Secret Night (38 page)

Another soldier wiped at Patrick's face with a wet handkerchief. "We are taking you to a hospital," he reassured him.

Somehow, Patrick managed to sit up and look at his black hands. "No, I am all right. Ellie—"

She was coughing—a good sign, he hoped. The guardsman who'd been pounding on her sat back, nodding. "She ain't burned," he said, "but the dog's a mite singed."

"Lizzie?" she croaked.

"Silly little chit ain't hurt," someone told her, taking the limp puppy.

She sat up shakily, then felt of her hair, discovering she still had it. Then, whether from relief or exhaustion, she began to cry. Deep, whooping sobs wracked her body.

Heedless of those around them, Patrick pulled her into his arms, cradling her in his lap. His hand pressed her head into his shoulder while he said over and over again, "You are all right, Ellie—you are all right, Ellie."

"They burned my house, Hamilton!" she cried, her voice nearly too hoarse for speech. "They burned the house where I was born! They have destroyed Papa's house!"

"I know—we'll build you another," he promised.

"I got 'im!" a begrimed guardsman announced gleefully. "I got 'im!" In between shouts, he kept blowing into the dog's mouth. "Tough little cove, he is!"

"Oh, Button!" the tweeny cried as the pup wagged its tail.

"Did—did everybody get out?" Elise managed through her tears.

"Aye." Molly stood over her, shaking her head. "Ye was a fool ter go back, and ye know it."

"Lizzie—Lizzie went in—"

"And ye ought ter birch her fer it," the maid said sourly.

"I went atter Button!"

"Aye, and ye nearly kilt yer mistress fer a dog!"

Fighting the urge to turn her head into Patrick's smoky coat, Elise forced herself to look at what was left of her house. Flames were coming from broken windows, licking up the brick walls, while inside the whole place was an inferno. Something crashed loudly from within.

People made a line from the water wagons, passing buckets in an impotent attempt to save what was left. And then a piece of the roof caved in.

"Tell them to save the water," Elise choked out "It is hopeless."

Still holding her, Patrick struggled to get out of his coat, then he laid it over her torn petticoat to cover her bare, soot-streaked legs. Looking up at Graves, he asked, "Is there anywhere you can stay?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the others?"

"Most of us have relations in London."

"I'll find a place for Miss Rand—and her maid, of course. If you need anything, you may apply to my office, and I shall leave instructions for Mr. Byrnes."

"I cannot go home with you," Elise protested. "A hotel—the Fenton—"

"No. I want you out of London. I'd take you where you are safe from this," Patrick told her.

"Ye'd best listen ter him, miss—he went into the fire fer ye," Molly added.

"But Papa—"

"Yer papa's going to want ye safe," the maid declared. "Ye got to listen to Mr. Hamilton."

Forcing a smile despite the awful ache in her breast, Elise looked into Patrick's smoke-blackened face. "I owe you my life, Hamilton. I couldn't see anything in there—if you'd not called out, I'd not have found my way down," she whispered.

His arms tightened about her shoulders. "I wouldn't have come out without you, Ellie. You are—"

A guardsman cleared his throat, interrupting Patrick. "If you are taking her with you, sir, you'd best leave by the back. She ought not to see what's out front."

"Aye, there's five as won't be settin' any more fires," another announced grimly. "And that's not counting the ones as trampled each other. Some of 'em is plain flattened."

Molly surveyed her streaked dress sadly. "But we ain't got nuthin' ter wear, fer there wasn't no time to save anything. E'en m'Sunday gown's gone. And ye— ye cannot go about without no skirt—" She looked about her helplessly. "Well, ye cannot, but—"

"Just now I am beyond caring about that," Elise countered wearily.

"I brung yer papa's money box," Joseph mumbled. "I thought you might 'ave need of it. I think we got all his boxes out, but I don't know what's in some of 'em."

"Thank you." Elise sat up and reached for the money box. It wasn't locked. "You are all going to need something." Opening it, she stared almost numbly into the neat stacks of banknotes and the small sacks of coins. "Will ten guineas each—? I don't know—you will need everything—"

"It ought to suffice for a few days at least," Patrick said gently. "After that, they may apply to my office, and Banks or Byrnes will see they have what they need." Looking to Graves, he directed, "Just take whatever of import that you have managed to save to my office. Later, when she is more able, Miss Rand will sort through everything." Seeing that the man hesitated, he added, "Mr. Byrnes will give you a receipt listing what you give him that she may have a full accounting."

