Secret Night (22 page)

"You must be lost," he decided.

"Please—is Mr. Hamilton at home?"

"As to that, I cannot say," he answered noncommittally. "If he is, he didn't say he was expecting you."

"Perhaps you could give him this—if he is at home, that is," she added hastily. "And please tell him it is of the utmost importance that I see him."

"He'll be in his office tomorrow, miss." He looked down at her card, saw the name Rand, and decided to risk his master's ire. "If you would step inside, you may wait here while I inquire."

He entered Patrick's book-lined study, and coughed apologetically to gain attention. Patrick looked up, frowning.

"What it is, Hayes?"

"There is a person to see you, sir—a female person."

"The devil there is. Why didn't you send her away?"

"If you was to see her, you would not ask. Besides, 'tis a sight as has to be beheld."

Patrick sat back and squeezed his tired eyes tightly shut before opening them again. "What sort of female?"

"Looks like a goddess."

"Good God. Yes—well, then I suppose I could take a look at such a creature," He gestured wearily to his disorderly desk. "At least I have everything catalogued for Mr. Sinclair, and I have read until I can scarce see the print anyway." Heaving himself up from his chair, he flexed his shoulders, seeking relief from the ache between, then took the card Hayes held out. "Damn," he muttered under his breath. "Is she alone?"

"Aye."

"That little fool—she's got no business out at night."

"1 rather did not think so either. Er—shall I direct her in?"

"No, I think I'd better come out."

Waiting, she studied the tall, rather narrow foyer, thinking it more a snug house than one befitting Pat-rick Hamilton's reputation as a successful barrister. As $he waited, she could hear voices from down the entry hall, then Hamilton himself emerged from one of the doors in shirtsleeves and breeches. He approached her in his stockings, stopping about six feet from her. He regarded her slowly, lazily looking her over from her crown of hair to the tips of her expensive slippers.

"My lamentable memory," he murmured sardonically. "I must have forgotten the, ah, social engagement."

"Please—" It was the only word she could get oat as her throat constricted too tightly for speech.

He started to say something cutting, then held it back, choosing instead to admit apologetically, "You find me rather unfit for company, Miss Rand." His hand smoothed unruly waves. "I've been working, I'm afraid."

"You work at home, also?" As soon as the words were out, she felt incredibly foolish. "I mean I thought gentlemen—that is, well, you
are
gentry, after all."

"Unlanded barristers must pay the tradesmen, my dear. And I have been researching a particularly difficult point," he added, explaining, "There are nearly nine hundred years of English law, and each case is predicated on all that has gone before it. My duty is to draw the court's attention to those best suited to the admittance of discretionary evidence. It is a rather selective business, I'm afraid. And unfortunately there is not much that says one cannot be executed for stealing a pig."

"A pig? Surely not."

"Oh, it is worse than that, I assure you. We civilized English have been known to hang children over a loaf of bread. But you did not come here to discuss law, did you?"

"Actually, I have," she managed. "Uh—if you do not mind it, I should like to be private with you for a moment."

"Private?" Again, his eyes took in her evening cloak. "All right." He stood back, then directed her to the door he'd just come through. "I suppose I ought to be impressed that you have taken time to stop by for my opinion, my dear."

She wanted to snap at him, to tell him yet again that she was not his dear, but she forbore saying it, given the circumstances. Instead, she moved past him into his cluttered study, where his coat and vest hung over a chair, his boots beneath. Behind her, he followed her gaze.

"I have an orderly mind rather than an orderly desk, I fear."

"Yes. I can quite see that, sir."

"It must be a matter of some import for you to attempt bearding a lion in his den, Miss Rand."

There was no mistaking the amusement in his voice. She swung around quickly, catching his rather odd smile. Biting back anger, she looked into surprisingly warm eyes.

"Yes, it is." He was far too close for her comfort, but she dared not move lest she break and run. "I was afraid that if I waited until tomorrow, I should lose my resolve."

"Oh? Now that ought to intrigue me, shouldn't it?"

"Yes—no. That is, I don't know. I'm afraid I don't know how you think, Mr. Hamilton. If I did, this would be
considerably easier."

