Secret Night (37 page)

"Because you felt I expected payment."

"No, not at all. Twas guilt, I suppose," he admitted candidly. "I had rather expected you to be angry."

She looked at her gloved hands, saying nothing for a while, then when she spoke again it had nothing to do with Jane or jewelry. "You were going to tell me why
you did not question Mr. Peale's witnesses, I believe," she said slowly. "You were going to explain why
you did not defend Papa."

"There was no need, for he was certain to be bound over."

"That was it?" she asked incredulously. "That was the only reason?"

"Not entirely. I wished to delay tipping my suit to Peale. If he knows now what tack I mean to take, he
is
not only forewarned, but he is forearmed also. For every
witness I can find, he can find an opposite one if he knows what he is looking for."

"Then you still think you can win it?"

"Not now, but I still have hopes of discovering something—either that, or that the witnesses will somehow disappear."

"Surely they would not hang an innocent man— they cannot!"

"It does not take much to convict of a capital offense, my dear." His eyes still on the street, he said soberly, "There are two hundred separate crimes punishable by death, the least of which is the theft of anything worth more than five shillings."

"But it is not applied thus surely? I mean, what of begging children in the streets?"

"When the census was taken last year, there were sixteen, five of them girls between the ages of nine and thirteen, in Newgate. And before you say we would not hang them, perhaps I ought to tell you that we have a definite appetite for hangings—in this one month, fifty-eight people went to the gallows in London alone, and before the year is out, I expect we will have executed nearly three hundred."

"Then why do they care about Papa?" she demanded passionately. "If there is that much to watch, what difference can one more make?"

"There are two things everyone wishes to see—the fall of the rich—and the fall of the powerful."

" 'Tis barbaric! 'Tis like the Roman circus!"

"Precisely," he murmured. "Everyone profits from the show. On a particularly busy gallows day, the Lord Mayor will host a banquet for the dignitaries come to watch, while the wealthy lease windows in the houses with a view, where they eat catered dinners and look down on the proceedings. The rest of the world pushes and shoves in the street, hoping to see it when the trap opens."

"I don't care how civilized they claim to be," she declared acidly, "they are every one of them barbarians."

"Even Byron?"

"Lord Byron came?" she asked incredulously. "He hired a window and brought friends."

She was silent for a time, then she sighed. "Then I suppose it was rather brave of you to risk angering Lord Dunster."

"I have never played the puppet for anyone, and I see no need to begin now," he said simply.

Ahead of them, a cart turned over, spilling its owner's wares into the street. Patrick waited while the poor fellow scrambled about to retrieve bundles of cheaply made shirts from the dirty pavement, then he nudged his pair of horses forward, easing past the wrecked (art. When he reached the corner, he glanced at Elise.

"That is another reason why I prefer to be driven," he murmured, "I have to keep my eyes on the street rather than you."

"What fustian!" she retorted. But as she looked up, there was no mistaking the warmth in his hazel eyes. Her gaze dropped again to the Bible in her lap. "I would you did not say such things," she managed finally.

"I read Ezekiel, you know," he told her.

"Then you must surely know why."

"The Good Book can be used to justify or condemn nearly everything, Ellie. If you doubt it, look up the first two verses in 1st Kings, chapter 1."

Curious, she opened it up and thumbed to the place, where she read, " ‘Now King David was old and stricken in years; and they covered him with clothes, but he got no heat. Wherefore his servants said unto him, Let there be sought for my lord the king a young virgin ...' " She stopped. "Yes, well, I should have expected such from a lawyer, shouldn't I? You can even twist the Bible to suit you."

"A point of information merely," he said, smiling.

"Did you seek your own revelation as I told you?"

"Yes." His smile quirked downward at one corner. "And I found ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.' "

"Well, that ought to tell you something."

He reined in. "Ellie—"

She looked away. "If you are wishing for someone to give you heat, Hamilton, I'm afraid I shall have to suggest Lady Jane Barclay, providing you wed her first, of course," she said flatly.

"Are you a jealous woman? I wonder," he asked softly.

"No, but I find myself feeling sorry for her."

