Secret Night (43 page)

Both women stared at him, then Lady Dunster found her voice again. "But you will not to able to stand for the elections, Mr. Hamilton. Surely you must know that."

"I do, but the trial will not be held until January."

"January, sir, is too late. I thought my husband said—well, I thought he meant to persuade you away from this foolish notion." She looked helplessly toward her daughter. "Jane, you must reason with him."

"I have tried, Mama, but he is too thick-skulled to listen!" For a long moment, Jane continued to regard him balefully, then she decided. "It is clear to me now that Mr. Hamilton has preyed upon me to gain his advantage. But I do not mean to stand for it, I assure you." Still looking at Patrick, she declared flatly, "My engagement to Mr. Hamilton is quite at an end. You may write to Papa and tell him I should not wed the lunatic if he were the last man in England."

"Well, I scarce know what to say, dearest. Your papa will be vexed, I am sure."

"When he hears of Mr. Hamilton's folly, I am sure Papa will support me."

"I see," Patrick said, feigning a deep disappointment. "Well, I am sorry, of course, but I cannot very well force you into a distasteful marriage."

"I should not go as far as the village with you now," Jane said emphatically. "I only hope you know you are throwing a brilliant future away. Papa could have given you everything, Patrick—everything."

"Yes, well, then there is not much left to say, is there, my dear?" he managed soberly. "Shall I send the notice in, or would you prefer Lord Dunster did it?"

"I don't care. You may, I suppose. You may merely say we have discovered we shall not suit."

"As you wish, of course."

"Well, I must say you are both rather civilized about it," Lady Dunster observed.

Jane took off her ruby and diamond ring and handed it to Patrick. "All I ask, sir, is that you do not give this to your doxy."

"Jane!" her mother gasped.

"It is all right, Mama, for he is going." Spying his beaver hat, she moved to pick it up. Holding it out to him, she said with utter finality, "Good day, sir."

As he left them, he could hear her mother say, "I fear your father would have wished you to consult him."

"Not when I tell him what I have escaped," the girl said. "Besides, I shall say I mean to accept Dillingham, after all, and that ought to appease him. Though," she mused somewhat wistfully, "Hamilton is still far more handsome."

It was all he could do to walk soberly from the house, and when he reached the safety of the carriage, he collapsed against the hard leather squabs, feeling as relieved as if he'd escaped the lion's den. Had he not felt a slight twinge of guilt for deceiving her, he would have been in whoops. But at least it was now over, and he was free to go home to Ellie.

After he saw Rand. With that thought, whatever euphoria he'd felt ended. There was still Ellie's father left between him and happiness.

After making the trip back to London, he found a letter from the earl already awaited him. Breaking the wax seal with his thumbnail, he scanned it quickly, reading:

My dear Hamilton,

I am in receipt of Jane's letter, which arrived by messenger today, and it is difficult to express the depth of my disappointment in what I can only consider your sad lack of judgment. To defend Bartholomew Rand at this juncture can only be counted an utter folly, something I had not expected of a man of your intellect and promise.

As you must certainly know, I have no choice but to wash my hands of you. The party is in need of those who can bring victory, not those who must surely carry it down to defeat. I make my decision with genuine regret, sir, for I was not alone in seeing great possibilities in you.

It was signed, "As ever, Yr. Servant, etc., Dunster."

Behind him, Hayes watched as he consigned the earl's letter to the fire. "I beg your pardon, sir—is aught the matter?" the butler asked. "I had expected you to remain in Scotland a trifle longer."

"You behold a jilted man, old fellow," Patrick murmured. Walking to where a decanter sat on the sideboard, he poured two drinks and gave one to the startled Hayes. Taking his own, he clinked the glasses together for a toast. "To Lady Jane Barclay," he said softly. "May she make someone else the perfect political wife."

"I am terribly sorry."

"Oh, I assure you I am not repining, Hayes—not at all."

Thinking his master must have finally snapped beneath the weight of work, Hayes regarded him curiously. "Are you quite certain you are not ailing, sir?"

Tossing off his drink, Patrick shook his head. "Wish me happy, Hayes, for I am getting married."

