Secret Night (2 page)

Right now, Patrick was simply going home. Nearly too tired to think and yet too exhilarated to rest, he was going home to bathe, change clothes, then return to his office.

Outside, he hailed a hackney, climbed inside, and settled back against the hard seat. Within half a block, he'd removed his barrister's wig and combed his flattened Brutus with his fingers. For a moment he closed his eyes, savoring his victory.

Maddie Coates was a free woman, free to return to her lucrative flesh trade in Covent Garden. Maddie. Magdalene. Again the faint smile played at his lips, for the irony was not lost on him—Magdalene Coates

had been aptly named for the career she'd carved out for herself. Only this Magdalene had no savior to lead her to righteousness. Truth to tell, he doubted she had any religion at all.

But he'd won her acquittal, and he had a deep sense of satisfaction from that. He'd taken a case everyone warned him could not be won, and he'd done the seemingly impossible. That, coupled with his usual fee, made the victory sweet. He leaned his head back against the top of the seat and smiled to himself. His usual fee. "Me money or me life," Maddie Coates had summed it up so succinctly. To which he'd countered her life must surely be more precious than her gold.

She'd pay it, he was certain of that, and he felt not the least compunction for taking such an exorbitant sum. She'd make it up, probably by raising her girls' prices to cover both his defense and her well-known predilection for opium.

But more than anything, his aggressive defense had added as much to his reputation as to his purse. And one got the other, after all. Before he reached his thirty
-first
birthday he intended to be not only richer hut also well placed for the political career Peale predicted. Next election, he'd stand for a seat in the Commons, and with Dunster's support, he might one day gain a ministerial portfolio for himself.

He'd alreatly come far for the youngest of four sons born into an obscure branch of an ancient and illustrious Scottish family. But by the time he'd been born, his father had nearly nothing left to settle on him, so he'd known from early childhood that he'd have to make his own way. After his first glimpse of Mrs. Jordan in
She Would and She Would Not,
he'd had his heart set on a stage career.

Unfortunately, every member of his family from the distant Duke of Hamilton to his own less than fond parent had irately disabused him of the notion, and finally he'd been pushed toward law. But he still yearned to emote upon the boards, only now his sense of the dramatic would have to be displayed on the stage of politics.

The hackney rolled to a halt in front of his brick-faced Georgian townhouse, and the driver hastened down to open the door for him.

"Made good time, we did, sor," the fellow said hopefully.

For answer, Patrick tossed him a full guinea, prompting a wide, gap-toothed grin. Turning to go up the stairs, he heard the man call after him, "Look fer me the next time, will ye? Or ask fer Willie Simms!"

" 'Tis generous to a fault you are," Hayes, his footman converted to butler, sniffed disapprovingly as he took the hated wig.

"One never knows when one might need a hackney—or a hackney driver," Patrick murmured. "And they are much more convenient than having to put the horses to the tilbury, you must admit."

"Aye, I suppose," Hayes admitted grudgingly. "But they don't add anything to your consequence, if I may say it."

"How long have you been with me?" Patrick asked, smiling.

"Since you was going to Cambridge, sir."

"Then you must surely know what a thick hide I have, eh?"

Scarce inside, Patrick reached beneath the neck of his black gown to loosen his cravat. "Tell Wilson I'd have a bath," he ordered, "and while it is being drawn, I'll take a glass of port while I read the post."

"Of course, sir," Hayes replied. "And would you have a nuncheon laid for you?"

"No, I've not time to sit down to a meal. Just have Thomas bring up bread and meat to the library, I'll eat while I read."

The butler's lips thinned with disapproval for a moment, then he sighed. "Very well. And shall I tell Mrs. Marsh to prepare dinner about eight?"

Patrick shook his head. "I'll be going to the office, and God only knows when I shall be done. As I have sadly neglected the rest of my practice for the Coates trial, I doubt I shall be home before ten."

"You must take time to eat."

"If I get too hungry, I can always stop off at Watier's or White's."

"Humph! You work too much, if you was to ask me," Hayes muttered, following him into the book-lined room. Drawing the heavy draperies back for light, he added, "Don't know why you keep a cook, unless 'tis for the rest of us."

