Secret Night (15 page)

"Yes, of course," she managed. Squaring her shoulders, she looked up at Patrick. "At least she did not die in that awful place."

"No."

"Where would you that we sent the body?" the clerk asked.

She hesitated momentarily, then decided, "I'd give her Christian burial, sir. If you will but allow me the rest of the day, I am sure I can speak with Mrs. More. In any event, I should like any charges sent directly to me. You have my address, do you not?"

"Yes."

'Yes, well—there does not appear much else to be done, does there?" Rising, she held out her hand to Adams. "I thank you for the care you gave her, sir." Turning to Patrick, she said, "I should like to go to Mrs. More's, sir. If you wish, I can set you down somewhere."

"No—I'll go with you."

"I cannot think you would wish to."

"I don't think you should go alone."

Outside, he handed her up into the carriage, then swung up to take the seat opposite, where he watched her swallow back tears. For one of the few times in his life, he felt helpless.

"People will say she"—she sniffed audibly—"that she was naught but a fallen creature, but—"

"But she could not help what she was."

"Yes." Turning her face away, she succumbed to weeping. "It was n-not fair," she sobbed against the velvet squabs. "Not fair at all!"

"No, it was not." He watched her shoulders shake until he could not stand it. Sliding across to her side, he drew her against him and closed his arms around her, letting her cry against his coat. With unaccustomed awkwardness, he tugged at the grosgrain ribbons, then cast the shako onto the floor. Shifting her against his shoulder, he smoothed her red-gold hair much as one would with a child. "It's all right—it's all right," he murmured softly.

"It's not all right!" she cried. "She had no chance!"

"Perhaps she has gone to a better place."

"You are like Papa when my dog died!"

"It was not my intent, Ellie," he assured her.

She lay silently against his chest, hearing his heartbeat beneath her ear, feeling oddly comforted despite her words to him. And then she thought of Ben, and she wanted to cry anew, but she could not.

His arm still about her shoulders, Patrick managed to reach his handkerchief and began dabbing at her tear-stained face. "That's better," he said softly. "Much better."

She sat up and wiped her eyes with the back of a gloved hand, then managed shakily, "You think me a fool, don't you?"

"No, not at all."

"I do not usually display an excess of sensibility."

"I did not think anything of it." Knowing the moment had passed, he reluctantly released her and took his own seat again. He smiled crookedly as he regarded her. "Actually, I prefer a little sensibility to a total lack of it."

"You jest, of course."

"Miss Rand, you are a truly kind female, which surely must be a gift of God amongst your sex."

"I did not think you a believer," she retorted, embarrassed by the gold warmth in his eyes.

He looked heavenward. "How is it that everyone would have it that I have no religion?" he asked. "Miss Rand, I am as certain of an omnipotent power as you are. My only question is whether He intervenes, or whether He expects us to muddle through as best we can before He sorts it all out in the end."

"You sound like the American Benjamin Franklin."

"Do I?"

"I think they call that deism, sir."

"For what it is worth to say it, I attend the Church of England, my dear."

"Because you believe—or because it is politic to do so?"

He sobered visibly. "Probably a bit of both."

"You know, I could like you better if I thought you stood for something, Mr. Hamilton. As it is, you do not even believe in justice, do you?"

"Perhaps I have seen too much of it." Pulling out his watch, he flicked open the case, then shut it abruptly. "It grows late, so perhaps you'd best set me down, after all. I can hail a hackney."

"I have angered you, haven't I? My wretched tongue—I am heartily sorry for it."

"No, but today I find myself ill-prepared to face Holy Hannah also."

After she left him on a corner, the carriage seemed terribly empty. She looked back briefly, seeing that he still stood there, and she felt a pang of guilt. He'd been kind, and she'd been the harridan. Then she recalled why she'd not wanted to go with him in the first place. She had no wish to be disloyal to Ben, she told herself, but even as she thought it, she knew it was more than that. What she really feared was Patrick Hamilton the man. Closing her eyes, she could still feel the warmth of his arms around her.

The girl leaned seductively in a doorway, her dirty satin gown loosened at her bosom to expose the twin mounds of full, rose-tipped breasts. As he passed her, she drew her knee up slowly, showing a shapely leg and ankle, as she rubbed her nubile body against the wood door frame.