"Aye, sir."

Elise handed out ten guineas to every one of them, then as most left, she finally struggled to stand, holding Hamilton's coat over her legs, while Molly stood behind her, shielding her from the soldiers' and servants' eyes.

Leaving them in the company of a solicitous lieutenant, Patrick walked the block and a half to where he'd left his tilbury, only to discover his frightened coachey had apparently fled in it. Disgusted, he walked back.

One of Rand's neighbors, a wealthy sugar merchant named Joshua Clark, came forward to offer the use of his carriage, but one of Rand's coachmen spoke up then saying that the carriage house hadn't burned and that while the horses were a bit skittish, they'd all survived.

"Glad enough for that, at least," Clark declared bluffly. "Bat's demned proud of his horseflesh— always gets the best of everything, you know."

His wife, who'd watched silently with their servants, offered to provide Elise with clothes and a cloak, saying, "By rights, you ought to stay here with us, my dear."

"Here now—" Clark growled. "Hamilton's tending to
that, ain't you, Mr. Hamilton? Bat's lawyer, after ill."

'Yes."

"Well, the least we can do is see that she does not go off looking like the veriest ragamuffin," Mrs.
C
lark
insisted.

"I don't—" Feeling at an utter loss still, Elise hesitated
until the older woman took her by the arm and led her toward a pretentious sandstone mansion nearby.

"You, too, Mr. Hamilton," the sugar merchant said. "Best get off the street ere anything more happens,
e
h?" Falling in beside Patrick, he added conversationally, "Been an admirer of yours, sir—followed you in the newspapers. And if I wasn't to tell you it's in the coffee houses as how you are meaning to sit with the Tories
,
I'd be remiss."

“Oh?"

“Aye.
Good thing if you was to do it, you know," Clark
went on. "Too demned many reformers amongst the Whigs, as I see it—why, if we was to listen to them
,
I'd not make a profit, I'll be bound. Why, the Whigs is bad for business!"

Emotionally drained, Patrick had no wish to discuss politics
just then. "You flatter me," he managed to murmur.

"Ain't no flattering to it," Clark assured him bluntly. "The Whigs is wanting in my pockets to make everything right—like it is Joshua Clark's fault as the shiftless don't eat. No, sir—put 'em to work, I say— and them as don't, well, they don't eat! Simple enough, ain't it?"

"A lot of the displaced are soldiers come back from the war," Patrick reminded him grimly.

"And we don't need 'em anymore. They was somewhere ere they went off to fight, wasn't they? Well, let 'em go back where they was come from!" Clark paused and caught himself. "Not as we don't owe 'em something, sir, but damme if it's coming from me, that's all." His eyes raked over Patrick, taking in his streaked face. "Best have Tinney—that's my man— fetch you a cloth and bowl, eh? Margaret ain't going to want you in any of her chairs like that."

"Thank you."

Aided by Clark's valet, Patrick washed up outside the kitchen, then joined the old man inside. While he waited for Elise and Molly in the front parlor, he sipped brandy and listened to the man tell of the terror they'd all felt when the "mass of lowest humanity" had descended on the street.

" 'Twas terrible, sir—utterly terrible," he said, shaking his head. "Poor Margaret was already gone to bed with the headache, and for all we knew of it, they was going to get this place also. Had to get her up, then we all pushed the furniture against the doors. Why, 'tis a wonder we did not lose this house."

"Hopefully, the worst is over until the trial."

"Finer man than Bat Rand don't live, I can tell you," Clark pronounced definitely. "This whole thing is a travesty, it is."

"How well do you know him?" Patrick asked politely.

"Lived beside him for years, twenty-three to be precise. Aye, I remember when the girl was born. Sad business there, too, for Emmaline nearly died—almost bled to death, you know."

"Did he drink quite a lot?"

"No more than most of us. Oh, he tippled a bit much sometimes, I suppose, and the watch was having to bring him home a time or so."

"Did he tell you about being robbed?"

"Aye, he did. Said I ought to be careful myself, for he was just walking down the street when the rowdies tolled him." Clark poured another glass of brandy. "I expect it will be a while," he told Patrick, "for Margaret ain't letting Ellie out ere she is cleaned up a bit."

"No, I suppose not."

