Secret Night (12 page)

"Not with me, Jane. I think you quite lovely."

Apparently the softness of his voice mollified her, for she sat back against the red velvet squabs of her father's elegant town carriage. Glancing out her own window, she sighed again. "We have been together so little, Patrick, that sometimes I think you must be avoiding my company."

"I'm sorry, but I am one of those sad cases who has to earn his bread, I'm afraid."

"There are times I find myself simply wishing to be
seen
with you, to use your consequence before the world," she mused wistfully.

"My
consequence? My dear, your father is the earl." Once again, he smiled. "I am the plain mister, lest you have forgotten."

"But everyone knows who you are." Her dark eyes studied him as a slow smile warmed them. "And there is nothing plain about you, Mr. Hamilton—nothing at all, I assure you."

"And I suppose you think no one knows Dunster?" he asked, lifting one eyebrow. "A whisker if I ever heard one."

"But just now I am but Papa's daughter, you see. One day I—" She caught herself and stopped short. "Well, one day I shall be someone's wife—or at least I have hopes of it."

"And that will give you more consequence than being the incomparable Lady Jane?" he quizzed her.

"Yes. Then I shall preside over my own establishment, and I shall be as much the hostess as Countess Lieven, though we ought perhaps to consider a larger—" Again, she caught herself, biting her lip. "Well, I shall mean to be my husband's political partner, of course."

As much as he intended to offer for her, it still rankled him that she could consider him as much as leg-shackled already. Nor could he fathom why it was so important to her to parade him about every opportunity she could find, even when she knew he was extremely busy. And now it was as though she not only hoped to force a declaration even before he went to Dunleith, but she also was desirous of a larger house.

"My dear Jane," he said dampeningly, "my establishment is well situated to my office and to the Bailey."

"Well, I was not speaking of you precisely," she retorted. "But I cannot think that you could wish to continue in your current endeavors forever, Mr. Hamilton. I mean you surely do not intend to associate yourself with the likes of that—that
awful
Mrs. Coates when you stand for Parliament. There I have said it."

"Mrs. Coates is a client merely."

"I know, but she is not the sort—well, she certainly does nothing for your consequence, after all."

"My dear, there are not many peers or peeresses accused of capital crimes, I am afraid. Were I only to defend them, I should starve."

"Yes, but—well, there will be settlements, of course, and I cannot think you will wish to practice law forever. I mean, in the
general
way, a gentleman does not earn his money."

It was time to disabuse her of that notion. "Lady Jane, I do not mean to be led about by my wife—or by her money."

"Well, I did not think—"

'Yes, you did," he declared bluntly.

She knew she'd gone too far, and she sought to retrieve the situation before she lost him. "Mr. Hamilton—Patrick—I assure you that I should never attempt to interfere. But Papa said—that is, he said you would probably not continue in the practice of law when—"

His jaw tightened, but he forced it to relax, telling himself that the last thing he needed was to lose a powerful patron for the sake of his own vanity. Reaching across the seat again, he possessed both her hands with his. Looking into her eyes, he managed to smile.

"Jane, we have talked a great deal of ifs and whens, but I have always tried not to count my chickens ere they are hatched. If you are asking my intentions toward you, that is your right, but until the matter is settled between us, I should very much rather not discuss the rest of my future."

"Yes, of course." Clearly disappointed, she looked at her lap. Tears brimmed, threatening to overflow, as she swallowed hard. "Well, then I suppose I ought to dare to ask, shouldn't I?" she whispered. "What
are
your intentions, Mr. Hamilton?"

"When we are at Dunleith, it is my intent to ask you to be my wife," he answered quietly.

"Then why must you wait?" she cried. "If you would wed me, why cannot you puff it off to the papers while I am still in London? While my friends may yet see it and felicitate me?"

"Don't you think I ought to speak to your father first?"

"But he has already counted your chickens, sir! And he will make no objection, I assure you," she managed, trying to calm herself. "If you want me, I would you asked me now."

Outfaced, he nodded. "I'd hoped to do this with a bit more style, my dear," he murmured. Lifting her chin with his knuckle, he forced her to look at him. "My dear Jane," he asked huskily, "will you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?"

