Secret Night (26 page)

"Really, sir, but you go too fast," she protested.

"Jane, we are to be married."

"Yes, but—"

"But what?"

"I am not that sort of female."

"What sort of female are you?" he dared to ask her.

"Well, I shall be the right sort, of course. I mean, I will grace your table, and I shall try to be witty and engaging before company, and I shall hope to make you happy."

"And sleep in my bed and bear my children?"

"Well, that of course, too," she managed, her face reddening. "Though I shall expect to have my own chamber."

"To avoid tempting my amatory instincts, no doubt," he said dryly.

"Now you are funning with me again," she retorted.

"No, Jane, I am not."

Seeing that he regarded her soberly now, she tried to reassure him. "It is my intent to be as good a wife as my mother, Patrick—and Papa has had no complaints."

"Ah, yes—the complaisant wife, as I recall."

Her color deepened. "Must you amuse yourself by twisting my words, sir?" she demanded. "You know very well that I am no match for you in that corner!"

"As a barrister, I twist words for my living, Jane, but if it offends you, I shall beg your pardon for it."

"No, there is no need." She came closer again, this time to stand on tiptoe to brush a chaste kiss on his lips. "I love you, Patrick," she whispered.

His arm closed around her, this time loosely, and he managed to smile into her upturned face. "Then we ought to be very happy, shouldn't we?"

"Yes." She leaned back into the circle of his arm. "Do you think we could go look at the house tomorrow?"

"With Lady Brockhaven still in it?"

"Papa will make her an offer she will not refuse," she answered. "Please."

"If you can gain an appointment, I suppose I can look," he conceded.

"And until we can get a suitable carriage of our own, we may use Papa's."

"I have a very serviceable tilbury, my dear, but I dislike trying to find a place to leave it standing."

"Well, I am sure we can use it also. Oh, I forgot— Papa intends to buy you a bang-up pair at Tattersalls when you have the time to go with him."

"I have horses also. But—" The wryest of faint smiles curved his mouth. "It is kind of him to let me see them first, I suppose."

"You are vexed, aren't you?" she asked anxiously.

"No," he lied.

"Are you going to puff it off to the papers?"

"Yes." He dropped his arm and stepped back from her. "I suppose it is the least I can do since I may be detained a bit longer in London than I expected." As

he saw the disappointment in her face, he asked, "Is there any particular newspaper you prefer, my dear?"

She swallowed, then recovered. "I should like the announcement in all of them."

"Then all of them it is."

"Thank you." There was an awkward silence between them for a moment, then she smiled. "You are staying to dine, aren't you?"

"Not tonight, I am afraid. Actually, I am promised elsewhere," he murmured apologetically. "But I do intend to see that my clerk gets the notice fired off to every paper in London." Reaching out, he lifted her chin and bent to kiss her lightly. "Until the next time we are met, my dear."

"And when will that be?" she asked tremulously.

"When we look at the Brockhaven house," he answered.

He left her then, and made his way outside into the continuing drizzle. As he sank back into the hard hackney seat, he tried to tell himself he'd gotten precisely what he'd wanted. By marrying the Home Secretary's daughter, he was poised for a brilliant career where he could influence the making of the laws rather than the manipulation of them. And yet as he looked out the water-streaked window, the joy he'd expected wasn't forthcoming. In fact, rather than feeling triumphant about what he'd done, he felt as though he'd just sold his soul to the devil.

It was dusk, and in Bolton Street, Watier's was beginning to fill up with gamesters and dandies, with Brummell already playing deep at Macao. Feeling oddly detached and slightly disguised, Patrick carried his drink over to watch the usually impeccable Beau tover his eyes as Lord Alvanley raked in his money. Patrick felt a stab of sympathy for Brummell, for things had not been going his way lately, but then he considered that the Beau had brought it upon himself by continuing to play far too deep. That and the bitter estrangement between him and the Prince Regent had made him reckless.

"Prinny must not be coming tonight," he observed to Lord Sefton, who shook his head also.

"A sad breach, sir, a sad breach," Sefton murmured. "Not that Brummell does not deserve it. He ought to know where he can be cruel, and where he cannot."