"Well, I am sure—that is, if Lady Jane Barclay has cried off, sir, I fail to see how—"

"Pure luck, old fellow—pure luck, I assure you. The Almighty has delivered me in the proverbial nick of time," Patrick managed more soberly. "You see, I have hopes of Miss Rand."

"Miss Rand?" Hayes echoed, stunned. "You are marrying the murderer's daughter?"

"Yes." Pouring himself another drink, Patrick flung himself into a chair before the fire, then stared into the flames for a moment. "God, Hayes, but I very nearly went to hell."

"I collect you have decided not to stand for Parliament," the old man said.

"No. Instead, I am inclined to contribute money to the Whigs, for at least they are not afraid to stand for something."

Hayes eyed his glass dubiously, then sipped it. "Well, I am sure I have always thought so."

As tired as he was, Patrick still had to see Rand, then he meant to leave for Barfreston and Ellie, taking time to visit the archbishop's office in Canterbury. When he went home, he wanted to present her with a Special License to marry. After that, she would never again have to feel ashamed for letting him love her. After that, she would be his wife of name as well as body.

He forced himself to sit up. "I don't suppose Banks or Byrnes has sent by any messages, have they?"

"If they did, the letters probably went to Scotland. Indeed, but I thought you had cleared your calendar for the hunting trip."

"I did—of everything but Rand."

"Terrible business about his house," Hayes observed. "The
Gazette
said the crowd numbered in the hundreds before the Guards came."

"At least. His neighbors ought to be thankful they are not in the City itself, for then there should have been ten times as many, maybe more."

"Aye. How many was it as witnessed the last execution?" Hayes asked. " 'Twas nigh eighty thousand as came," he murmured, answering himself. "Aye, but we Brits do love our hangings."

"With a passion," Patrick acknowledged dryly. "The circus for the masses."

"Well, I have only gone once, of course, and the pasties I bought did not set well at all. Not to mention that the poor fellow kicked far too long, and the hangman had to pull at his legs to end it."

"As odd as it may seem, given my profession, I have never been once."

"Not even when they hanged the doctor as was poisoning his patients?"

"No."

The butler stared into the fire also, then finally asked, "Will Mr. Rand go to the gallows, do you think?"

"Probably." Patrick studied the dregs of his wine for a moment. "Unless he is willing to risk his neck, the hangman will break it for him."

"Poor Miss Rand."

"I know." Setting his glass aside, Patrick heaved himself up from the chair. "I suppose I shall have to visit him and get it over with," he said heavily. Looking at the curled wisps of fire-blackened paper, he added matter-of-factly, "Two down, one to go."

Patrick walked outside Newgate Prison struggling within himself. For nearly ten years, he had practiced law more as an art than an instrument of justice, telling himself that the one resulted in the other. But this time, had it not been for Elise Rand, he could have easily walked away from the old man, saying that he had no wish to defend him.

But did not, by the nature of the judicial system, every defendant require the best counsel a lawyer could give? Or were there some crimes so terrible that every just feeling must demand vengeance? What then? Did one turn one's back on a man like Rand?

For once, he didn't have an easy answer. Most of what he'd wanted, most of the ambitions he'd cherished were gone now, replaced by the conviction that what he needed out of life was the love of a murderer's daughter. For a moment he closed his eyes, seeing her as she'd looked kneeling in the old Norman church that moment when he'd realized he loved her. Now, if only he could somehow protect her from the anguish that was sure to come, he was convinced he could make her happy.

"Hamilton! Patrick Hamilton!" someone called out to him. "Wait up!"

Pulled from his reverie, Patrick stopped and half turned to see Peale hurrying after him, his black robe billowing, his hand holding his wig. Patrick managed to smile wryly, knowing that when the older man heard the earl had abandoned him, he would think him a complete fool.

"I thought I'd caught sight of you," the prosecutor said breathlessly. He straightened the curled peruke. For a moment he regarded Patrick soberly, then he nodded. "Couldn't take any more of Dunster's managing, eh?"

"It would seem that gossip travels faster than a coach and four," Patrick murmured noncommittally.

"All over the Bailey. In fact—" Peale leaned closer as though he shared a secret with him. "In fact, Lord Dunster summoned Russell and myself to attend him earlier today, and I cannot say he was pleased at all."

"I know."

"You've got no defense, my boy—Rand is certain to hang."

