Secret Night (7 page)

Elise hesitated, then nodded. Reaching out, she clasped his warm fingers, shaking them. "Done."

At that moment, Bartholomew Rand appeared above them, and his voice boomed downward. "You are alreatly met with my family, I see! Well, sirrah—no need to stand on ceremony, is there?" he demanded heartily. He started downward, negotiating each step unsteadily. It was obvious that he was drunk.

"Think I got a pretty little gel, don't you, Hamilton?" he said, his voice thick, his words slightly slurred.

As Elise Rand flushed, Patrick answered, "A true Toast, I'd say."

Mrs. Rand, torn between decorum and potential disaster, hurried up the stairs to meet her husband. Possessing one of his arms, she tried to steatly him, saying, "Put your hand on the rail, Bat."

"Don't need it! Ain't an invalid, Em!" He shook loose, nearly missed a step, and caught the banister with both hands, muttering, "Don't know why the females in m'family don't think I can hold m'wine."

One foot caught an edge, and he pitched forward. As his wife watched helplessly, he slid down several steps. Patrick ran upward to catch him, and as Rand fell into his arms, the old man blinked up at him. "Gout—got the demned gout," he insisted. "Knee gave out."

Mortified, Mrs. Rand cast a stricken look at Patrick. "Please, sir—he is unwell. Elise, call a footman to help."

"Help me where?" Rand demanded. "Damme if you will! Got company—Hamilton's here, ain't he?" "Papa!"

There was no mistaking the reproof in the girl's

voice. Her father seemed to collect himself, drawing his portly botly erect with an effort. "Wouldn't disgrace you, Puss—swear it." Once again, he looked at Patrick. "Females—surrounded by 'em sir." Then, still trying to recover his dignity, he spoke slowly, carefully, attempting to control his uncooperative tongue. "Got to present m'daughter—Miss Rand. Puss, come do the pretty for Hamilton. Fellow's a lawyer—best demned barrister—"

"I know—we are alreatly met."

"Taking little thing, ain't she?" Rand mumbled to Patrick. "Paid to make her a latly—watercolors— demned dancing fellow—had to let him go, though."

"I can see she is accomplished."

"I waltz miserably," she murmured. "Poor Mr. Tweed did not last beyond 'sapphire stars embedded within an alabaster sky,' you see," she added with a straight face.

"Ah, the turned-off dancing master."

"Yes."

"Demned fellow wished to take liberties—wrote silly verses," Rand recalled, frowning. 4 4 Quite understandable.''

"You wretch," she muttered at Patrick under her breath. "You will encourage him."

But her father's attention had turned to his wife. "Met Mrs. Rand, too, ain't you? Em—Emmaline—was a Bingham, y'know. Been reforming me for nigh to twenty-five years, ain't you, m'dear?" He blinked his eyes and shook his head again to clear his thoughts. "Why ain't we in the demned parlor, Em?"

"I am sure I don't know," Mrs. Rand answered grimly. "But if Mr. Hamilton—"

"Come on, Hamilton—got to sit down. I told Old Starch—where's Old Starch?" the old man demanded.

"Mr. Graves is behind you, Papa."

"Eh? Oh—good name for 'im, eh? Got the manner of an undertaker, don't he?" Leaning closer to Patrick, he whispered loudly, "The stiffer they are, the more y'got to pay for 'em, eh?"

Rand's wife took his arm, guiding him toward the

saloon. As she neared Patrick, she spoke low, "He usually isn't like this, I assure you."

"Ain't like what?" her husband demanded truculently.

"Foxed," Elise Rand answered for her mother.

"I ain't foxed! Tell 'em, Hamilton—tell 'em as we ain't begun to drink! I got good port—best Madeira— anything you was to want—best there is, too!"

"Allow me," Patrick offered, holding the door.

"Got Old Starch for that," Rand protested. "Pay 'im for it. The demned cook, too. Aye, the Frenchy has done himself proud, and I ain't spared a penny. 'Make me something as Boney would've liked,' I told him." Lurching away from his wife, he swept a room grand enough for one of the royal dukes with his hand. "Can't say there ain't a fortune in making bricks, eh?"

"It is impressive," Patrick acknowledged politely.

"Impressive! Five thousand pounds says it is—five thousand pounds in one demned room!" Lurching to the mantel above a blazing fire, he picked up a Sevres vase. "Humph! Useless gewgaw, ain't it?" he asked contemptuously. "Em calls it art, sirrah—art! Only difference between art and nonsense is money, I say."