"Guess you are wondering why I ain't offering to keep the gel, ain't you? Thing is, we ain't wanting any more trouble, don't you see? Margaret's heart's bad, and with them breaking windows and shouting at Rand's house during the night, I was afraid they'd mistake my place for his." Clark looked into his glass for a moment, then drank deeply. Smacking his lips, he turned his attention back to Patrick. "Besides, what if they was to come back?"

"Well, now that Rand's house is burned down, I cannot think that likely," Patrick murmured dryly.

"Eh? Oh, no—and with the place closed down and the girl gone, they ain't got no reason to, as I'm seeing it."

“Did Mr. Rand say where it was that he was robbed?" Patrick asked casually.

“That's the devil of it, sir—'twas near Carleton House once, he said. And if they are so bold as to roll a man there, there ain't a safe place left in London after dark."

"Carleton House?" Aye. Odd place, ain't it? Guess they ain't got all the riffraff as was in St. James out yet, eh?"

"Apparently not."

“Rand was a good man," Clark went on expansively. I ain't supposed to tell it, but the war's over now, so who's to care?"

“Tell what?"

"Where I got m'brandy—aye, and m'wine also. And what with the lace trade shut down, he was able to get Margaret some of that also."

“Rand was a smuggler?"

"Lud,
no! But he knew some of 'em, and he wasn't above providing his friends with what was wanted."

"I see."

"No, you don't," the old man declared bluntly. "Bat Rand drove a hard bargain with the bricks, but he wasn't above taking care of things for his friends and his family. Why, Margaret was able to trim her petticoats when there was others as couldn't."

"How well does Mrs. Clark know Mrs. Rand?"

"Emmaline?" He appeared to consider that, then shook his head. "She wasn't right after the girl was born."

"She suffered a brain affliction?"

"No, but she wasn't like she was. Oh, she was pleasant enough, I guess, but she wasn't a goer like before. And when Miss Rand was old enough, Bat liked to take her with him to the Lord Mayor's dinners and things like that when Emmaline wasn't wanting to go." Clark drank his brandy, then licked his lips. "Good stuff, ain't it? Yes, sir, but Bat knew how to get things. The French devil never stopped him from getting what he wanted."

"Oh?"

"Aye, and it wasn't just things like brandy neither. When he got a boat in from China—or was it India? Well, it don't signify which, anyways, does it? Point is, Margaret's a hand at the gardening—does some of it herself even."

"He got her something for her garden?"

"Aye, he was into the plants himself, but what Brit ain't? But to make the long and short of it, he liked to give her stuff to try out. A couple of years back, he gave her yellow jessamine—she liked that, 'cause the blooms was showy."

"I see."

"Gave her oleander once, but it didn't prosper. If it was warm, I'd take you out to Margaret's garden, but it don't show well this time of year."

"I'm afraid I am that rare Englishman who cannot tell one flower from another," Patrick admitted. "Tell me—did you ever know of Mr. Rand's keeping a mistress?"

"Why he was devoted to 'em—Emmaline and the girl, I mean. Oh, he might've drank a bit, and he might've been hard on them as made bricks for him, but he wasn't what they are saying."

Patrick leaned forward to set his empty glass on the tray. "Tell me, Mr. Clark—would you be willing to testify
as to his character?"

"In court? And what if those folks was to come back for
me? No, sir, I would not."

“'He may hang."

"Aye, and I'd be sorry for it, but what can I do? I got a sugar business to look after—got ships coming in horn the West Indies every month."

"Would you count Mr. Rand a herbalist?" Patrick asked
suddenly.

"Well, he was always growing things."

"Did he ever use opium?"

"What? Of course he did not! Wouldn't even touch
snuff!"

"Did he ever buy a quantity of sugar from you?"

"Well, of course he did! Gave him a good price, and he took it."

"More than a household would use, would you say?"

"Well, he's got—or rather, he had—a big house, sir."

"Yes, of course."

"What are you going to do with the girl?" Clark liked him.

“I had thought to send her into the country."

"You won't get her to leave him. Not that I approved it, but he treated her like a son, sir—a son rather
than a daughter. Broke his heart when she was wanting to wed Sam Rose's boy."

"So I have heard."

The old man nodded. "He was wanting for something between her and m'son—and I cannot say I was diverse to it. But you know the saw, sir—what was it the Romans said? 'Familiarity breeds contempt,' eh? Well, it did. My Philip would have offered for her, but she let him know she wasn't having him."