"Oooh, ain't ye a fine old gent?" she cooed. When he started to pass, she pursed her lips in a kiss. "A tuppence fer a feel, if you was ter want one."

He stopped to peer into her face, then reached out to caress a breast, cupping it, weighing it with his hand. His thumb rolled over her nipple, turning it into a small, hard knob, while his other hand lifted her skirt, slipping beneath to climb upward over the warm flesh of her thigh, finding the soft, furry mound above still wet from her last customer.

He licked dry lips. "How much? How much for all of it?" he demanded hoarsely.

"A guinea ter pop it in," she told him archly. "More if ye was a-wantin' me to suck it." As she priced herself, his fingers toyed with her wet button, then slid inside. "Oooh," she cried, throwing her head back, "ye know what ye want, don't ye?"

"Aye," he croaked. "I'd give you a gold guinea if you was to make me come."

She drew away from his hand and backed from the doorway, pulling him inside a dingy, smoky room. The place was bare save for a dirty, straw-filled mattress, a bucket of water on the floor, and an oil lantern that hung from a hook on the ceiling. She worked alone, and he was glad enough of that.

Closing the door behind him, she bent over to remove her dirty white stockings, rolling them down. When she turned around, he'd shed his cloak and was unbuttoning his pantaloons. She moved closer to rub her body against his. A stocky man, he caught her roughly at the waist, bending her backward to give him access to her breasts.

"Oooh, ye'll drap me," she protested, but he paid her no heed. Instead, he found one of her nipples and began to suck eagerly. "Here now—" Afraid of falling, she caught at his arms. He bit her hard then, causing her to cry out in pain. She struggled as his teeth sank into her flesh, but his hand tangled in her hair, pulling it.

"Owwww! Look, guvnor, Annie Adams ain't—owww, yer hurtin' me!"

He pushed her away then, sending her reeling to the floor. She knelt there, wiping the blood from her breast. "Take off everything," he ordered curtly. "And be quick about it."

She looked up, her eyes wide, then she scrambled on her hands and knees for the door. "Mercy! 'Ave mercy on poor Annie!" she called out before he pulled her back and slapped her hard across the face.

"Shut your filthy mouth, bitch," he snarled. "And take off the clothes, else I'll not pay you."

Unable to escape, she stood up as her hands moved to the open neck of her gown. She slowly pulled the dress down, revealing the bare flesh beneath. As the gown slipped past her rib cage, over smooth hips, to fall in a pool of dirty satin at her feet, she ran her tongue over dry lips and tried to smile.

"How d'ye want it?" she asked him.

"I told you—I want everything." When she didn't move, he added tersely, "Get down—I'm riding first."

She glanced nervously toward the closed door, then nodded. "Now ye ain't going ter hurt Annie, are ye?"

"Not if you was to make me come," he promised. "Lie down, and I'll see you paid."

She regained some of her confidence. "Ain't a gent alive as don't pop 'is cork fer me," she promised.

Lying on her back, her legs apart, she reached up to him. "Let Annie show ye, and we'll make it real quicklike."

Without undressing further, he freed himself and dropped to his knees over her. "Pop my cork, Annie," he said hoarsely. "I want everything as a man could pay for."

"Aye." Still smiling, she reached up between him to fondle his limp manhood, caressing it lightly at first, then closing her hand over it, grasping it, pumping incessantly. "Ye ain't—"

"Keep on."

"But ye ain't—"

"Shut your filthy mouth!"

"Now if ye was ter come inside, I got a warm place fer ye," she said seductively. "Ain't a man as don't get ready there."

"Not yet." His hands fondled her breasts as his mouth smeared wet kisses on her neck. "Keep going," he urged her. "Keep it up."

"But it ain't—"

"Make me come, Annie—make me come," he ordered urgendy. "I want you to do it for me." His hands came up to grasp her neck, shaking her head against the hard, dirty mattress. "You got to do it—you got to!"

"Owwww! Yer hurtin' me!" Desperate, she tried to guide the flaccid flesh inside, closing her body around it as tightly as she could. "All ye got ter do is move," she coaxed, "and it'll come."

He rocked and pumped, beating against the wet warmth, his hands still tight upon her neck. "Do it, Annie!"

"Ye ain't lettin' me breathe!" Trying to calm herself, the girl caught at his hands as she struggled beneath him. "Yer hittin' me head!"