Patrick ignored him, choosing instead to drop his tall frame into his favorite leather chair. Retrieving the basket of letters and calling cards, he leaned back and closed his burning eyes briefly, then he squared his shoulders and began opening half a week's mail.

Recognizing Kate Townsend's neat, elegant script, he felt a momentary pang beneath his breastbone. Resolutely, he chose to read her letter before the others. "Always take the worst medicine first," his mother used to say. He broke the wax seal with the edge of his thumbnail, opened the single sheet, and began to read.

Dear Mr. Hamilton,

Words can never express my gratitude to you for your efforts on my behalf. I can only pray that one day you shall be as completely happy as I am, for that must surely be a compensation beyond gold.

As for us, Bell and I are firmly ensconced in our new home here in Cornwall, where the weather is lovely and the sea so close we are lulled to sleep at night by it. The sunsets are truly spectacular and well worth a trip from London to view them. I do not think that ever in my life I envisioned myself so fortunate as I am now. With your help, I have achieved everything any female could possibly desire.

Bell assures me he is content here, saying he does not miss playing Adonis to tonnish beauties at all. He has become the country gentleman, and the life seems to suit him quite well.

I would that you could have been here when we went to church, for word of my scandal preceded me. It was as though everyone wished to pretend I was not there, yet could not quite manage it, for none could keep from admiring my handsome husband. But life is simpler here, and Bell says they will all eventually forget I was the wicked Countess Volsky who divorced her Russian husband, and I shall merely become Viscountess Townsend, mother to a handsome brood of children. Indeed, I hope to have further news on that head soon.

We do hope you will come to visit us, and we shall do all possible to make your stay agreeable, for we both count you the dearest of friends. Until then, you must know you are with us always in my prayers.

She had signed it as "Your most grateful client, Katherine Winstead Townsend."

He noticed she'd left out Volsky's name, which did not surprise him. If ever there had been a woman betrayed by a husband, it was Kate. And her determination to be rid of him had precipitated one of the worst scandals of his memory. It had been actually worse than when the Earl of Longford had shed his adulterous wife some years earlier, possibly because Townsend had been involved in that affair also. Only this time, the usually faithless Bell had actually fallen in love with Kate, and even Patrick believed the passion would prove a lasting one.

For a moment he allowed himself to remember her, to see her face in his mind again. She wasn't a beauty—in fact, she was not even what most men would call pretty—but he'd been drawn to her. She was possessed of fine dark eyes and a genuine smile, and she had great strength of character. As far as he was concerned, Townsend did not deserve her.

There had been a time during her trial when Patrick had actually considered offering for Kate Winstead himself, a time when she'd stood alone and nearly friendless. But Bell had come back for her, saving him from folly.

He sighed and set aside her letter. He ought to be grateful to Townsend, damned grateful, in fact. Marriage to a notorious divorcee would have been fatal to his ambition. A politician needed a spouse as pure as Caesar's wife, as the saying went. Attractive and well born enough to help him—someone possessed of as much ambition as he. Someone like Jane Barclay, the Earl of Dunster's dark-eyed daughter.

Aye, now there was blood as blue as any, Patrick mused, sipping his port. And if France had been worth a Mass to the Protestant Henry of Navarre, then Jane Barclay's hand was well worth his own conversion from Whig to Tory. Even Liverpool's unpopularity as prime minister had not shaken the Prince Regent's support of the party, making it unlikely they would go out of power.

Briefly Jane's image floated before him. There was no question about it, she was quite pretty—a trifle preoccupied with her father's consequence, but definitely well born and well connected. He ought to consider her discreet pursuit of him a blessing, and he did.

But as he considered Jane dispassionately, her dark hair and eyes faded to that of the girl in the Sessions House. Elise, the old man had called her. For a moment he allowed himself the luxury of imagining that prime article in his arms, of wondering what it would take to steal her away from her aging lover, then he sighed regretfully. Given his work schedule and his impending engagement to Dunster's daughter, it was highly unlikely he'd see the beauty again, unless it was across a dimly lit theater sometime.

