Secret Night (13 page)

"The same could be said of me."

"No, it cannot, for at least you are born a Hamilton," she said, taking his arm again. "And there is a Hamilton duke." As they emerged out into the steady drizzle, she saw Miss Rand's all too elegant carriage pull away from the curb. "Obviously, she lives far above her station," she muttered sourly. "I wonder that you know her, Patrick."

"I met her when I dined with the old man in his house."

"Yes, well—with that hair, she is a bit too florid, don't you think?"

"I think, Lady Jane, that it makes her a beauty," he stated baldly as he opened her coach door.

"In a common sort of way, I suppose," she conceded coldly.

"No, my dear, you are mistaken—there is nothing common about Miss Rand at all."

This time, they rode the distance between Hook-ham's and Dunster's mansion in Mayfair in relative silence as she began making mental plans for her wedding and his future. He sat across from her, his thoughts obviously elsewhere, responding only vaguely when she spoke to him.

"I should think we would wish to be married before the next Season, don't you? I mean, then I should come to town again a married lady, and I could be presented at court as such."

"I'll examine my calendar," he murmured noncommittally.

"Your calendar?"

"To see when court is in session." "Oh."

As she lapsed once again into silence, he thought regretfully of Elise Rand, contrasting her to his betrothed, thinking that even a brush across her lips had provided more passion than a full kiss on Jane's. But now, ambitious fool that he was, he had irrevocably tied himself to Dunster's self-centered daughter. And somehow the notion that she would be a brilliant Tory hostess did not compensate for the price he was going to pay for her.

"What are you thinking of now, Patrick?" Lady Jane asked.

"Hmrnm? Nothing much," he lied.

"You are coming in with me, aren't you?" she wheedled. "You know Mama will be like the cat over the cream pot when she hears the news."

"No," he managed, shaking his head. As her smile faded, he added regretfully, "Press of business, I'm afraid. But I expect to call upon Lord Dunster ere the week is out," he promised.

"Well, I hope so, else I shall go home a spinster, when I have in fact held out all year for you. I could have had Lord Dillingham, you know—or Stand-bridge even."

"Both admirable Tories," he murmured.

"But I have waited for you, Patrick."

He pressed his lips together to avoid a sigh, then nodded. "Well, I hope I shall prove worthy of the wait, my dear."

"Oh, you will, I am certain of it—you will."

But as he stared at the gulf between them, he was not nearly so sure.

Maddie Coates was dead. Patrick stared at the boxed article that leapt from the newspaper page. He read it several times before it sank in—Maddie Coates was dead.

According to the report, both she and one Thomas Truckle, identified as a "butler" in her employ, had been found dead in an alleyway "not far removed from the iniquitous dens of the opium eaters," their bodies stripped of everything of any value. When questioned by the district constable, the area proprietors had at first professed no knowledge at all until someone recalled that both bodies had been dragged from the Red Dragon, a particularly notorious place. Thereupon the owner had allowed that he'd discovered them "asleep o'er their spoons, their faces as peaceful as if they was in heaven."

The article went on to say that there was not so much as a mark beyond that caused by dragging on either person. The constable's opinion, seconded by the coroner, was that both deaths had occurred as a result of the purity of the opium, but there were curious specks within the remaining cake, which was being sent to a chemist in France for examination.

The only other clue the Red Dragon's proprietor had remembered was that "an odd cove—all covered wi' 'is cloak, he was" had been seen sharing the opium with Maddie Coates. When asked why he'd recalled the man, the den owner had insisted it was because the fellow had brought his own stuff and merely paid for the use of the table.

The story ended with the moralistic opinion that

Magdalene Coates had atoned for a lifetime of sin by inadvertently removing herself from this world. No explanation was given for the demise of her equally unfortunate "butler."

But Patrick wondered. As he laid the paper aside, he could not entirely believe that an experienced addict had died by her own mistake. Why had the constable not ordered a search for the odd cove? He knew the answer to that almost before the question crossed his mind—however she departed this world was immaterial to the authorities. For whatever the means of it, Maddie Coates's death was a good riddance.

Poor Maddie. Patrick felt a regret, not all of which came from the balance she owed him. For what she was, she was not a particularly bad sort. He sat there, his mind recalling his last interview with Maddie on the day Elise Rand had bought the dying Pearl from her. What was it that the woman had said?