"How far is he down tonight?" "Several thousand more than he can pay." The earl looked Patrick over. "And you, sir, do you play?" "Not this time."

"A pity. At least you could afford it." Drawing Patrick aside, he said casually, "I saw your cousin Hamilton—the duke, I mean—and he had a very interesting bit of gossip, old fellow."

"I shouldn't think my affairs worthy of his notice," Patrick responded noncommittally.

"I gather you are thinking of joining the Tories."

"Possibly."

"Then I hope you will take my advice and distance yourself as best you can from Liverpool."

"Why does it concern you?" Patrick asked bluntly.

"His days as P.M. are numbered."

"It does not take a seer to know that, my lord—but I doubt Prinny will cast his lot with the Whigs, given that they have made him a figure of ridicule."

"No, no—you mistake my meaning, sir," Sefton assured him. "The right Tories will come out on top." His eyes met Patrick's speculatively. "Are you one of the right ones? I wonder."

"What do you think?"

"I think you can ride Dunster's coattails anywhere you wish to travel—if you are willing to live in his pocket"

"I don't know." Patrick appeared to consider the matter, then shrugged. "We shall have to see, won't we?"

"But it surprises me that you aren't playing hazard at Crockford's. That is Dunster's usual hang-about, is it not?"

"I suppose it must be. I seldom see him here or at White's."

"Oh, but it is, my dear fellow. A place for government ministers, politicians, and war heroes,' Brummell calls it." Flicking open his snuffbox, Sefton held it out to Patrick. "Care to join me? It is a sample from Petersham's collection."

"Thank you—no. I'm afraid it makes me sneeze."

"So it does everybody," the earl agreed, taking a pinch for himself.

"Hallo, Hamilton." Before Patrick could turn around, Lord Brompton clamped a hand on his shoulder. "Ain't seen you in a whiles, eh?"

"And I daresay we shall see even less of him, for he means to stand for Parliament, I'm told."

"You don't say! Well, actually I
had
heard as we might be wishing you happy," Brompton conceded. "Any truth to the tale that you have offered for Dunster's chit?"

"Read the papers." Abruptly Patrick set his empty glass on a passing tray, then he nodded politely. "Good day, gentlemen."

As he moved away, he could hear Brompton complain to the earl, "What maggot has he got in his brain? I wonder. It ain't like him to be uncivil."

"No, but I own he has surprised me, Charles. I cannot imagine him as a Tory."

Looking around him, Patrick felt as though he were as empty as those who sat hunched over their games pretending there was some purpose to every turn of card or roll of dice. No, he wasn't being fair to them, and he knew it. The problem lay within him, not them.

But he'd made his beds, both of them, and now he was going to have to find some way to lie between them. On the one hand, his future father-in-law was going to be exceedingly angry when he discovered that Patrick was going to defend Bartholomew Rand just before spring elections. And on the other, Elise Rand was going to pick up the newspaper and read where he'd engaged himself to Lady Jane Barclay. Hopefully, she would see that as he saw it—a political bargain between two ambitious people, and nothing more.

He looked back to where Brompton still conversed with Sefton, and he sighed heavily. Not so long ago, he'd have considered having his name linked with Dunster's rather heady stuff. Maybe if he were not so brain weary, he still might have, but somehow just now
it
all seemed rather hollow.

"Hamilton!" someone called out "Come join us, sir!"

Looking back, he could see it was Rivington and Sedgley, a pair of respectable Tories, which ought to have pleased him, but not tonight.

"I was just leaving," he answered.

"Already? But the night ain't begun!"

"I am promised elsewhere," Patrick lied.

"Oh, aye. Well then, another time perhaps," Sedgley said.

Picking up his hat and walking stick at the door, he waited for an attendant to procure him a hackney, then he stepped out into the cold, steady rain. Heaving himself up into the seat, he hesitated as the driver waited expectantly, then he made up his mind, surprising even himself.

"The Rand house in Marylebone."

"Aye, guvnor."

Telling himself that he went to apprise her of his visit to Rand earlier, he knew it for the weakest of excuses. No, it was to see Elise Rand once more. Closing his eyes, he leaned back, recalling her to his mind, feeling the overwhelming heat of desire.