"Bat, I am sure Mr. Hamilton has no wish to know how much we have spent on anything," Mrs. Rand told him dampeningly.

"Eh?" For a moment, he seemed bewildered, then he mumbled, "Just want 'im to know I can afford what I want, Em—that's all. You ain't offended, Hamilton?"

"No," Patrick lied.

"Mr. Hamilton has come to dine, Papa, not to buy any of our furnishings," Elise said. "If you will but sit down-—" She led him to a chair and held on as he sank into it. "There."

"Even the chairs is dear," the old man grumbled. Then he looked at Patrick almost sheepishly. "Aye. Going to have a good dinner, ain't we? Celebrate—■" His brow furrowed deeply, then cleared as he remembered. "Got to celebrate as you got the whore off, don't we?"

"Bat—please!"

"Can say what I think in m'own house," Rand grumbled. "A whore's a whore, Em."

"Bat, I am sure Mr. Hamilton does not know what to think. Mr. Hamilton," she tried desperately, "would you care for something before dinner? Perhaps some tea ..."

"Tea!" Rand exploded. "He'll have the port! Good God, woman! What was you thinking of?
Tea!"

"She was thinking you've alreatly had too much," Elise spoke up calmly. "And I daresay Mr. Hamilton thinks we are the Cits he expected."

"Ain't. Your mama—"

"Was a Bingham," she finished for him tiredly. "I know, but we are Cits, Papa, and I expect Hamilton wishes to escape our clutches alreatly."

"Actually, I don't wish for anything of the sort," Patrick countered.

"Then I suppose you find this amusing," she decided acidly. "But Mama is quite right—he can be most charming when he is sober."

"Now where was I? Damme if you ain't made me lose—oh—the whore as got off—"

"Bat!" Now there was no mistaking the anger in Mrs. Rand's voice. "You will not speak thus before your daughter!"

"The Coates woman, then," he muttered, unrepentant. "Ain't anything I'd say as she ain't alreatly heard from me." Nonetheless, he turned to Elise. "Was that better, Puss?" he asked her.

"Yes."

"Best there is, ain't you, Hamilton?" Rand looked to him expectantly. "Tell 'em."

Embarrassed for him, Patrick managed to say, "I have enjoyed a measure of success."

"Success!" Rand snorted. "The old whoremonger was hanged without you!"

Mercifully, the butler interrupted them, announcing, "Monsieur Millet informs me dinner is reatly to be served, sir." Unable to stand unaided, Rand tried to push away from his chair, then fell back. Reaching

a hand toward his daughter, he mumbled, "Got to have help, Puss. M'gout—"

Before the girl could go to her father, Patrick grasped the old man's arm and as he pulled him upward, he thrust a shoulder beneath him. They both staggered from Rand's weight, until Elise caught her father from the other side.

"I think we'd best call a footman to get him to bed, Mama."

"No! Best demned peas to be had—apricot tarts— got to feed him—got business after."

"I cannot stay overlate," Patrick demurred. "I have to be in court in the morning."

"More whores, eh?"

"Proper barristers do not discuss other people's business," Elise said dampeningly. "Come on—let's get you up to your bed."

"No—ain't going. Hamilton—knee's gone—help me to the food."

With an effort, they managed to get the old man into the dining room, where he nearly overturned his chair before they got him into it. As liveried retainers began serving, he stared glumly into his port. It wasn't until the turtle soup was placed before him that he roused. "Best demned turtles to be found anywheres. Aye, and best demned joint coming, I'll wager you on it. Best demned peas, too."

"You have alreatly mentioned the peas, Papa."

"Oh."

"And the tarts."

"You like apr'cot tarts?" Rand asked Patrick. "You got to—all the nobs—"

"I have a fondness for them," the younger man admitted.

"Aye. Then we got to eat 'em, don't we?"

Despite his host's condition and the subdued manner of the Rand women, Patrick found the meal quite excellent. Across from him, Elise Rand ate in silence, her attention seemingly on her plate. As he ate, Patrick took the opportunity to stutly her, wondering how the old man had managed to fend off a legion of

suitors, for despite her plain speaking, she was as rich as she was beautiful.

"Do you have a townhouse—or do you merely lease one for when you are here during the social seasons?" Mrs. Rand inquired, breaking the silence.

"I own a house, I'm afraid, for I have to be in town much of the year."

"And do you have a country estate?"

"A modest one," he answered. "I have but recently bought a place in Kent."

