Secret Nights

by Anita Mills

  She scarce heard Mrs. Barrow say, "Well, I am sure that cannot apply to Mr. Rand, for it speaks of a woman." She took the Bible back and shook her head. "Unless, of course, it concerns those women, explaining how they came to die. Yes, that must be it," she decided quickly. "It was by God's hand."

  "I rather think that God does not stab and strangle harlots," Elise answered dryly.

  "No, but perhaps He has allowed it to happen. Perhaps your father was but the instrument—"

  "My father did not kill those women! And this is but a game, not revelation!" Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Elise managed to say more evenly, "There is no justification anywhere for what happened to those poor females." Taking back the Bible from the affronted woman, she quickly thumbed through it, finding the verse she wanted. "There—'God is love'—see that? A loving God does not destroy. Even Hannah will allow that He hates the sin and loves the sinner."

  "Well, I am sure I did not mean—"

  "Yer pardon, miss," Molly said apologetically from the door. "I brung yer hair o' the dog—Joseph said it was the best fer what ails ye."

  As the maid gave her mistress the cup, Mrs. Barrow unbent enough to ask curiously, "What is it?"

  "Rum," Elise announced baldly. She gave the appearance of drinking deeply, then smacked her lips. Looking across to the stunned woman, she nodded. "It is, after all, the only cure for being weasel-bit, isn't it?"

  "I am sure I do not know," Mrs. Barrow responded faintly. Putting her plate on the table between them, she stood up. "My dear, I fear I have already stayed far too long. No, no—as I have my pelisse, there is no need at all for you to accompany me to the door— none, I assure you."

  "I will tell Papa of your concern," Elise murmured without rising.

  As the front door closed, Molly stared after the woman. "Well, she ain't one as lingers, is she? And ye—well, ye was downright brassy! I vow I ain't never seen ye like that before—never.''

  "She was an encroaching female—one of those who pretends sympathy but is spurred by curiosity."

  "Oh. Well, ye scandalized her." Molly reached for the cup. "Why, ye ain't drunk any of it."

  "I don't want it. I'm afraid if I drank it, I might not stop with one."

  "Ye going ter eat? If you was to want, I'd tell that monsoor to coddle some eggs fer ye."

  "No. I am overlate as it is." Elise stood. "Papa will think I have forgotten him if I am not there before two."

  Still angry with the foolish Barrow creature, she went out into the foyer and started up the stairs. Looking down, she saw the stack of her father's newspapers piled neatly on the reception table next to the empty card basket. She'd promised herself she wasn't going to read any more of their lies, but there was that within her that had to know what they said. Retracing her steps, she went back for the papers.

  Reading, she climbed the stairs absently. The first story in the Gazette was of Lord Liverpool and the government rather than Rand, and for that at least she had to be thankful. Her eyes moved down the page, scanning for his name, then stopped. She stood there, too transfixed to move, as she read the announcement of Patrick Hamilton's engagement to Lady Jane Barclay, daughter to the Earl of Dunster.

  "Is summat the matter?" a footman asked behind her.

  Huh? Oh, no," she managed to answer. "Nothing that was not expected—nothing at all."

  Somehow, she managed to finish her climb and seek the solitude of her room. She sat down at her writing desk, feeling utterly, completely empty. The wages of sin, her mind echoed. The wages of sin.

  But it wasn't as though she loved him, nothing like that at all, she reminded herself. And it wasn't as though he'd ever said any words of love to her. It had been a simple bargain—her body for his defense of her father. That was all, and there'd been no pretense of anything else. Except he'd acted as though he cared whether she liked it or not, as though he'd wanted her to enjoy what he did to her.

  But somehow she still felt betrayed. She looked down at the newspaper on her desk, seeing again the small, boxed announcement. No, if any ought to feel betrayed, it was Lady Jane Barclay, for at least he had promised her something. At least he must have led Dunster's daughter to believe he loved her.

  She felt sick inside. And suddenly everything he'd done with her, every caress he'd given her, every whispered word she'd heard, came to mind, mocking her for a fool. How he must have laughed at her even while she panted beneath him, knowing that the rich Miss Rand was playing the whore for him.

