that deism, sir."

  "For what it is worth to say it, I attend the Church of England, my dear."

  "Because you believe—or because it is politic to do so?"

  He sobered visibly. "Probably a bit of both."

  "You know, I could like you better if I thought you stood for something, Mr. Hamilton. As it is, you do not even believe in justice, do you?"

  "Perhaps I have seen too much of it." Pulling out his watch, he flicked open the case, then shut it abruptly. "It grows late, so perhaps you'd best set me down, after all. I can hail a hackney."

  "I have angered you, haven't I? My wretched tongue—I am heartily sorry for it."

  "No, but today I find myself ill-prepared to face Holy Hannah also."

  After she left him on a corner, the carriage seemed terribly empty. She looked back briefly, seeing that he still stood there, and she felt a pang of guilt. He'd been kind, and she'd been the harridan. Then she recalled why she'd not wanted to go with him in the first place. She had no wish to be disloyal to Ben, she told herself, but even as she thought it, she knew it was more than that. What she really feared was Patrick Hamilton the man. Closing her eyes, she could still feel the warmth of his arms around her.

  The girl leaned seductively in a doorway, her dirty satin gown loosened at her bosom to expose the twin mounds of full, rose-tipped breasts. As he passed her, she drew her knee up slowly, showing a shapely leg and ankle, as she rubbed her nubile body against the wood door frame.

  "Oooh, ain't ye a fine old gent?" she cooed. When he started to pass, she pursed her lips in a kiss. "A tuppence fer a feel, if you was ter want one."