Secret Night (21 page)

His eyes narrowed briefly, then he shrugged. "All right," he muttered. "Guess I ain't got any right to ask you to turn against your own principles, do I?"

"No."

"Course I don't. Here—come here and give your papa a kiss, eh?"

She moved closer and bent to brush her lips against his cheek. His hand came up to smooth her hair, much as he'd done when she was a small child.

"Aye, you are a good girl, Ellie—a damned fine girl, if I was to say so myself."

"Fiddle, Papa."

"And when I am gone, you got to look after Em and m'business, Puss. I didn't build my fortune to see it wither away from inattention. You got to see to it as there's a Rand Brickworks in Islington to leave to

your children, you know. Aye, and don't you be lettin' yourself get cheated, you hear? There's plenty of fellows out there as will think they can make you pay 'em for the privilege of selling 'em the bricks, that you got to bribe 'em ere a Rand brick goes into the pile. But we make the best demned bricks as is to be had, and the nobs is wantin' 'em for their houses, so you ain't got to give 'em a farthing."

"Papa, you are not dead yet."

"Well, I'm going to be. And I ain't wanting you there to see me swing neither. When all's said in court, you got to go to Em's preachy relations until it's over."

"Papa!"

"Plain as a pikestaff, ain't it? The whore's pimp gets to tell as how he found me with her, and I don't get to say nothing. I'll wager you didn't know that, did you? Well, 'tis God's own truth—I ain't allowed to testify for myself. So I got to have Hamilton to make the fellow look the fool. Otherwise, I am as good as dead right now."

"You make him sound like God," she muttered.

"Aye. And you know what, Puss? His name is enough to get me acquitted, 'cause like I said, the prosecutor is afraid of him and the juries is believing him 'cause he's Hamilton."

Caught between her mother and him, she was feeling utterly, completely beleaguered with nowhere to turn. She tried one last time. "Papa," she said, enunciating each word clearly in the hope he would somehow listen, "I cannot make Mr. Hamilton believe you are innocent. I am telling you that he thinks you guilty. Indeed, he thinks you will be charged with Peg Parker's death also—maybe more."

"Aye." His hand slid down her arm to clasp her hand. Holding it against his breast, he swore solemnly. "As sure as you can feel my heart beneath your hand, Puss, your papa is innocent of all of it. The worst I've ever done is to lay amongst the whores."

"I know."

He released her hand. "I'll talk to Mr. Parker—for you, Ellie, I'll do it. But you got to promise me as you won't come to hear the case when it comes to the docket. I ain't wanting you to be there when they say I got to hang."

"Papa, I know a whisker when I hear it," she retorted. "You have got Mr. Hamilton in your brain."

"Mebbe—but I know what I need—better'n you, I know what I got to have."

"And what if Mr. Hamilton were to fail you? What if he represented you and you were to be convicted?"

"Then I'd die knowing as I had the best chance I could have got."

"He is not a worker of miracles, you know. He is only a man, and a Tory at that, which leads me to believe he cannot be infallible."

"Course he ain't—but damme if he ain't the next thing to it. And what's being a Tory got to do with anything? I'm a Tory myself!"

"The Tories never wish to make anything right—all they concern themselves with is staying in power. At least the Whigs want to stop slavery and protect climbing boys from dying of soot sores or worse."

"Aye, they got their heads turned backward, don't they? They forget as what made this country great."

"Slavery?" she asked sarcastically.

"Looking out for England first. The Whigs is always ready to play dead when there's fighting as has got to be done."

She started to rebut his words, then caught herself. "Papa, I don't want to brangle with you. I want to help you, but
I
don't know how. Please—"

"Aye. Then you got to get Hamilton to at least come back to see me."

"And if he won't?"

"Then I'm dead."

She didn't want to seek out Patrick Hamilton again, but she couldn't very well refuse her father either. "How much am
I
authorized to offer him?" she asked tiredly.

"Anything he was to want, Puss—anything he was to want."

"Ten thousand?"

"Oh, you ain't getting him for that, I'll be bound. Rumor's got it as he charged the Coates woman more'n that. Aye, they say as he gets as much as half of what a fellow's got for defending him."

"But that is robbery! Surely you cannot wish me to offer anything like that? You would be giving him a fortune!"