He had no right to do this, none at all, he reasoned rationally. She'd paid her share already, and what he wanted to do was little more than the sort of extortion he abhorred. No, he argued within himself, he would merely see her and speak with her, nothing else.

But in the eye of his mind, he saw her red-gold hair tangled upon his pillow, her pale body naked upon his sheets. And though her blue eyes were closed, he could still see the ecstasy of union in her face. Giving in to the extraordinary effect she had on his senses, he allowed himself the luxury of remembering every movement, every word, every inch he'd explored of her. And it was as though every sense was once again alive to the feel of her.

Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he forced himself to think of Jane, and he felt utterly disgusted with himself, knowing he'd betrayed nearly everything he believed in to act upon the political stage.

The hackney slowed, then came to a stop, and his driver shouted something to a group of town latelies ahead. Patrick heard the pitiful yelp of a dog, and he looked outside to see the wet-eared would-be dandies playing what appeared to be bowls with a pup instead of a ball. Opening his door, he hung out, yelling at them.

"Make way! I am an officer of the court!"

Derisive jeers greeted him. Jumping down, his walking stick in his hand, he walked toward them. One obviously very drunk fellow laughed loudly.

"Ain't we got us a swell, James!" Putting up his fists, a boy gibed, "You wanna see some science?"

For answer, Patrick ducked and struck the fellow hard at the knees with his stick. The youth fell into the mud, a surprised cry on his lips.

"Here now—he ain't but one! I say we get him!"

They rushed him then, and he was in a tangle of arms, legs, and fists. As he stumbled into the mud with a boy on his back and two punching and kicking him, he fought back, throwing the one over his shoulder into the other, then grabbing another by his hair and slamming him into a lamppost. The third caught him in the stomach with a solid kick, nearly knocking the wind from him, and he pitched forward. The boy on the lamppost shouted, "We got to get out ere the Charlies come!" The kicker took one last vicious blow into Patrick's ribs, then ran.

"Ye all right?" the hackney driver asked timorously as he bent over to peer into Patrick's face.

"No, I have had the wadding kicked out of me."

"Yer coat—'tis mint, ain't it?" the driver pointed out, reaching to help Patrick up.

"I don't need help now." With an effort, Hamilton rolled to sit, then staggered to stand. Looking down at the mud on his coat, his pantaloon knees, and Hoby's best boots, he shook his head. "Never a Charlie when he's needed," he muttered. He wiped the back of his wet hand across his cheek, then stared at the blood. "One of 'em tried to put my eyes out," he decided. His gaze swept the now empty street, then stopped on the whimpering pup huddled against a building.

Walking over for a closer look, he stooped to examine it. "I think they got the better of us," he murmured, feeling along its backbone with his muddy hands. Lifting it to stand, he watched as it took an unsteady step, then yelped in pain. "At least they didn't break your spine, did they?"

"Ye better get a-going," his driver said nervously. "Ain't nothing ter say they ain't coming back fer the dog."

Scooping up the frightened, bedraggled puppy, Patrick supported its hind feet as he stood. "Not this one at least," he decided.

"Here now—ye ain't putting the mongrel in me 'ackney!"

"I'll give you double fare for it."

The fellow looked at the dog, then conceded, "Well, he ain't big enough to ruin anything."

With an effort, Patrick walked back to the hired coach and thrust the puppy inside. Then, catching the door frame, he pulled himself up after. "You, my miserable little whelp, are a sad case indeed," he told the cowering creature. "But I think I know someone who will doubtless welcome you."

The Rand house appeared nearly dark, an odd circumstance given the earliness of the hour. Nonetheless, with the muddy puppy under his arm, Patrick mounted the mansion steps and banged the brass knocker against the strike plate.

The door opened scarce a crack as Graves asked cautiously, "Who is it?"

"Patrick Hamilton."

The butler stepped back just far enough to let the barrister pass, then he hastened to close it and throw the latch. Turning around, he got a better view of Patrick, then gasped.

" 'Pon my word! What has happened, sir?"

Before Patrick could answer, another door opened off the wide foyer, and Elise came out, speaking irritably before she saw him. "If it is another crack-brain come to throw something, I shall—" She stopped mid-sentence to stare, and die color drained from her face. "Oh."