Not wanting to discuss the case, Patrick turned the subject. "I suppose Dunster told you I have been drummed out of the Tories ere I was in?"

"He said Lady Jane had cried off," Peale admitted. Once again, his eyes met Patrick's. "You weren't meant for the Tories, Hamilton. Men like you need challenges—you'd be bored beyond reason amongst them. And it would be a waste, sir—a terrible waste."

"Look, I—"

"Don't want to hear it, eh? Well, I'm going to say it anyway, for I have seen it with my own eyes," the older man went on. "You have the eloquence and fervor of a Charles Fox and the charm of a Dick Sheridan, Mr. Hamilton. I know, for I remember both of them well. Better Whigs have never sat in Commons—never.''

"You flatter me."

"Lord Palmerston agrees with me. You, sir, are a born Whig—heart and soul. Anything else is prostitution, plain and simple."

"Odd words from a Tory, Peale."

"Me? Oh, I don't count myself much of anything other than a survivor," the prosecutor assured him. "I doubt even Mrs. Peale could say for certain which way I lean. But we are speaking of you."

Patrick smiled faintly. "Are we?"

Peale nodded. "Palmerston said I ought to tell you to come 'round when you have the time. I'd advise you to go."

"Maybe I will."

The older man looked toward Newgate before sighing. "You are possibly the best barrister I've faced— but I've got you on Rand, I'm afraid."

Patrick followed his gaze, then shrugged. "We shall have to see, won't we?"

"Man's as guilty as sin itself," Peale countered. "Never has anyone so deserved to hang. Fellow's an utter madman, Hamilton—a madman."

"Precisely." Patrick inclined his head. "If you will pardon me, I expect to see him now."

"Of course." The prosecutor held out his hand. "Until next we are met in court, sir."

"Until then."

Peale waited until Patrick had turned back toward the prison, then he added, "If ever I should be charged, I should wish you to defend me, you know."

As the older man's footsteps receded, Patrick stood there for a moment, digesting his words. So Palmerston might welcome him—an intriguing thought to say the least, but then the Whigs were never strangers to scandal.

A slow smile came to his face as he contemplated Dunster's certain chagrin if he were to stand for election as a Whig. Even as he thought of that, he could see himself speaking out in Commons, espousing Elise's causes with relish. It would be a novel role for him, that of accuser rather than defender, but he did not doubt he could excel at it.

After he spoke with Rand, he'd pay Palmerston a call and lay all his cards upon the table. Then if the viscount thought the party could stomach the son-in-law of a murderer, he'd fight to gain a seat in Parliament. And with all her passionate views, Elise ought to make him a damned fine political wife.

But first he had to see her father. Squaring his shoulders, he straightened his cravat, and walked up to greet the guard. For the brief moment it took to gain admittance, he looked up and saw the shadow of the scaffold on the wall. If he were a superstitious man, he would have counted it an inauspicious omen.

Rand looked up from his cards when Patrick was let in. "You ain't precisely looking well, Hamilton. In fact, you are appearing as though you have eaten something as don't agree with you."

"No. I am merely tired beyond reason, for I have but arrived from Scotland this morning."

"How's m'girl? Or did you take her with you?" Rand asked slyly.

"As well as can be expected, given the fire and all else that has befallen her. I took her to Barfreston, where she will be safer."

"So Graves said when he brought m'boxes to me. Ought to have put her up in a hotel, you know. It ain't like I ain't got the blunt for it. Now you got her where she ain't even able to come see me." Rand tossed down a card in disgust, then nodded to the jailer who sat across from him. "Been winning though—he's into me for nigh to
fifty pounds."

"If you do not mind, I should like to see you alone."

"Eh? Oh, I collect as you got news for me. Don't suppose as you are getting me out, eh?"

"No."

"Well, go on with you," Rand told the jailer dismissively. "I guess I got to talk to my lawyer. But if you was to bring me back a pint or so, I might forget a pound
or two of what you are owing me."

Patrick waited until the jailer left, then he sat down in the vacated seat, where he regarded the old man soberly.

"Well, ain't you a Friday-face, sirrah! I don't suppose as you have even tried to get me out, have you?" he demanded sarcastically. "Or was you too busy puttin' it to m'daughter?"