Her tears spilled over, streaking her face. "Oh. Patrick!"

"And if you say no, I'll take it for a hum," he warned her.

"Yes," she answered happily. "Oh, yes!"

He'd been piqued and repiqued, and he knew it, yet he'd not been forced into anything he'd not planned to do eventually, he reminded himself. But as he looked into her lovely, tear-stained face, he felt oddly empty.

"I still would that you said nothing until I have spoken with Lord Dunster," he managed, still trying to maintain his smile. "As you said, there are the settlements to be decided."

"Oh, Papa means to be
most
generous, Patrick, but I shall leave it to him to speak to you of that," she told him coquettishly. "But we shall both have everything we want, I assure you."

Despite the wealth he himself brought to the match, he still felt as though he'd been bought and sold. His fingers closed over hers for a moment, squeezing them, then he released her hand.

"Well," she demanded archly, "aren't you wishful of kissing me?"

For answer, he leaned across the space between them to take her face in his hands. With slow deliberation, he brushed her parted lips, then he kissed her. When he drew back, she smiled her triumph.

"Oh, Patrick, I have loved you for such a long lime," she said breathlessly.

"I know," was all he could think of to say.

"We shall be quite suited, you know," she went on eagerly. "With Papa's help, you will have a brilliant career, and I shall have quite the handsomest husband in all of London."

"Well—"

"Oh, but you are! Everyone says so, you know—la, but I can scarce wait to see the look on Latly Witherspoon's face—or on that presumptuous Miss Mars-den—when it is known that you have chosen me. Patrick Hamilton, I vow I am in alt!"

"Thank you," he murmured dryly.

"I think we should have no more than two children, for I should not like to become stout like so many females," she decided. "Alter all, you would not wish for a fat wife, I am sure."

"Even if both children should be girls?" he quizzed her.

"Well, we shall have to have an heir, of course," she admitted judiciously. "But we can hope one of the first two is a son, can't we? After all, I shan't wish to
be forever increasing, for I mean to be the most dashing Tory hostess you will have ever seen."

"An admirable ambition."

"Now I know you are funning with me," she retorted, "but I am quite serious, I assure you. Everybody will wish for an invitation to my salon."

"I doubt we can get everyone in it, my dear."

"Well, once we are wed, I expect you will see the wisdom of a larger establishment."

"For our two offspring, my dear?"

"For our consequence."

He leaned back, cocking his head slightly as he regarded her lazily. "Have you never thought it might prove impossible to, er—restrain ourselves? That we might err through passion and parent more than a pair of small Hamiltons?"

"Passion," she pronounced definitely, "is for the lower classes. But if you are like my father, who is the soul of discretion, I shall try not to notice when you indulge yourself with the demimonde."

"After we have done our duty to name and fortune?"

"After we have done our duty." She caught the faint twitch at the corners of his mouth. "What amuses you?"

"Your naivete, my dear—your utter naivete. First you would have me kiss you, then you would prate of a future devoid of passion." He straightened and sat up. "I'm afraid, Jane, my love, that I have not the least intention of straying from your bed for the sake of your figure."

"Really, Patrick—"

"No, if we take each other, you'll simply have to eat in moderation."

She stared incredulously at him for a moment. 'You're quite serious, aren't you?"

"Let us merely say I don't take solemn oaths lightly."

She opened her mouth, then shut it. "Well," she said finally, "I daresay you will not feel that way forever. I mean, Mama says that every man eventually seeks amusement elsewhere."

"And," he went on, ignoring that, "I take leave to tell you that I not only intend that my heir resembles me, but that every child after does also."

"Sir," she said faintly, "I really do not think we ought to be speaking of such things."

His mouth twisted wryly. "Actually, my dear, I believe it was you who brought up the indelicate matter of children."

"Then I must beg your pardon for it," she said, her voice low.

"Jane—" He reached across to lift her chin with his hand. "I would hope that when we are husband and wife, we can discourse freely on everything. I want more than a female decoration for my establishment—much more. You have said you have loved me forever, and—" "And I have!"

