Secret Night (6 page)

Telling herself there was no reason to rip up at Molly for doing what she'd been told, Elise removed her day dress and sat before her dressing table. As the girl began brushing the tangles from the thick, red-gold hair, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. "What else did Papa say?" she asked casually.

"That he wants ye to make a grand impression on the gentleman," the girl answered, giggling. "Said he was right handsome—the gentleman, that is."

"He's a barrister, which ought to tell you he's not a gentleman. Most of them merely twist the law this way and that for a price."

''Well, it don't make any difference what he is—'tis time and enough for ye to be thinking of a mister."

"I am content enough to be an ape-leader, I assure you."

The maid rolled a section of hair around the hot iron and held it, counting silently. As she released it, she declared, "Woman wasn't made to live alone."

"Did Papa say that also?"

"No, but 'tis God's truth, ain't it?"

"You forget I was betrothed to Benjamin Rose."

"Aye, and a pity it was," the girl clucked sympathetically. "I shed a tear for ye, I did. And then when he—" She caught herself guiltily. "Well, I wouldn't wish anyone dead, even if he wasn't right for ye."

"Molly, I don't mean to listen to it," Elise warned her.

"Well, it don't make any difference now, does it?" the maid countered, "Seems as God did the choosin', I'd say."

"Ben Rose was the kindest man I have ever known."

"Aye," she agreed. "He was that, I suppose. And patient enough to wait for yer papa to set the date, wasn't he?"

"He respected Papa—for all that they were different, he respected him."

"Well, if he was wanting to wed ye, he oughter have taken ye to Gretna," the girl declared, sniffing. "Been right romantic, wouldn't it a-been?"

"Ben was not that sort of man, and well you know it. He would never have embroiled me in a scandal."

Molly sensed the wistfulness in her mistress's voice and forbore saying anything more. But privately she thought Benjamin Rose had been too kind for his own good. He probably hadn't even put up a fight when the cutpurses had killed him.

As the girl continued to work quickly, taking first one piece of
hair, then another, making a riot of reddish-gold curls, Elise forced her thoughts away from Ben to her father. As much as she loved him, she felt resentment that he could expect her to cast out lures to anyone, and especially to a stranger she expected to dislike. Her gaze met her own in the mirror, reproaching her. He seldom asked for much from her, she had to admit, and for some reason, an association with Patrick Hamilton was exceedingly important to him. But why?

The maid picked up the brush again and pulled the curls back from Elise's face. "Yer pardon—it ain't right for me t'be impertinent, is it?"

"Since when? Molly, you have always been impertinent."

"Aye, but ye like the way I do yer hair, don't ye?" Molly countered, working to pin Elise's hair at her crown. Deftly, she freed a few wispy tendrils to frame the oval face. "Well?"

"Always."

"Aye, I got a something to work with," the maid went on. "My sister Bess, the one as is a latly's maid to the Misses Banks, well, she's allus complaining. Ain't one of 'em as don't have something wrong with 'em. The oldest one's got bad teeth, the middle one's got straw fer hair, and the youngest one's throwing spots. Ain't nothing she can do for 'em, she says." Picking up a strand of pearls from a silk-lined box, she began threading them through the crown of blond curls. "Me—I got you, miss. If ye'd go about more, I'd be set to work for anyone—why, they'd be a-throwing the gold at me to make me leave ye." She stepped back to survey her handiwork and smiled happily. "There—we done it, miss—just look at ye."

The girl in the mirror seemed a stranger, a lovely, distant stranger. Behind her, Molly reached for the rouge pot and haresfoot, and as Elise watched, she gave the appearance of life to the stranger. The maid viewed the mirror critically for a moment, then dipped her fingertip first into a small container of hair pomade, followed by the rouge pot. With great care, she reddened Elise's lips. The girl in the mirror frowned.

"Just a wee bit of color—ye want Mr. Hamilton to think ye got blood a-flowing through ye, don't ye?" Molly said, wiping her hand on a cloth.

Elise made a face at herself. "I look like a Cyprian."

"No, ye look lovely. If he ain't at yer feet, I ain't Molly Woodson. Now all we got to do is dress ye."