Aye, I'll get yer money . . . I think I know where ter find it . . . Old gents get queer starts, don't ye know . . . and I know one as wouldn't want me ter blabber . . .

She was going to get money, that much had been clear, but then she'd sort of rambled on, telling him she had a rich old client, rich as a nabob, she'd called him, saying her girls didn't like the man. And that he'd had a fancy for the murdered Peg once.

And r«w Maddie was dead also. Without having any illusions about what she did for her living, Patrick had actually liked the old madam. Closing his eyes briefly, he could see her facing Elise Rand, the girl filled with outrage, the woman clever enough to prey upon that rage.

"John!"

"Aye, sir?"

"What time is the next appointment, old fellow?"

"Well, as Mr. Johnson's brother has given a slip to his jailer and managed to escape wearing a lady's gown, Mr. Johnson wishes to save his money."

"He must have bribed the jailer with it," Patrick decided cynically. "And I have already pled him not guilty. Who else?"

"Well, there is a Mrs. Fitch coming." John Byrnes looked to the book in his hand, then shook his head. "I told her she merely needed a solicitor, but she wishes for someone famous."

"For what?"

"She is accused of attempting bodily harm over the matter of a pig, I believe." "Egad."

"I told her I believed it might be settled civilly, but she says Mrs. Hughes wishes her to hang." "She must have stolen it." "She says not, sir."

"So say they all," Patrick murmured dryly. "Yes, well, can you attend the matter?"

"I think so, but she hoped to see you." "Is she on bail?"

"Yes. The hearing is set for the twenty-second."

"Send 'round to Peale, requesting a continuance until after Christmas. Plead hardship, saying I shall be out of town. Anyone else?"

"Well, Mr. Rand was here quite early, but he would not say if he meant to return. Though he did seem a trifle out of sorts, I must say."

"If he chooses not to take an appointment, I can scarce be held accountable for being here. Anything more on the Steele matter?"

"Every statement I have taken damns him further."

"I was afraid of that." Patrick heaved himself up from the chair and reached for his beaver hat. "I shall be out for a while, so you will have to muddle through as best you can."

The clerk's gaze dropped to the newspaper. "A terrible shame, isn't it? She ought to have at least finished paying us."

"She paid enough."

"Do you think it was divine retribution, sir?"

Patrick shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not at all certain I have that much faith in the Almighty's interest in the misdeeds of humanity."

Shocked, Byrnes remonstrated, "How can you think so, sir? Holy Writ says—"

"Holy Writ is filled with contradiction, John." As his clerk appeared on the verge of apoplexy, Patrick relented. "But if you ask if I believe in an Almighty, the answer is yes, I do. My only question is whether He truly wishes to insert Himself into everyone's life all the time. Given that Napoleon managed to waste the youth of a nation vaingloriously, I rest my case."

Somewhat mollified, John Byrnes hastily returned to Maddie Coates. "Did you know she was an opium eater?"

"I knew she paid to have it smuggled into Newgate."

"It does seem odd that her butler was with her, doesn't it?" the clerk ventured.

"I expect she wished protection merely." Setting his hat on his head, Patrick leaned to retrieve his walking stick. "But I hope to discover the whole."

"Then you don't think it was an accidental overdose of opium?"

"I don't know. I did think I might speak with the females in her employ," Patrick murmured.

"An unenviable task," Byrnes said wryly. "Were I you, I should check them for—"

"John," Patrick interrupted him, "I do not plan on riding any of them."

"No, of course not," the clerk said quickly.

But once outside, Patrick considered that Maddie's girls might not be much inclined to speak with him, particularly not if they believed her a murder victim. Not to mention that they might consider themselves threatened by Maddie's "old gent." Nonetheless, he hailed a hackney and swung up into it. Hesitating but a moment, he abruptly changed his mind.

"Marylebone," he ordered tersely. "Do you know the Rand house there?"

"Big brick one?"

"Yes."

"Aye."

Telling himself his purpose was to ask Elise Rand of Pearl and discover whether the girl was still at the Royal Hospital, he settled back against the hard leather-

covered seat. But as the hackney wended its way through city traffic, he knew he could have simply inquired at the hospital. What he really wanted was to see Miss Rand herself.