  That was what she was, and no matter how great the cause, the inescapable fact was that she'd traded herself like a harlot. And he'd let her do it. And she, who prided herself for honesty in all things, had let herself become not only a whore, but also a liar, for the pleasure of his touch.

  A raw, bitter anger welled within her as she opened the desk and saw Hamilton's stocking. Taking it out, she balled it up and threw it toward the fire, missing. Looking down, she saw the back of her watercolor of Ben Rose, and she wanted to cry. Sweet, gentle Ben had never suspected what a sinner she was.

  Well, it was better this way, anyway, she told herself, for what if they'd continued to play the game—what if she'd have conceived a child of him? Now that was a sobering thought, for unlike the promiscuous wives of the ton, she had no complaisant husband to cover her shame. No, then the world would know what she was, and she'd be bringing forth a bastard. Maybe she already was. No one spoke of such things, only whispering occasionally that so-and-so's maid had disgraced herself. But surely it did not happen so quickly.

  Briefly she considered the chilling possibility of a child, then thought of her father, of the jeering mob outside Newgate Prison, of the scaffold just outside Debtor's Door. No, no matter what the cost or risk, she'd had to gamble with whatever means she could. And Patrick Hamilton had not wanted money.

  The door opened behind her, and Button bounded across the floor, its tail wagging, to bark and nip at Elise's legs. She brushed it aside furiously.

  "Get away! Get away from me!"

  The puppy sank down on its haunches, looking up M her with soulful, reproachful eyes. Its tail thumped tentatively a couple of times.

  “I thought ye was wantin' her," Molly said apologetic ally, bending down to collect the dog.

  “I was." Sighing, Elise reached out to scratch the floppy little ears, then took the animal into her arms. “It isn't your fault, after all, is it?" she said to it.

  "Ye look queerlike, miss. Ye know, ye oughter not let that woman overset ye."

  Still cradling the dog against her shoulder, Elise walked to where the discarded stocking had fallen. Reaching down, she retrieved it, then dropped it directly into the flames.

  "What was that?" Molly asked.

  "Nothing—nothing at all." She turned around. "I am quite all right now, I assure you."

  "Oh, I nearly fergot—Simpson was asking as ter what ye wanted ter do with the coat as Mr. Hamilton left. Was ye going ter send it? Or was he going ter come back fer it?"

  "Burn it." As Molly was taken aback by the vehemence in the two words, Elise nodded. "It is ruined, isn’t it?" she countered reasonably. "I cannot think he would want it."

  “Aye, I suppose not. I was just a-thinkin' ye might be wantin' fer him to come back fer it."

  "No."

  "And we was believin' ye was likin' him."

  "He is Papa's barrister, that is all."

  "Aye. Well, then I got ter tell Simpson, ain't I? Was ye wantin' me ter take the dog?"

  "No."

  She waited until Molly left, then she carried Button to bed with her. Lying down, she held the puppy close, letting it snuggle beneath her chin. As Button licked her neck happily, Elise stared absently, composing in her mind the letter she intended to write Patrick Hamilton, wondering if she dared send something like that to him. Or if she ought to let the matter lie until the next time he wished to bed her.

  Patrick sat there, trying not to yawn as he listened to Banks going over the files he would
need for the afternoon. Two pleadings and a meeting in chambers with Justice Russell, Prosecutor Peale, and a magistrate. The pleadings were like rote to him, for he merely had to declare his clients' innocence and request the trials be held the next session.

  It was the meeting that made him uneasy because it concerned Rand. If it was to consider binding the old man over for a quick trial, perhaps in hope of quieting the unrest, Patrick would not be grouse hunting with Dunster at all. Yet if it was to seek agreement for a postponement to possibly the January or February session, there would be even greater consequences, for the ensuing outcry might prove too great a liability for Patrick to overcome before the spring elections, causing Dunster to abandon him in favor of another more viable candidate.

  With the unpopularity of Prime Minister Lord Liverpool, the Tories did not need so much as a breath of scandal, much less an avalanche of it. No, Dunster is not going to be pleased either way, but at least if everything happened quickly, perhaps Patrick's notoriety would be over before the elections.