As the maid moved to shake out the blue dress, Elise stood. Stepping behind her, Molly carefully eased the gown over her head and waited for her mistress to thrust her arms into the sleeves. Then she pulled the shimmering silk down over the slim hips, smoothing it as it fell.

"Now for the shawl," Molly murmured, enveloping her in the thin silk. "But ye got to drape it just so— aye, like this, I think." Catching a glance at Elise in the mirror, the maid declared happily, "If you ain't a vision, I don't know what is, miss. I'll get yer pearls."

But Elise stood still as a statue, staring at herself. /
don't wish to do this,
she thought almost desperately. /
don't want to flirt with anyone again—not now—not ever.

Patrick mounted the steps of Bartholomew Rand's impressive Marylebone mansion with an almost eager anticipation. For much of the afternoon, his thoughts had turned far too often to Elise Rand, and now he would have the opportunity to see her again, to discover if she was even half as lovely as he'd thought her.

It didn't matter if she was, he told himself, for there was no room in his life
for a Cit's daughter, not when he'd all but tipped his hand to Dunster, and the earl expected his imminent
offer for Jane.

Now if Elise Rand were a widow or a bored wife, and if there was not the matter of dancing attendance upon Latly Jane, he could envision a definite affair in that quarter. But she was neither, and the mushrooms within the middle class tended to demand more than a slip of the shoulder, particularly when the female in question was possessed of an immense fortune. Unmarried women of wealth, he reflected regretfully, rarely succumbed to any offer short of a wedding ring.

A stiff, correct butler came to the door, looked him over discreetly, then stood back to admit him into a wide, marble-tiled foyer that seemed almost as cavernous as something designed by the Prince Regent. It was dominated by a huge double staircase, and the whole was illuminated by a chandelier worthy of an opera house. He looked around him, torn between awe and contempt for such an obvious display of the old man's money.

The butler cleared his throat, and when Patrick's attention returned to him, he gestured politely for the barrister's hat and cloak. "None of the family is yet down," he announced, "but I am to direct you to the front saloon. Shall I send a footman to attend you, sir?"

"No—I don't need anything."

Patrick started toward the saloon, then stopped to take one last look at the grandness Rand's bricks had bought. Above him, a slightly husky female voice told someone, "I don't care—I won't toadeat Mr. Hamilton, no matter what Papa says. I've no wish to even meet him. After all, he defended that awful brothel keeper when she ought to have been hanged."

"Elise!" another woman complained. "Oh, how I wish Bat would not speak so plainly before you. Gently bred females don't know of such things."

"Fiddle, Mama. Why must we pretend to be fools to please some silly notion of propriety? It is outside of enough that we always have to find clever ways of speaking when it is a given that we are speaking of harlots. At least Papa calls them the whores that they are."

"Elise, if you go on like this when Mr. Hamilton arrives, I vow I shall have need of my salts."

"Fiddle, Mama. Why should you care what Mrs. Coates's barrister thinks of us?"

"Mr. Hamilton is connected to the dukes of Hamilton, dearest," the other woman reminded her. "And if you are uncivil, your papa will blame me for it, when in truth the fault is his. If he would not-—"

"By now, I doubt Papa will blame anyone for anything," the girl retorted. "It would surprise me if he were able to come down."

"You are out of reason cross tonight," her mother chided.

"With reason, Mama," Elise Rand countered. "I am dressed like the veriest Cyprian to meet a man in whom I have not the least interest. Where is
Papa, by the by?"

"Simpson is making him presentable." "I don't envy him the task."

"How can you say such a thing?" the woman protested.

"Because when last seen, my father was well into the wind and still had a bottle in his hand," came the exasperated reply.

"Elise!"

"Well, 'tis the truth. And one of us is going to have to tell him he drinks too much ere he is in his grave."

There was a nervous titter, followed by, "Well, in any event, I expect we'd best not wait for Bat, lest Mr. Hamilton should arrive and think us inhospitable."

As Patrick looked up, the two women reached the top of the stairs. When the younger one started down, he could only stare again, and for a moment, his breath caught in his throat. His earlier brief glimpse of her, haunting as it was, had not nearly done her justice.