"All right." He clicked the reins, letting his horses move forward. "I will not press you further."

As she sat there beside him, she tried to tell herself she was relieved, that those words were welcome, but as she glanced sideways at his strong, set profile, she knew differently. What she wished for was to be Dunster's daughter. To have Patrick Hamilton wish to wed her as well as bed her.

After he had set Elise down at Rand House, he drove home, where he dutifully wrote Lord Dunster, explaining that he could not in conscience rush Bartholomew Rand to trial. Nonetheless, he thanked the earl for his efforts to minimize the political liabilities associated with the case.

He leaned back in his chair, pondering his words, carefully composing his thoughts, then he dipped his pen again to add, "It is with great regret that I will be unable to join you before Thursday next, owing to the press of business. I would that you conveyed my continuing regard to Jane, for I know she will be disappointed. Indeed, I shall write her under separate cover, but I would that you explained my position here as gently as you can. Tell her that the preparations for trial are tedious but necessary, and assure her that she is in my thoughts often."

Hoping that it would mollify both Dunster and his daughter, he sprinkled sand over the letter to dry the ink, then shook it over a wastebasket before folding the single sheet. Sealing it with wax from a candle, he carefully addressed it in his neat, bold hand. Taking out another piece of paper, he dipped his pen again and poised it pensively.

He didn't really want to write to Jane, but there was no help for it. He sat there for a long time, then dipped his pen again and began with "My dear Jane, I trust your journey was a pleasant one and that you are arrived home safely. As for me, I fear there is not much to say. I have been sadly busy since you left, and given that I shall be defending an exceedingly difficult case, which will require my personal attention for another week at least, I do not foresee arriving in Scotland for several days beyond that. I do hope you will forgive what must surely seem inattentiveness on my part."

It was, he reflected soberly, not a very romantic letter. He stared into the fire, seeking inspiration, finding none. Closing his eyes, he tried to bring her to mind. It was no use. He wasn't the frivolous sort of fellow who could rhapsodize about a woman's eyes or the arch of her brow, at least not Jane's, anyway. Not that she was not lovely, not at all. But even if he'd been so inclined, she simply did not inspire him.

Briefly, he allowed his thoughts to wander to Elise Rand, seeing her, her eyes closed, her lips parted for his kiss, and the ache he felt was nearly unbearable. Resolutely, he returned to Jane.

His pen scratched across the page deliberately, adding, "It is that I am nearly too tired to think tonight, but tomorrow I shall try to do much better, I promise you. For my sake and for your own, I pray you will take care of yourself. Your servant, Hamilton."

It rather sounded like something he might have written his mother, but it would have to do for the moment. He reread it, wondering if perhaps he ought to have said he loved her, but he simply could not bring himself to write the words. Besides, with the exception of that one day in her father's carriage, she'd not said it to him either. And he suspected he'd been trapped, for since then she'd appeared much more interested in being married than in him. It seemed as though he were merely around to give her the consequence of being engaged. Not that he blamed her, for his part in the betrothal was nearly as calculated as hers.

He opened his desk drawer to look for another quill and saw the sapphire bracelet. Now if he were truly wanting to appease her, he ought to send that, but he couldn't He'd bought it for Elise Rand.

Hayes cleared his throat behind him, and Patrick looked up. "What is it?"

"You scarce touched your supper, sir, and Mrs. Marsh was wondering if perhaps you wished your dessert served in here."

"No. Actually, I am rather at a loss tonight."

"It did not go well in court today?"

"No one was satisfied, if you would have the truth of it. Rand was bound over for trial after Christmas."

"It seems rather a long time away."

"You also, old fellow? Are you one of the legions unwilling to wait for him to hang? No, it isn't as long as you would think, considering there are poor souls who have waited in Newgate for years without being died."

"Well, I am sure it does not matter to me, sir. Shall I bring your after-dinner port now?"

"No." Patrick heaved himself out of his seat, then stretched. "I think perhaps I may go to White's while I am still welcome. Once I stand as a Tory, no doubt I shall have to forgo the place for Brooks', eh?"

Hayes frowned. "I would that you did not ask my opinion of that, sir, for I quite favor the Whigs myself."

