Secret Night (42 page)

He'd always believed they had taught him nothing, but he'd been wrong about that. Until now. Now he was determined not to make their mistake, not to take a woman who prized ambition above love.

His eyes strayed to Jamie's resting place, and his thoughts turned to the uncertainty of life. Pure, softhearted Jamie, the best of the lot of them, gone from this earth ere he could know the love of a wife or the joy of children to scramble for his attention, to laugh and play games at his feet. Instead he had returned to the dust from whence he'd come, proving beyond any doubt that life could be too short for any of it to be wasted.

From this cold, dreary place Patrick had come with dreams far beyond the genteel poverty that had surrounded him, dreams of playing upon the stage, of hearing the approbation of a crowd. How his mother would have burst at the thought that he now had within his grasp far more than merely money—he had within his reach power and prestige beyond anything she could have imagined for him. And he had to console himself that if it had truly meant to be, then she must surely have lived to see it.

Turning away, he jammed his wet beaver hat over his soaked hair and made his way back to the carriage he'd let at a posting house in Kent. No, he had not the time to waste, he mused as he climbed once more into the coach. Above him on the box, the driver and coachman huddled beneath oiled cloth as the team once again plodded northward on the muddy road.

Leaning back, he slid the beaver forward to cover his closed eyes. He was weary, so terribly weary, and yet he could not sleep. Even if he extricated himself from Dunster and his daughter, there was still Bat Rand. For perhaps the thousandth time, he considered the old man. He was tired of Rand's games, tired of the machinations. And it would not end until the trial.

Mentally, he reviewed the evidence, sighing. Guilty. No question about that, none at all. No mitigating circumstances. Nothing. Plainly and simply, Bartholomew Rand had murdered those women, and he had no remorse at all. But Elise believed in her father, and there was the rub.

For days, he'd been toying with the boldest gamble of his career. One that would guarantee that Rand never walked the streets of London again. One that might keep the old man alive. Or might see him hanged. And either way, Elise would probably feel utterly betrayed.

He couldn't sleep, and he ought not to even try. Reluctantly, he sat up and pushed his hat back. First he had to deal with Jane.

Some three hours later, when the rain had turned to a fine mist that lay like a blanket over the hills, shrouding them into dim, gray mounds, the carriage turned into the narrow lane, jarring him awake. He sat up and brushed his hand across his eyes.

Ahead, he could see the high towers of the castle, the broad expanse of gray stone walls, the formidable gate house Dunster had had restored. And he knew that his welcome was going to be brief, his stay exceedingly short. But no matter how much he wished to run, he knew also he had to face the earl and Jane.

The road narrowed again, this time into a hard, rock-packed lane scarce wide enough for the carriage. As he reached what remained of an ancient barbican, he noted the bright green moss growing between the stones, life amid decay. Above, he could still see the rust marks where the gate had rested against the wall. And he wondered how many mailed parties had sor-tied out to raid their English neighbors or to make war against their fellow Scots.

Inside the courtyard, he could see the ruins of the first peel tower, dead grass now where ancient Scots had once retreated to hold this blood-soaked piece of land. More than five hundred years the present earl could trace his lineage backward, to when John Baliol and Robert the Bruce had struggled for a throne long since gone.

The coach rolled to a halt, then the driver hopped down, stretching his legs before he opened Patrick's door. "Was ye wishful o' my boy announcin' ye?" he asked through a black, gaping grin.

"Aye. Tell them—" He hesitated long enough to take a deep breath. "Tell them 'tis Patrick Hamilton come to wait upon Lady Jane. And when I am inside, wait at least an hour ere you leave."

"Aye, sor." Beckoning the boy down from the box, the driver cuffed his ears affectionately. "Ye heard 'im, didn't ye? 'Tis Hamilton fer her ladyship."

"For Lady Jane," Patrick said, correcting him. "There are two of them."

"Oh—aye."

Stepping down from the carriage, Patrick waited, feeling nothing now. The heavy carved oak door

opened and an elderly retainer peered nearsightedly out.

"Och, and who is it?" he asked. "Hamilton, sor!"