  In the Rand matter, I have taken the liberty of engaging Mr. Thompson, and—" Seeing that his colleague appeared distracted, Banks cleared his throat Ito gain attention. When Patrick looked up, he repeated himself, "I have taken the liberty of engaging Mr. Thompson to seek information for us."

  Mr. Thompson?"

  "Billy Thompson, then—surely you must recall him? He was the coachman charged with cracking young Lord Fellowes's head during a mill in Covent Garden. Not your usual case, I must say, but I believe he claimed to be a relation to your Mr. Hayes."

  "Yes, I remember him. Go on."

  "In turn, Mr. Thompson has enlisted the aid of a man merely known as Weasel—not Mr. Weasel—in St. Giles Rookery."

  "That ought to make for an enterprising pair," Patrick murmured. "Thompson and Weasel, eh?"

  "Yes—well, I have hopes so, in any event. I gave each of them twenty pounds that they may show it about and buy information about Mr. Colley, the—"

  "Annie Adams's pimp," Patrick acknowledged impatiently. "Did they discover anything of note, or were they merely lost souls on my money?"

  "Mr. Thompson has listed his expenses to date, if you should wish to see them."

  "No. If you are satisfied, I am prepared to rely on your judgment, old fellow."

  Patrick leaned back and laced his hands over his waistcoat. Closing his eyes, he listened as the solicitor carefully enumerated every rumor or tale to be had about Annie Adams and John Colley, none of which helped Rand. Apparently there had been little strife between the two, and poor Johnny had planned to marry his golden goose and take her out of the rookery as soon as she earned them a nest egg. Definitely the sort of thing to add weight to Peale's case against the old man. Poor Colley had had no reason to kill her.

  "They have frequented the brothels and dens to some advantage, sir," Banks went on, "and there is some disturbing information, possibly fictitious, brought on by the scurrilous tone of the newspaper reports, but some of it warrants further investigation, I think." He paused. "Whether it is because the public wishes to believe Mr. Rand guilty and therefore needs to feed upon such things, I cannot yet say, but this man Weasel claims to have heard of Rand's involvement with a number of impures."

  "A predilection some of the jury might share. Visiting harlots is reprehensible, not illegal," Patrick pointed out.

  "Nonetheless if what is said is taken into account, it might prejudice your case, sir. Apparently, Mr. Rand is not above providing opium for certain acts."

  "Opium." Patrick digested that, then shook his head. "Hearsay merely. Unless the individual females involved are called, I won't allow Peale to admit the testimony. Anything else?"

  Banks turned a sheet of paper over and scanned the notations he'd made on it. "Only that a female railed Cathead Mary said Mr. Rand regulary crawled the streets in St. Giles, and that the women who knew of him generally avoided him." He looked again at the paper, then flushed. "To quote the woman, she described him as 'a mean old bugger as was always hurtin' 'em—'e 'ad ter 'ave 'elp ter keep the wee thing up, if ye ken.' She further told Weasel that 'if 'is carrot don't pop off, 'e's a nasty man,' whatever that is."

  "Nasty man?" Patrick sat up. "A nasty man, my dear Banks, is a member of a garroting gang—the one who does the strangling."

  "Oh." For a moment the solicitor was taken aback, then he recalled his purpose. "Well, obviously she did not like him very much, in any event."

  "If she even knows him." Favoring the solicitor with a lifted eyebrow, he added, "Cathead Mary, old chap?"

  "I collect that means she is an ample female, doesn't it?"

  "At least she has heavy breasts."

  "I cannot imagine how you can understand the low cant," Banks said, "for I am sure I do not."

  "You have no notion of what I have heard in the course of my practice. Before I could afford you, I had to do this myself."

  "You? But you are the barrister!"

  "I came to town with naught but empty pockets and a paper that said I was a lawyer," Patrick admitted flatly. "For the first year at least I earned my bread by cadging cases where they happened. And whenever I saw the watch arrest rich young dandies on the riot, I was there to get the fools out." Seeing that Banks did not quite believe him, Patrick smiled wryly. "There was a time, old fellow, when I represented pickpockets who had to lift another purse to pay me."

  "And you knew it?"

  "I had a notion. But times have changed, and I have now prospered to the point where I am considered utterly respectable."