"I told you—with a great deal of order." He stepped closer. "Perhaps if I took your cloak, you might look less like you mean to bolt and run." She stood very still as his hands touched her shoulders lightly, then moved beneath her chin. "You know, my dear
,
the last time I saw such a face, it was on a deer lacing a gun."

"I know you must think this quite odd, sir, but—Too aware of the warmth of his flesh where his hands worked at the pearl clasp, she closed her eyes and swallowed. "I can do that for myself," she protested.

"A gentleman always takes a lady's cloak," he reminded her.

"But I am not a lady, and no matter what I said before, you are not a gentleman!" she blurted out If you were, I shouldn't be here at all!"

H
e
moved behind her to lift the unfastened cloak
from
her shoulders, and as his hand brushed her bare shoulder, she shivered. He stepped away to fold it and lay it over his coat "A bit of Madeira? Or perhaps some
claret?" he offered politely. "I know I ought to
oiler
you something innocuous like ratafia, but I'm afraid
I have none. Unfortunately, I am not in the habit of entertaining females at home. In fact, you are the
first to breach these hallowed doors."

'Yes, I suppose you entertain them at Mrs. Coates's, don't you?" she said acidly.

"Now that, Miss Rand, was unworthy of you."

"Yes, it was, wasn't it?" she admitted. "I ought not to have said it."

"No, you should not, but you seem to be peculiarly devoid of convention, so I've not come to expect a surfeit of civility."

He had moved to a small cabinet, where he drew out two glasses and a decanter of wine. Closing the mahogany doors, he unstoppered the bottle and poured the amber Madeira. His back was turned to her, making it seem as good a time as any to broach her business with him.

"You must wonder why I am here," she said awkwardly.

"It had occurred to me to ask about that, but I decided if I waited long enough, you might tell me," he murmured, restoppering the wine bottle. "I had thought perhaps you were on your way somewhere else, and being in the area, you wished to set me on the right path again."

"No. I am only come to see you. It's about my father."

The warning hairs on his neck stood as he asked warily, "Oh? Trouble with Parker also?"

"Do you think my father can be defended?" she demanded. "You can tell me the truth—do you think there is any chance for an acquittal?"

"Did Parker see him?"

"Yes."

"And what did my worthy colleague say?"

"Papa would not cooperate with him, so he has declined the case. That and the fact he was pelted with eggs and rotten food seems to have dissuaded him."

He took a sip from his glass rather than look at her. "Probably wise of him," he murmured. "I hear all of London wants to witness the hanging."

"Papa believes you are his only hope, you know." When he did not respond at all, she decided to rush her fences, "Could you save him, sir? Are you truly that good at what you do?"

He turned around at that. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "Regardless of what he has told you, I’am not a Vauxhall magician able to pull favorable verdicts from my hat."

"But they say you are the best—even Parker said it!"

"I'll wager he did, if he did not want the case."

"But you could keep him from hanging, couldn't you? You could perhaps cast enough doubt to gain a lesser conviction. I mean, it is but his word against that—well, against that fellow's, isn't it?"

"Not entirely." As her face fell, he relented. "I suppose, given the witnesses, that if I had the right jury and the right justice, I could twist enough words to cast a reasonable doubt—if I wanted to."

"Then you are saying all is not lost, aren't you?"

"You asked a hypothetical question, and I gave you a
hypothetical answer—nothing more." He handed her the other glass. "Here—sometimes a little Madeira lifts the spirits."

"What would it take to persuade you to see Papa again?" she dared to ask.

"A great deal more than I've been offered, I'm afraid, and maybe not even then. I told you—I want a public career, and I cannot think it politic to represent
a man the masses want to hang."

"Then you are a sham, sir—an utter sham!"

He shrugged. "The English public are a bloodthirsty
lot, not overly given to forgiving those who thwart them."

She drank again, then declared flatly, "I am pre-pared to offer anything you want if you will defend my
father."

He stopped mid-drink and looked over the rim of his glass. "Anything, Miss Rand?" he asked softly. Anything encompasses rather a lot, you know."

She swallowed visibly, then forced herself to meet his gaze steadily. "Yes," she managed nearly too low for him
to hear. "Anything." As he took a step toward her, she swallowed again. "I thought perhaps twenty-five
thousand pounds."