Forcing his thoughts away from the two very disparate females, he began sifting through his remaining mail, separating tradesmen's bills into one neat, orderly pile, scented billet-doux into another for his secretary's attention. Near the bottom of the tray, he spied a printed card that intrigued him:
Bartholomew Rand, Purveyor of Quality Bricks.

As though one might not recognize the name by itself. As though there could be anyone unaware of the vast Rand Brickworks at Islington. Or that Rand was as rich as a nabob, having provided the bricks for scores of elegant mansions and grand houses. And since the terrible war with France had ended, old Rand stood to gain even more wealth, for now there was also a pent-up government desire for public building.

Curious, he turned over the card and saw the ill-formed scrawl, reading, "I shall wait upon you at three in your office to discuss a matter of mutual interest." Nothing more. Not even a day or date. At first irritated with the man's rather high-handed message, Patrick considered ignoring it, but then his curiosity prevailed. What could someone like Bartholomew Rand need with a criminal barrister? he wondered, now intrigued.

"Hayes!"

"Yes, sir?" came the prompt response. "This card—" He held it out. "When did this arrive?"

The butler moved closer to peer at the name, then answered positively, "It was carried 'round before noon, sir—rather early to be civil, in fact. And so I told the fellow that brought it."

"Damn," Patrick muttered. "What time is it?"

Hayes glanced at the clock for a moment. "Half past one."

There was scarce time for a bath, and yet for all his interest, Patrick reasoned that he ought not appear too eager. "Send James down to my office with a message for Mr. Rand," he decided abruptly. "He is to be told that three o'clock is inconvenient, but if he wishes to wait, I shall attend him there between half after three and a quarter 'til four."

"Humph! He's not apt to be liking it, if you was to ask me. That man of his was as arrogant as they make them—telling me as I was to send into court for you."

"He can learn patience," Patrick murmured, rising. Indicating the remaining letters, he directed, "Let Mr. Sinclair determine what is to be done with these, will you?"

The butler's eyebrow rose slightly. "All of them? Even the ones from the females?"

"Given his amorous tendencies, I'd say he'd enjoy writing my response to them." As Hayes's eyes mirrored his shock, Patrick smiled. "Any woman bold enough to drench her letters in perfume lacks discretion, don't you think?"

"As to that, I am sure I cannot say."

"Ah, yes—there is Mrs. Hayes," Patrick murmured.

"Precisely."

Patrick hesitated, then made up his mind. "And when Mr. Sinclair is come in the morning, he is to see if there are any roses left to be had. If they are reasonable, I'd have him send them to Latly Jane Barclay in Mayfair." Moving to the writing desk, he found paper, pen, and ink. Leaning over, he dipped his pen and quickly wrote
With my sincerest compliments, Patrick Hamilton.
"Here—have him enclose this, will you? And make sure he understands to include the tide on the outside, for she gets rather peevish if one forgets to address her as Latly Jane," he remembered. "Otherwise she will find some way to remind me that her father is an earl," he added dryly.

"And is he to specify a particular color? Or would you prefer to have those in best bloom?"

"I don't care."

"Made into a posy?"

Patrick considered it, then shook his head. "No— she can put them on her dressing table, where they may last longer." Seeing that his butler apparently disagreed with him, he smiled. "Too much attention makes the female of the species take the male for granted, old fellow."

Obviously displeased, the portly older man fidgeted in the hard, straight-backed chair. Finally, when he could contain his growing ire no longer, he rose to pace restlessly within the small confines of Patrick Hamilton's reception room.

"I've half a mind to leave," he growled. "If he thinks he can keep Bat Rand waiting ..." His voice trailed off. "Five more minutes, sirrah—five more minutes," he threatened the law clerk behind the desk.

John Byrnes looked up. "It is not yet a quarter to four," he reminded Rand mildly. "And if you wish, I am sure that Mr. Banks, our solicitor, would be most happy to accommodate you."

"Don't want any damned solicitor! D'ye think I ain't alreatly got ten of 'em?" the old man demanded angrily. "No, sir—I said three—
three!
Not half after! I expect to be attended when I ask it, I tell you!"