  "I should say so, sir. When I sought a position, you were highly recommended to me. Why, even Justice Tate's clerk suggested this as a place for proper advancement."

  "Did he now?" Abruptly Patrick's smile faded. "Is there anything else you have discovered? For if there is not, I've got to get on over to the Bailey."

  "Perhaps I ought merely to give the rest of it to you to read, sir," Banks said, handing his report across the desk. "And while I certainly cannot credit all of it, I do think you ought to take a rather careful look at it, for there seems to be an alarming pattern where Mr. Rand's relationships with those women are concerned. Cathead Mary claims to know of one who showed her the marks on her neck and said it was Rand who'd done it."

  "No doubt an equally charming female," Patrick murmured dryly. "But I don't entirely discount it— not at all. From the first, Rand has tried to hoax me about one thing or another."

  "Well, I am sure you must have your reasons, but I must say I cannot think why you are defending him before elections, if you are considering standing. Of course he is very rich," Banks conceded.

  "As you say, I have my reasons." Patrick shoved the report into his drawer, then looked up. "What else do you have there?"

  "The usual sort of thing. Statements, precedents, and speculations pertaining to the other two hearings."

  "In case Peale attempts to put the double on me and distract me with Bat Rand, eh?"

  "Precisely."

  "Sometimes, my dear Banks, I cannot think what I should do without you." Patrick stood and stretched. “And someday I intend to get enough sleep," he added. "But before then, there are Russell and Peale to plague me." Walking to the peg hooks on the wall, he took down his robe and pulled it over his head. “Just leave those on my desk, and I'll take them with me." Fastening the front of the black gown with one hand, he reached for his wig with the other. "I am out of time at the moment."

  But you will read about Mr. Rand? If for naught else, the woman was rather graphic enough to provide enlightenment as to what he liked to purchase."

  "First thing in the morning," Patrick promised. Smoothing back his hair, he pulled the wig on, then straightened it in front. "There ought to be a law against this damn thing," he muttered. "I despise it."

  "Oh, I almost forgot—do I have your leave to advance Mr. Thompson and this Weasel fellow further expense money?"

  "I thought you said you gave them twenty pounds apiece."


  "Yes, but it was ten for the service, the rest for an assortment of females, nine pints of stout, three bottles of gin, five of rum, and four of hock. Rather a bargain, I should say."

  "Are you quite certain they did not drink themselves through Covent Garden?" A faint smile played about Patrick's mouth. "I wonder that they are able to account for any of it"

  "Mr. Thompson says it was necessary for them to drink and carouse with females to gain the information," Banks answered with a straight face.

  The poor, dedicated fellows," Patrick observed wryly.

  As Banks left, John Byrnes nearly collided with him in the doorway. Seeing that Patrick was already ready to leave for the Bailey, he murmured apologetically, "I thought perhaps you might wish to read this on your way today."

  "What is it?"

  "A note from Lord Dunster."

  "I'll take it."

  "If any comes, shall I say when you will be back?"

  "Tomorrow, but there won't be any time for appointments as I am attempting to get everything in order before adjournment As for today, I won't get out of Sessions much before four-thirty, then I intend to visit Rand again."

  "You'd best request an escort around to the back then, for I am told there is an ugly crowd there again today. I had it of his clerk that Mr. Wilcox's carriage was very nearly overturned in the mistaken belief that 'twas he who defends Mr. Rand. Someone cried out, 'There he goes,' and 'twas a near thing—a very near thing."

  "Thank you for the warning." Picking up his worn leather folder, he sighed. "There's not much I can do about a mob, John."

  Patrick was nearly out the door before his clerk remembered something else. "Oh—may I be amongst the first to wish you happy?" Byrnes called out "I saw the announcement in the Gazette"

  "Thank you."

  So the paper had already printed it. Well, by nightfall everyone of note ought to know of his good fortune, he reflected soberly.

  As he climbed into the waiting hackney, Patrick had to remind himself that Jane was the means to an ultimately desirable end. But what he truly wanted was Elise Rand. He had but to close his eyes to see her, to feel the warmth of her skin, to smell again the lavender in her hair. Even as he thought of her, he felt an intense guilt for what he was doing to her. She deserved better of him, and yet he knew he didn't want to give her up for Jane.