"His Grace?"

The old man had started to turn back to make the announcement inside, when Patrick stopped him. "Er—not the duke, I'm afraid," he murmured regretfully. "The name is Patrick Hamilton."

"Aye."

Moving slowly ahead of him, the butler limped beneath the long row of impressive portraits, some four hundred years of Barclays, beginning with "John, Lord Barclay: 1414-1442," all the way to "John, Earl Dunster: 1754-1792."

"Not a long-lived bunch, are they?" Patrick observed irreverently.

The old man stopped and looked up, then nodded. "All but the present earl, sir. Lord Dunster is already fifty-seven."

"And in good health?"

"And in good health, aye. Though he is not at home at the present." "Still hunting grouse?"

"I believe he has gone to London to attend to a pressing matter," the butler answered. Stopping before another ancient door, he rapped sharply with gloved knuckles, then went in, declaring tonelessly, "A Mister Hamilton to see you, my lady." Withdrawing to allow for passage, he murmured low for Patrick's ears only, "Her ladyship has been a bit out of curl lately."

Jane did not turn around, forcing Patrick to lay his hat upon the table, then walk across the long, dark-paneled room to face her. When she looked up at him, her expression was mulish.

"So you have finally come," she said.

"Yes."

"You have been with your trollop," she declared matter-of-factly.

"I don't have a trollop, Jane."

"The murderer's brass-haired daughter, then."

He could have denied it, but he didn't. The sooner the interview ended, the better for both of them, he decided. "I should rather count it copper than brass, I think."

"Then you admit it?"

"Yes. Do you wish to hear of her?"

"No, of course not," she snapped. Rising from the chair, she walked to the tall, narrow window, where she stood staring out into the gray mist. "Mama told me I should expect this, you know," she said finally. "But I would have thought you could have the decency to wait until we were married, Patrick." Settling her shoulders, she spun around. "But as you have not, I shall have to accept it, I suppose. Mama said I should not refine too much on such things."

"Your mother is wrong."

"Is she? What would you have me do—cry? Plead? Beg for your constancy? I assure you, sir, that I shall not."

He felt an intense relief, for she was going to make it easy for him to cry off. "I am glad for your understanding," he said simply.

"Yes—well, such things happen in our class, Papa says, so I have decided I can live with what you have done, Patrick, and if you have no wish to give her up, I suppose I can live with that also." She took a deep breath, then raised her lovely dark eyes to his. "You see, I shall have what she does not, for I shall wear your wedding ring, and it will be my son when she reads the christening notice in the papers. She can have all she wants of you, but I shall have your name."

He stared at her, too thunderstruck for speech at first, then he found his voice. "You do not care if I share myself with another woman?" he asked incredulously. "It means nothing to you?"

"I am civilized enough to know you will tire of her one day."

"I see. And if I find yet another?"

"I can bear that also. I will have my house, my parties, and your consequence to sustain me. I shall make a life for myself so long as you are discreet, Patrick."

She was going to hold him to the damned bargain, he could see it now, and it had nothing to do with him at all. "I see. You are an incredibly understanding female, Jane," he said dryly.

"Thank you. I have hopes I am, in any event. Mama says if I am to succeed amongst the tabbies in London,
1
must be,"

The only thought that ran through his mind as he looked into her lovely face was that a gentleman could not in conscience cry off without the lady's consent. And Jane knew it. No, by fair means or foul, he would have to find the means to make her break the connection.

"Do you still love me?" he asked her bluntly.

She regarded him coolly for a moment, then inclined her dark head slightly. "But of course—we are betrothed, after all."

"What a sham you are, my dear," he managed while trying to control the impotent anger he felt.

"Then we shall suit each other admirably, I expect."

"Very well," he said tightly. Then he began to gamble. "I shall have to remove Miss Rand from Barfreston before I take you there."

"There is no need, I assure you. You see, I have not the least intention of living in a small house in Surrey—or is it in Sussex?"

"Kent"

"In any event, I don't mean to live there. When you are wishful of rusticating, I shall merely come to visit Mama—or perhaps we shall discover a place more suitable to your position, in which case I shall like presiding over the neighborhood.''