"Then when we are wed, I shall expect you to prove it." He released her and looked out his rain-streaked window. "We are arrived at Hookham's my dear." Reaching down, he drew out his watch and flicked the cover open. "I pray you will hurry, for I am engaged to meet with clients this afternoon." Closing it, he returned it to his waistcoat pocket, then he opened the carriage door and jumped down, trying to avoid the muddy puddles. "Come on," he said, reaching up for her.

She leaned into his arms, letting him lift her. As she slid down effortlessly, she looked into his face.

"And what will you prove to me? I wonder," she asked softly.

He set her down upon the curb, then offered his arm. "I shall attempt to be an exemplary husband."

As he held the library's door open for Lady Jane, he saw Elise Rand at the desk inside, and his breath taught when the girl turned around, recognizing him.

"Why, Mr. Hamilton, what a surprise."

He recovered quickly. 'You thought perhaps that I do not read?"

"Not at all. Actually, I thought you must spend most of your time at the Bailey—and other places, of course," she added knowingly.

Jane's fingers closed possessively on his sleeve. "You must make me known to your acquaintance," she murmured.

Nodding, he smiled at the brick merchant's daughter. "Miss Rand, may I present Lady Jane Barclay? And," he added, gesturing to Elise, "Jane, Miss Rand."

"How do you do?" Elise inquired politely, extending her gloved hand. "Very well, thank you," Dunster's daughter responded stiffly. Her eyes took in everything from Elise Rand's altogether fetching feather-trimmed blue velvet bonnet to her matching braid-trimmed pelisse to her soft kid gloves and dainty slippers before returning to the girl's blue eyes. "I'm afraid I cannot place you, Miss Rand," she decided coldly.

"I did not expect it, Lady Jane," Elise responded, her voice enticingly husky. "We do not move in the same circles, I'm afraid."

"I did not think so." Dismissing the other girl with an aristocratic sniff, Lady Jane moved toward the desk to inquire whether Hookham's had a copy of "the Austen woman's latest."

Elise's gaze followed her briefly, then returned to Patrick. "Yes," she observed, "she suits your aspirations admirably. Now, if you will excuse me, my carriage awaits me, and I have been informed it is not good practice to keep horses standing any longer than necessary. Good day, Mr. Hamilton."

She stepped outside, then raised her blue umbrella against the light rain. As the door closed behind her, Lady Jane returned, saying peevishly, "They are all out of the one I have not read, so we have come for naught." Seeing that Patrick still watched as Elise Rand disappeared from sight, she caught his sleeve. "Who is that creature, anyway? I vow I thought she was perhaps not what she ought to be, but then I knew you would not introduce me to one of those. Although," she added archly, "I own it surprised me greatly that you did not present her to me first. After all, my father—"

"Is an earl," he finished shortly for her. Turning around, he regarded her soberly. "My mistake merely, but she is Bat Rand's daughter."

"Bat Rand?" she repeated blankly.

"Bartholomew Rand—of Rand Brickworks in Islington."

"Oh,
that
Rand. Well, then I daresay that explains everything." "What?"

"Her clothes. My dear Patrick, that creature must have been wearing well over a hundred guineas." She sniffed again. "Why is it, I wonder, that the encroaching Cits must always attempt to flaunt their money beneath our noses?"

"She is not 'that creature,' my dear—she is Miss Rand," he reminded her tightly. "And I daresay she has more money than Dunster and I put together."

"Much good it will do her," Jane retorted coldly, "for she cannot aspire to society."

The image of Elise Rand bargaining with Maddie Coates came to mind, and he could hear again her passionate concern for poor Pearl. "I don't think she would wish to," he murmured. "In fact, I am certain of it."

"Nonsense," Jane insisted. "They all aspire to recognition beyond their station, when in truth they are scarce removed from their own servants." She sniffed disdainfully again as she pulled up her gloves. "I blame the French, you know, for they created this horrid notion of equality between servant and master. We should have helped King Louis scotch their revolution."

"We did not have to—they had Napoleon to foist another aristocracy on them."

"The Corsican upstart? You jest, of course. He took what he could not claim by birth." Her chin came up haughtily. "Napoleon was a peasant," she declared dismissively. "He did not possess so much as a title."