"I told you—whatever it takes. My gold ain't much good to me if I am gone."

She regarded him askance for a moment, then sighed. "All right."

"Time's up, miss."

This time it was a different guard who came to let her out, and he was almost deferential. She was about to smile at him, when she saw her father hand him a gold guinea. As her eyebrow went up, he nodded.

"Aye, ye got to grease 'em, and they ain't so bad, eh?" Looking past her to the jailer, he flashed another coin. "I'd take a bottle of hock, if you was to fetch it."

She waited until she was following the fellow up the steps before she asked, "Can you not at least remove the fetters? He is but one old man unable to run. Surely it can be arranged, don't you think?"

"I'll speak ter th' keeper about 'im," the jailer promised. "Aye, fer the right gold, he'll listen ter him. Mebbe he'll even take him into his apartments—and mebbe not."

"If Papa will not, then I shall pay it."

But as she climbed the steps, she felt as though the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. Whether it was a queer start, a maggot in his brain, or pure obstinacy on her father's part, he was utterly determined to have Patrick Hamilton plead for his life in court.

No, she would have to screw her courage to the sticking point and call upon the infuriating barrister again. And God only knew what she could tell him to make him change his mind. Twenty-five thousand pounds maybe—surely that ought to be enough to do it. But even as she thought it, she knew in her heart it was going to take a great deal more than money.

Feeling very much against the wall, she did nothing until Mr. Parker waited upon her at her home. But what he told her did nothing to resolve the terrible conflict within her breast. For one thing, now that the tale of Annie Adams's murder had been covered in lurid detail by the papers, who described her father with words such as "murderous fiend," "demonic beast," and "savage ghoul," Parker had been subjected to more than the usual vilification. On hearing a rumor that Rand would be bound for trial today, an angry mob had formed between the Bailey and Newgate, jeering at the barrister, "Hang the bloody bastard! Cut 'im up like 'e did 'er!" Despite his distinguished legal career and his excellent reputation, the crowd had pelted poor Parker with garbage.

And her father, he further reported, had been uncooperative in the extreme, going so far as to accuse him of being "a demned charlatan" and "a legal leech." Considering the whole of both circumstances, he was regretfully declining the case.

So she'd paid him for his effort, then she'd sat for a long time in her father's bookroom, staring at nothing, searching her soul, hoping for some divine answer, and seeing only the one other possibility. Patrick Hamilton. At least Rand wanted him, which must surely make him more cooperative now.

Finally, she'd risen to go up to her bedchamber, passing her mother's empty room, knowing that Bat Rand had no one he could depend upon but her. When she looked out onto the quiet street, she could see the yellow balls of streetlights still being lit below. And she knew if she waited until the morrow, she would probably lose her nerve.

Crossing her arms defensively over her breasts, she sighed her resignation. As much as she did not want to, she was going to have to throw herself on Patrick Hamilton's doubtful mercy and offer him whatever it took to gain his services. Having made that decision, she went to work.

She bathed, then dressed carefully, choosing a peach silk dress that drew attention to her red-gold hair, having Molly twist that hair into a crown of curls, adding two strands of creamy pearls around her slender neck. Finally, she stood back from her cheval mirror, admitting even to herself that she looked very well indeed.

"Ye couldn't be prettier if ye was a royal princess," her maid declared proudly.

"Thank you. I have hopes you are right, Molly, for I mean to put it to the touch."

"Ye
'
ll
be the fanciest one at the party, I'll be bound ye will. All them gentry morts'll be a-wantin' to stand up with ye—and more."

"Just now I expect I am more the pariah," Elise muttered.

The maid stepped back to admire her again, then sighed sadly. "A pity it is that neither yer mum nor yer papa is here to see it."

"I know. Did you tell Joseph to order the carriage?"

"Aye, and he was wan tin' to know yer direction."

"I am going to call upon Mr. Hamilton," Elise admitted baldly.

"The mort as was here?" Molly asked, scandalized. "No, ye ain't. Yer papa—"

"It is Papa who asks it."

"Then I'm going with ye."

"No. No, this is something I have to do myself."

"But ye'll be a-givin' 'im the wrong impression! Here now—no ye ain't! Yer mum ain't going ter approve, I can tell ye."

"Mama isn't here." Elise took a deep breath, then let it out fully. "And if I do not try, Papa may hang for something he did not do."