"I know."

"But no doubt you will improve the Tories immensely," the butler declared loyally. "For all that you would hide it, you have a kind side to your character."

"Doing it too brown, Hayes," Patrick murmured dryly. "And I pray you will not say it too loudly, for I am a lawyer."

"While you are readying, shall I send a fellow for a hackney?"

"No. I'll take my own gig tonight, so you may order the pair put to it."

But when freshly shaved again and in his evening clothes, he swung up into the tilbury seat, and started not for White's, but rather for Elise Rand's house. Not that he expected her to relent, but conversation with her held more appeal than drinking himself under the gaming tables. Besides, he felt incredibly lonely. Behind, on the back step, his coach boy whistled a mournful tune.

As Patrick drove the Marylebone Road, he could hear them, and his blood ran nearly cold. The glow of torches gave a deceptively rosy glow to the night sky. He flicked his whip, urging his horses to speed, hoping what he smelled and saw had nothing to do with Rand.

He heard the horses behind him, and then he was swallowed within the ranks of surging Horse Guards, leaving no doubt that he was not mistaken. They passed at full gallop. His heart in his throat, Patrick applied the whip and shouted at his horses. They broke into a run, and the tilbury careened after them.

Angry jeers taunted the riders, then shots rang out, and die acrid smell of gunpowder met the smoke of torches. Ahead of him, Patrick could see the fire, while behind him water wagons rumbled. All he could think of was that the mob had burned Rand's house. He dismounted and ran pell-mell for it, encountering a wall of dirty, screaming Londoners. Horses reared, and the troops continued firing, adding to the unbearable din.

He cut off at the corner, running for the side street, then coming around the back of the house. Frightened servants were pouring out of a service door, carrying what little they could save. Patrick gulped of the smoke-filled air, and ran harder. As he reached the lawn, he could see soldiers scrambling up the brick walls, trying to reach someone hanging out a window.

Scanning those who'd gathered outside, he saw Elise, and the relief he felt was indescribable. But before he could reach her, a small, soot-streaked tweeny broke away from the others and ran back inside. Elise screamed at her, then ran to catch her, disappearing into the smoke. Above, a window broke from the heat of a burning curtain.

The old butler turned to go back, but Patrick pushed him aside. A soldier caught at Patrick's coat, nearly tearing it off him, but he broke loose and plunged into the heat

The smoke was so thick he couldn't see, burning his eyes, his throat, and his lungs. He dropped down to crawl on his hands and knees, shouting hoarsely, "Ellie! Ellie! For God's sake, answer me!"

Somewhere in the darkness, a child cried fearfully, "Button! Button, where are you?"

He looked up, seeing the girl outlined by the fire behind the smoke. Still on his hands and knees, he scrambled up the steps and caught at her skirt, pulling her down. She tumbled over him, and lay coughing at his feet. The soldier, who'd followed him, grabbed her dress and dragged her toward the door.

"Ellie! Ellie! Answer me, Ellie!" Patrick croaked out. "Where are you!" The banister above the foyer came crashing down, and a flaming piece of it nearly struck him. "Ellie!"

He saw her then. She was above him, the puppy in her arms, and she appeared dazed. Somewhere behind her, more glass broke, and the rush of air fed the flames. For a moment it looked as though she might go back, but she caught at the wall, choked by coughing.

"Down here, Ellie! Down here!" he shouted at her. "Get down! For God's sake, Ellie, get down!" His lungs were raw, and his breath nearly gone. "Roll down the stairs!"

It was obvious that she could not see for the smoke billowing up. But she dropped to her knees, out of his sight, then he heard rather than saw her hit the steps as she came down, rolled into a ball around the dog. He pulled her burning skirt off her and lay down beside her. With one arm tightly grasping her beneath her shoulder, he crawled for the door.

Someone caught him, pulling at his shoulders, dragging both of them, and he finally tasted air and felt the cool earth beneath him. He opened his burning eyes as a soldier knelt over Elise, lifting her arms above her head, pounding on her back.

"Got to get the smoke from her lungs," the fellow said, his own voice rasping.