"You make it sound as though I have a tide."

"You will have."

"Probably not after Rand's trial, Jane." He had the satisfaction of seeing her dark eyes widen. "Did not Dunster tell you? I mean to see that to the end— whether Rand hangs or not, I mean to be there."

She lost her carefully cultivated control then. "But you cannot!" she cried. "If you are so foolish as to defend him, the party will disown you! For God's sake, Patrick—think! We shall be outcasts!"

"The man deserves a defense, Jane."

"The man is a murderer of the worst order!" Collecting herself with an effort, she attempted reasoning with him. "If you would have what Papa can give you, you will have to abandon Mr. Rand. Otherwise, Papa says you cannot be elected anywhere." Reaching out to him, she clasped his hands in hers. "You have always wanted this, you know. One day you could hold a portfolio like my father, Patrick. One day you could have it all," she coaxed. "Power," she said softly. "Papa can offer you power."

"I gave Rand my word."

Her nails dug into his hands. "You gave
me
your word! You pledged to marry
me\"

"All right," he said suddenly, playing his last card, thinking she must surely throw him over if he could make her believe him serious. "If you are still determined to have me, let us make it today."

Her face went blank for a moment, and she dropped her hands. "Today? Oh, but—"

"You may stay wherever you like until the trial is over, and then we shall perhaps leave the country," he said calmly. "If you prefer, we can go to France, or if you would have greater distance between us and the mobs, we might take ourselves off to America."

"America?" she gasped, disbelieving her ears.
"America?
I should think not! Patrick, have you completely lost your senses? I wish to live in London!"

"Well, I daresay everything will be forgotten within the year," he allowed.

"The elections will be over! Patrick, this is insane! You cannot want to throw your future away for the likes of Bartholomew Rand! Have you not read the papers? Can you not know what he has done?"

"He is paying rather handsomely for his defense, Jane," he countered. "And every English citizen deserves to be tried in a court of law rather than the papers."

"I cannot believe this! You
have
lost your mind, haven't you?"

"No, I have found it." This time, he caught her hands and held them. "Come away with me, Jane. We shall take Rand's money and live like royalty in America."

She jerked her hands away. "Patrick Hamilton, if you persist in this nonsense, we are at an end!" she said furiously. "I did not choose you so I could live at the ends of the earth, I assure you! I did not spend months gaining your attention so I should be disgraced either! Papa told me you were a man on your way up, Patrick!"

"Do you want to wed me or not? Tell me now, and I shall ride for a Special License." Moving closer, he turned her around and took her stiff body in his arms. Bending his head to hers, he kissed her thoroughly until she began to struggle. "Come away with me," he whispered hotly against her ear.

"Don't do this to me—Papa—"

"He will be glad enough when we get our heir, which ought to be quickly enough if we apply ourselves to the task."

"But I don't want to increase! At least not yet!" Righting herself, she ducked beneath his arm and put a safe distance between them. "I think you are a madman, Patrick Hamilton! And what of your Miss Rand?"

"Oh, I mean to keep her also."

"Jane, whatever—?" Lady Dunster's eyes swept the room until she saw him. "Mr. Hamilton," she said faintly.

"Jane and I are determined to be wed as quickly as possible," he announced baldly.

"Well, I am sure we—oh, dear, but this is rather sudden, isn't it? But I daresay we can contrive something—that is—"

"Mama!" Jane wailed. "We are not at all decided!" Drawing herself up to her full height, she pointed an accusing finger at him. "He has not the least intention of standing for election," she announced awfully. "Nor does he wish to live in London."

"Oh, dear—but—"

"He wishes me to go to America! And it would not surprise me if he means to take Miss Rand also!"

"America?" her mother echoed feebly. "Whatever for?"

"He is determined to defend Mr. Rand! Mama, you must tell him he cannot!"

Lady Dunster sank into a chair. "Oh, but you must not, sir-—the Tories have no need of a scandal—not just now."

"I gave my word," he said quietly. "But regardless of that, I shall still be able to provide for your daughter, so you need not worry on that head."