Old Starch, as Rand called him, answered the door stiffly, then left Patrick to wait in the same saloon he remembered from that awful night Fidgeting, Patrick sat for a moment, then rose to walk to the many-paned window. To his chagrin, Bartholomew Rand was stepping down from his coach, and there was going to be no way to avoid him. Sighing, he squared his shoulders and waited for the verbal barrage.

"Well, well, sirrah!" the old man said heartily, coming into the room. "No need to call upon me now, you know! I was just stopping by for a bit of a chat, nothing more."

"Actually, I came to inquire if Miss Rand would care for a turn about the park." Even as he said it, Patrick felt the old man would know it for a hum.

And Rand was no fool. "In that hackney? No, sir, you will not—not at all!" Moving back to the door, he called out to a footman, "Tell 'em not to unharness m'team, you hear? Tell 'em I said they was to walk the horses." Turning back to Patrick, he grinned broadly. "Damme if I won't let you borrow m'own equippage! Got the best damned rig as money can buy, you know."

"It doesn't surprise me."

"Been in it, ain't you? Took you to Garraways, you remember?" "Yes."

The old man eyed him closely. "Damme if I won't tell her to go, sir—damme if I won't. Gel don't get out enough, if you was to ask me. Only goes to the demned library and out to the demned meetings— time she was getting out with a fine buck like yourself."

"As it was not raining, I thought I'd take a bit of air," Patrick murmured.

"Aye—a man could get as musty as the books in your office, couldn't he? I sat there nigh to half an hour this morning, you know—your clerk tell you that?"

"As a matter of fact, he did."

"Well, like I was saying, I didn't want anything of you. Just went in 'cause I like you."

"Thank you." For want of anything else to say, Patrick told him, "Maddie Coates is dead."

"Dead! Well, I ain't going to lie to you and say as it was a shame, 'cause it ain't. Woman was a procuress, that's all she was, and 'tis a good enough riddance."

"According to the newspaper, she and a man named Thomas Truckle apparently overdosed themselves with opium."

"No! Damme if I'd ever heard she used the stuff, but it don't surprise me. Didn't know her, of course," he added hastily. "Just what I read in the papers."

"For what she was, she wasn't a bad sort."

"I ain't into whores, Mr. Hamilton. But they all got the vices, don't they? If they ain't gin sots, they're smoking the poppy, or so I've heard."

"In this case, they apparently ate it."

"Must've needed it in a bad way, eh? When they get to eatin' it, they are more'n halfway to perdition, ain't they?"

"Probably."

"Odd thing though," the old man mused, "she was a fat woman. I thought when they was into the poppy, they dropped weight."

"I think most do. They'd rather eat opium than food."

"Well, I don't know much about it, you know. But it ain't a vice as I'd want Got enough of m'own, if you was to know it."

The footman Patrick had seen at Maddie's stuck his head in the door, murmuring apologetically. "Mr. Hamilton, sir? Miss Rand said ter inform ye as she ain't coming down. Said she wasn't prepared to go out on short notice."

"Not coming down! Here now, Will, what's this?" Rand demanded. "You tell the gel—no, damme if I won't do it m'self! Not coming down! Nonsense— utter nonsense!"

"If Miss Rand does not wish to go, I am sure I should not impose," Patrick insisted, reaching for his hat.

"No, no—don't go. Thing you got to understand about Ellie is she don't like presumption—she don't like to think as a body might order her around."

"Such was not my intent, sir."

"Course it wasn't!" Rand all but roared. "Females! I tell you, Hamilton, there's times I wish Ellie was a son—you don't get such queer starts out of boys," he added with feeling. "But I ain't really repining, 'cause she's a good gel. Just needs a man's hand to guide her, that's all."

"Really, but—"

"Sit down, sirrah! I'll have her down in a trice, I promise you."

Not waiting for any protest, the old man left Patrick standing. In less that half a minute, his voice could be heard booming down from above.

"What was you thinking of, missy?" he demanded. " 'Tis Hamilton, I tell you—the same one as saved your life! Damme if you don't owe him for that, I say! Now go on—all you got to do is put on the demned pelisse!"