"Well," she admitted wistfully, "I have long wished to have a house in the country, but Bat insists that his business is here."

"He lets us visit Mama's brother at the vicarage, and he thinks that is quite enough of rusticating, I'm afraid," Elise said.

He guessed she was not just out of the schoolroom—she had too much aplomb and too sharp a wit for that—but neither did she appear to be on the shelf. He supposed she was perhaps a year or two past twenty. Wondering idly what she thought of him, he sipped his wine as he continued watching her.

He'd been on the town far too long to take whatever anyone told him at face value. There was no question in his mind what the old man wanted—none at all. The retainer, the dinner invitation, all of it, were but lures to draw Patrick in, to intrigue him with the girl. As he looked at her, he wondered whether she protested too much, whether she and the old man had their caps set on him.

If so, it wasn't the first time someone had set the parson's mousetrap for him, and he'd alreatly proven himself more than adept at extricating himself from the matrimonial ambitions of a number of heiresses. He'd been an
eligible parti
long enough to recognize nearly every possible blandishment designed to attach him.

Elise pushed her peas about her plate without eating them until her father noticed. "Eh, what's this? You don't like ‘em? Paid the greengrocer—"

"I know, they are quite dear," she said tersely.

"Would you care for some more of them, Bat?" her mother asked quickly.

"Take some—" He stopped to belch loudly, then lifted his glass. "More port, boy!" he called out to one of the servants.

When she dared to look up, Elise was well aware that Hamilton studied her. He was a handsome man, no doubt about that. The light from the center candelabra made his brown hair shine softly. He turned his head briefly to address her mother, showing a profile as strong and well defined as that of a statue—straight forehead, chiseled nose, good chin. When he looked back to her, the light caught hazel eyes far too beautiful to belong to a man.

But even if there had never been Ben, even if she'd met the barrister under different circumstances, she would not have thrown her cap over the windmill for him. As handsome as he was, Patrick Hamilton was of a different class, and no matter how much her papa wished otherwise, money could not bridge the gap between a merchant's daughter and the poorest younger son.

"Tell me, Mr. Hamilton, how do you choose your clients?" her mother asked him, trying to draw him into conversation again.

"Usually I believe in them—or I believe the punishment does not fit the crime."

"Oh. Well, I am afraid I know nothing of the law, sir."

When he turned his attention to her again, Elise met his gaze steadily until he began eating once more. The next time he looked up, his hazel eyes betrayed a glint of amusement that irritated her.

"Mr. Hamilton, are you in the habit of staring at females?" she asked acidly.

"Only the pretty ones," he assured her, smiling. "And—" He let the word hang for a moment, then finished with, "—I could ask a similar question of you, Miss Rand."

"You do not keep your bargains very well, do you?" she told him tartly, fixing her gaze on her plate. As

she carried a bite to her mouth, she was acutely aware that she hadn't deterred him at all. Defiantly, she forced her thoughts to Ben, trying to bring his face to mind. It would not come.

"Puss!" her father called out, startling her.

"What?"

"Wash th' matter with th' food? First the peash, and now you ain't eathing nothing." "I'm not very hungry."

He turned bleary, reddened eyes to Patrick. "Hate a sh-shinny female," he mumbled.

"You wouldn't wish me fat," she countered evenly.

Once again, an uneasy silence settled over them, broken only by an occasional, polite inanity uttered by Emmaline Rand, while her husband abandoned his food in favor of his wine. Every time he drained his glass, he held it up to be refilled, until Patrick wondered how long it would be before the old man slipped under the table. Not that it was an unusual occurrence for a man of any class, he conceded. Despite his best intentions, he found his gaze straying again to the fair Elise.

"Well, lookee at that!" Rand shouted drunkenly. "Moon-—moonin' like they wash calflingsh, eh? I got fifty thoushand saysh you can 'ave 'er, boy!"

Humiliated, Elise flushed to the roots of her hair. She rose angrily, dropping her napkin on the floor. "Enough, Papa—I have had enough! I have no wish to be thrown at anyone—and so I have told you!"

"Sit down, missy!"

"No!" Her cheeks hot, she looked to her mother. "Good night, Mama—your pardon, Mr. Hamilton," she choked out. With that, she turned on her heels and marched from the room.

"Missy! Elise!" His own face in high color, the older man tried to shove back his chair, but could not. "Afore God, you'll come back! A—ashamed of you!"

"You
shame me, Papa!" she shot back.