"Ye ain't going ter call on no fellow by yerself, miss—ye ain't. Why, what is Mr. Hamilton ter think?"

"I don't know."

"Why, he'll think ye a common trollop," Molly answered herself. "That's what." "I hope not."

"Well, look at ye! All fancied up ter call on one man! Ye'll have no rep, ye know," the maid predicted direly.

"I think I know what I am doing, Molly. And I'd rather see Papa survive than anything."

"Weil, Joseph ain't going ter let ye go!"

"I'm not taking him. The driver and a coachman will suffice, thank you."

The maid relented slightly. "Ye ain't going in ter no gennuiman's house alone? Ye mean ter take James with ye?"

"Yes," Elise lied.

"Still, it don't seem right. I mean, the nobs has got rules, miss, and ye don't cross 'em but at yer peril." "I am not a nob, Molly. I am a Cit." "Aye, but—"

"My mind is quite made up. Now, fetch me the evening cloak that goes with this, will you?"

"Ye'll freeze ter death," the maid predicted direly. "And I got a mind ter speak ter James meself."

"You will do no such thing," Elise warned her severely. "Lest you forget it, with Mama gone, I am mistress of this house."

"Aye, but—"

"It is not your place to pass judgment on what you do not know." Collecting the velvet-lined peach silk cloak, Elise wrapped it around her shoulders and fastened the pearl-studded clasp beneath the folded-over velvet collar. "There." Seeing that Molly still regarded her askance, she managed to smile. "I am not a green little chit just out of the schoolroom, Molly. I am two and twenty, you know."

"But ye ain't been out in the world."

"Molly—"

"All right!" The maid threw up her hands. "I ain't saying anything more."

"Good." As Elise turned around to leave, she saw her watercolor of Ben Rose. Walking over to it, she held it lovingly for a long moment, then opened the table drawer and put it inside. It didn't matter anymore, she told herself resolutely as she closed the drawer. Regardless of what happened, Ben was lost to her forever. And no matter what occurred between her and Patrick Hamilton, it could not touch the heart she'd given to Ben.

In the carriage, she sat very still, rigidly almost, her lace-gloved hands clasped so tightly that her fingers were numb, hoping first that Patrick Hamilton would be at home, then that he would not. Water from an earlier rain splashed up beneath the coach wheels, spraying a tipsy gentleman, who held up his walking stick and cursed at her loudly, but she scarce noted him.

She tried to pray for forgiveness, but her agitated mind would not comply. Finally, she managed to tell herself that she would let God decide which was the greater sin by whether Hamilton was there or gone from his house.

All too soon, her driver had found the address, and as the carriage stopped, the coachman hopped down to open the door for her. "I dunno, miss—it don't look like no party here ter me. Ye want me ter bang the knocker?" he asked nervously.

"Just help me down, please," she said, her voice tightly controlled. "And if I am not out within the half hour, you may leave."

"When was ye wishful o' coming home?"

"I don't know."

"We got ter come back fer ye," the man reminded her.

She didn't even know if Hamilton possessed a carriage of his own. Every time she'd seen him, he'd been either in a hack or her papa's town coach, but that didn't mean anything. Perhaps he'd merely not wanted to leave his horses standing while he attended to business in the Bailey.

"All right," she decided finally. "Wait around the corner out of sight. I may be here awhile, so you are welcome to shelter yourself inside the coach."

"Thankee." But once again, he eyed Hamilton's narrow townhouse dubiously. "They ain't got many as came, do they?"

"Perhaps all of the guests are not yet arrived," she murmured.

"Still, I oughter announce ye."

"I am quite capable of announcing myself. As I am neither a titled lady nor a daughter of the gentry, I don't need to stand on ceremony."

Reluctantly, he let her go, then climbed back onto the box. She waited until the carriage rounded the corner out of sight, then she resolutely climbed the steps to lift the brass knocker. Holding her breath, she banged it loudly several times, then fought the urge to run as her stomach knotted.

"Here now—no need to wake the dead, is there?" Hamilton's butler grumbled, opening the door. He saw her, and his eyes widened, betraying his shock. Obviously, his first notion was to turn her away, but as his gaze swept over her, taking in the richness of her clothes and the pearl clasp at her throat, his expression grew more uncertain.