He stopped. "I don't need your money." But surely you could use it!" she cried. "You are not
rich, are you? We can make you wealthy!"

"No." His gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts, then to the slimness of her hips beneath the peach silk gown, and he could feel the heat rise within him. On the outside at least, she was more than a man dared ask for. "No," he repeated before draining his glass. "The next offer?"

"Fifty—fifty thousand, then!"

"I told you—I don't need money." He went to pour himself another drink.

He was going to make her humiliate herself, she knew it, and yet there seemed no other way. For courage, she gulped the remainder of the heady wine, then reached up to her hair, unpinning it, letting it fall over her bare shoulders. Carefully, she set her empty glass down, her eyes on his back.

Licking her parched lips nervously, she managed to choke out, "There is me! What if I were to offer myself?"

He spun around, spilling wine onto the carpet, then he recovered. "I see," he murmured softly. "Now that does put a different light on the matter, doesn't it?"

She closed her eyes to hide the fear she felt. "If I were to come to you," she asked painfully, "would you defend my father?"

Her words hung between them. Despite the fact that she stood like a statue, he could see the rise and fall of her breasts against the soft silk of her gown. His own pulse raced, pounding in his temples, as he took in what she offered. And he knew he wanted it. His gaze returned to her flaming face.

Unable to stand it, she cried, "Well—aren't you going to say something at least?"

He sucked in his breath and tried to gain control of his thoughts. "God, but you know how to drive a bargain, don't you?" he managed finally.

She forced a crooked smile, then looked away. "I suppose I am my father's daughter, Mr. Hamilton."

Setting his glass down on the cabinet, he crossed the room to her, stopping a scant foot away. "Are you quite sure you want to offer so much?"

Her face hot, she nodded her head mutely, not daring to meet his gaze.

His rational mind told him he was being a fool, but he was too acutely aware of her to care. He reached up with his knuckle to lift her chin, forcing her to look at him. "You know," he whispered huskily, "a man could drown in your eyes, Ellie."

It was as though she could feel the heat of his body, but it was a shiver that went down her spine. "You have not answered me, sir," she said low.

"Paris ought to be worth a Mass," he murmured as his lips touched hers.

A sob formed deep in her throat, then died as his arms circled her, cradling her while he kissed her ardently, urgently, taking her breath away. Her clenched hands still at her side, she closed her eyes, feeling the intoxication of his arms around her, of his man's body against hers. His kiss deepened, parting her lips, possessing her mouth. Telling herself that it was in truth the only way, she slid her arms around his waist, holding him, grasping the soft cambric of his shirt.

When at last he left her lips, he traced soft kisses along her jaw, murmuring hungrily against her ear, "If you want to leave, there is still time, Ellie. Otherwise, I'm taking you upstairs."

Rather than answer him, she twined her fingers in his thick, wavy hair, turning her face back for his kiss. His hands moved eagerly over her body, smoothing the rich silk against her hips, pressing her closer.

He broke away from her, searched her face, then caught her hand, pulling her after him into the deserted hall, up the steep, narrow stairs into his chamber above. Closing the door behind them, he faced her. Seeing that she watched him, her luminous eyes wide with uncertainty, he told himself he had to move slowly, that he had to court her ere he got her to bed. Collecting himself with an effort, he walked to where last night's wine still sat by his bedside.

Pouring a full cup of it, he carried it to her, then drank his own straight from the bottle. "Go on—it will make it easier."

"Is it so awful I have to be disguised?"

"No, of course not. I just thought you might prefer some wine, that's all," he answered awkwardly. Even as he said it, he felt as foolish as a boy embarking on his first grand passion rather than a man who'd had his share of women. He took another long pull from the bottle, then put it down. "Come here," he said softly. When she hesitated, he promised, "For whatever it is worth, I'll try to make it good for you."

It came to her then that she was crossing a line from which she could not turn back. Her conscience warred with her mind, telling her that what she did was very wrong, but she'd already come too far for flight. She gulped down the wine, hoping to bolster her resolve. As he took her into his arms again, her cup fell to the floor.