As she took each step, the tips of her blue satin slippers could be seen beneath the skirt of her blue gown. His
gaze
moved upward slowly, noting her slender figure, her graceful carriage, her nearly perfect lace. And again, her brilliant blue eyes were utterly arresting. When she inclined her head slightly, her red-gold hair shone as though it reflected the light from the hundred candles above. No, he'd not been mistaken at all—the girl was truly a Diamond of the First Water, an Incomparable absolutely worthy of the epithet.

She saw him and was for a moment nonplussed. Her face flushed becomingly, then she murmured wryly, "Oh, dear," followed by, "my wretched tongue—you heard everything, didn't you?"

He ought to play the gentleman and deny it, but he nodded. "Yes." Then, flashing his most devastating smile, he declared, "But I assure you I am perfectly willing to be toadeaten."

Instead of covering her face demurely with her fan, she looked him up and down nearly as boldly as he had her. "Well, at least you do not lie overmuch," she said finally.

' 'Alas, but I am a barrister and therefore prize the truth," he countered.

She inclined her head slightly, then a faint smile formed at the corner of her mouth. "Ah, yes, but then we must remember Shakespeare's opinion on the worth of lawyers, I think."

"I cannot say he held them in much esteem," he admitted cheerfully. "I should hope that you do not alreatly wish me dead on such short acquaintance."

"No, of course not. Actually, I don't wish you anything."

"Except at Jericho?"

Her smile widened, warming those eyes. "As you are alreatly here, I doubt it would do any good to wish you there, would it?"

"I shall try to take that for encouragement,'' he murmured.

"Please don't—I assure you it was not meant to be." "Are you always so frank, Miss Rand?" "Not always, sir—only when the occasion demands it."

She came the rest of the way down, while her mother hovered somewhat anxiously behind her. "Really, Mr. Hamilton, but I cannot think what you must—"

"Mama, there is no need for dissembling now—Mr. Hamilton has alreatly overheard my worst." Stepping off the last step, Elise met his gaze steadily. "But I suppose I ought to beg your pardon for at least
some
of it."

"About your opinion of my client—or about your refusal to throw yourself at my head?" he asked lightly.

"Should I have called her a purveyor of flesh instead? Or perhaps a manager of impure wares?" she riposted, ignoring the second half of his question.

"Well, actually no matter what you choose to call her, Miss Rand—as an English citizen she has a right to be defended in a court of law."

"With such feeling?"

"One must persuade a jury, after all."

She sighed. "I suppose I ought to know better than

to fence words with a barrister, shouldn't I? Very well—shall I offer you a bargain?'' "Cry friends?" he suggested.

Again, a smile played at the corners of her mouth. "No. The most I am prepared for is civility."

"Really, Elise—" Mrs. Rand protested weakly. "What Mr. Hamilton is to think—that is, sir, you must forgive her—but Bat—my husband, that is—has always encouraged her—" She hesitated, then looked anxiously upward. "Well, there has always been an easy discourse between them, I'm afraid."

"Until Ben, Mama." Looking at Patrick again, Elise explained, "What she means, Mr. Hamilton, is that when it suits him, Papa treats me like a son— otherwise, he bullocks me shamelessly, which is how he treats most females." Elise cast another sidewise glance at her mother. "That is what you wished to say, isn't it?"

"Not precisely," the woman said weakly.

It was Patrick's turn to smile. "And what do I contribute to your bargain, Miss Rand?"

"You don't stare—and you don't make bad poetry of my eyes or my hair. Nor do you flirt, sir."

"You make it sound like a common dinner-table occurrence."

"Common enough that I never wear sapphires anymore, I'm afraid." The corners of her mouth twitched. "My hair, however, usually defeats them— one of Papa's clerks wrote of my 'rose-gold halo,' which was a great deal of nonsense. There is nothing angelic about me, you see."

"And for my restraint, what shall I get in return?" he inquired softly.

"The civility I have alreatly mentioned."

"Mr. Hamilton, I don't know what to say," her mother tried again. "Usually she is possessed of manners. Indeed, but I have never—"

"We have never had Mrs. Coates's lawyer here before," Elise finished for her.

Stutlying the girl before him, thinking that the slight huskiness of her voice made him think of a great deal more than her eyes and hair, he murmured regretfully, "And I had such hopes of being toadeaten." "Not before pigs fly, sir."

"Very well, then." He held out his hand as he would to a man, daring her to take it. "As much as I am distressed by the message, I must admire your candor, Miss Rand."