"You got to make me, Annie!" he shouted at her.

"And I'm a-tryin'!" She wriggled and writhed, working all the while to hold him inside. Moving one hand between them, she used the other to rake his back, urging him on to no avail. "Mebbe if I
was ter get on top," she gasped.

"No!"

"I could suck ye," she said earnestly. "I could try it fer ye."

"I want it now, Annie! I want it
now!
Don't you understand, bitch?—I want it now!"

"Aye, but—"

He worked so hard against her that he panted from the exertion, and still there was nothing.

"But ye ain't going ter come like this!" she cried.

He hit her across the face then, his heavy gold ring cutting her nose and cheek. "Damn you! Damn you, Annie! Aye, you'll make me—you
will
!
"

"Look—some old gents—"

She got no further. His hands tightened around her neck, frightening her, and she began to fight him. Her hands grabbed for his face, gouging at his eyes, raking his cheeks with her fingernails as she sought desperately to get him off her.

His face a mask of unpent anger, he yelled at her, "You promised me, Annie—you promised me!"

She fought to tell him he was killing her, but her words were cut off with the air. She was stifling, her lungs were bursting, and his grip on her throat was like iron. Her eyes felt as though they would pop from her head as she made one last futile effort to push him away. Then all went mercifully black.

He continued banging her head as her body became limp beneath his. "Damn you, bitch! Damn you!" He rocked against her unresisting warmth, striving hard, gaining nothing. Finally, he rolled off her and gazed into her blank stare. "Worthless tart!" he shouted at her. "Wake up, damn you, else you'll pay!" Drawing his knife from beneath his waistcoat, he plunged it into her. "Damn you!" When she did not move, he stabbed her repeatedly, cutting into her lifeless flesh, cursing her in his fury. "Damn you! Damn every one of you! You're all the same, ain't you?"

When his anger ebbed, he stared down at his bloody hands, at the wet spatters on his coat, then rose unsteadily to stagger to the bucket of water she probably used to clean herself. He pulled off his jacket, flinging ii onto the dusty floor, then removed his ring to wash away the blood beneath. Stooping, he picked up the satin gown and wiped his hands and face with it.

Self-loathing washed over him, making him heartily lick, and he vomited onto the floor. Again, he wiped his face with the harlot's dress.

Someone pounded on the door. "Annie! Annie!" a man
called out. "Are ye all right? I
heard ye!"

"Go on wi' ye!" he answered thickly, trying to sound like one of them.

"Ye ain't Annie! Yer a cove!"

Panicked, he moved behind the door, hoping the fellow would go on, but instead, the door swung inward, covering him for a moment.

"Annie?" The man looked to where the woman lay, her face vacant, her body slashed across her breasts io the bone beneath. "Gor blimey!" the fellow gasped, dropping down beside the soaked mattress.

He bolted then, running through the open door into the narrow street as fast as his unsteady legs would hold his bulk. Behind him, the man pursued, shouting, "Stop 'im—stop th' cove! 'E's murdered Annie!"

As luck would have it, a curious woman stepped out between them, giving him time to round the corner and hide himself behind a garbage wagon. His pursuer passed him, running into the watch.

"Here now—ain't no need—"

"I got ter find th' cove as killed Annie!" the man cried.

The watch grasped his arm firmly, pulling the fellow into the dim yellow light. "Oh, 'tis ye, is it? Go on wi' ye!"

" 'E stuck her like a pig, I
tell ye! Th' devil's killed me Annie!" Gesturing back to the open door, the man babbled, " 'E's killed 'er, I
tell ye!"

"Been tippin' the cup a bit, Johnny?" Taking the fellow's arm, the watchman pushed him back toward the room where Annie Adams lay dead.

"Hit were a right fat cove—
I
saw him wi' me own peepers!" the man protested loudly. "Ye got ter get 'im!"

The old man ran again, scarce conscious of the watchman's shout of discovery, knowing now that he ran for his own life. It was not until he reached the end of the street that he dared slow down. One block over, he could hear the hue and cry. He leaned against a deserted building and caught his breath, then walked slowly away. It had been a near thing, but he'd managed to escape again.

But as he crossed over to the other side of the street, they came around the corner, their number swollen to half a dozen. He started to run, but he was too short of breath to sustain the pace. Within a hundred feet, they caught up to him.