she riposted, ignoring the second half of his question.
"Well, actually no matter what you choose to call her, Miss Rand—as an English citizen she has a right to be defended in a court of law."
"With such feeling?"
"One must persuade a jury, after all."
She sighed. "I suppose I ought to know better than
to fence words with a barrister, shouldn't I? Very well—shall I offer you a bargain?'' "Cry friends?" he suggested.
Again, a smile played at the corners of her mouth. "No. The most I am prepared for is civility."
"Really, Elise—" Mrs. Rand protested weakly. "What Mr. Hamilton is to think—that is, sir, you must forgive her—but Bat—my husband, that is—has always encouraged her—" She hesitated, then looked anxiously upward. "Well, there has always been an easy discourse between them, I'm afraid."
"Until Ben, Mama." Looking at Patrick again, Elise explained, "What she means, Mr. Hamilton, is that when it suits him, Papa treats me like a son— otherwise, he bullocks me shamelessly, which is how he treats most females." Elise cast another sidewise glance at her mother. "That is what you wished to say, isn't it?"
"Not precisely," the woman said weakly.
It was Patrick's turn to smile. "And what do I contribute to your bargain, Miss Rand?"
"You don't stare—and you don't make bad poetry of my eyes or my hair. Nor do you flirt, sir."
"You make it sound like a common dinner-table occurrence."
"Common enough that I never wear sapphires anymore, I'm afraid." The corners of her mouth twitched. "My hair, however, usually defeats them— one of Papa's clerks wrote of my 'rose-gold halo,' which was a great deal of nonsense. There is nothing angelic about me, you see."
"And for my restraint, what shall I get in return?" he inquired softly.
"The civility I have alreatly mentioned."
"Mr. Hamilton, I don't know what to say," her mother tried again. "Usually she is possessed of manners. Indeed, but I have never—"
"We have never had Mrs. Coates's lawyer here before," Elise finished for her.
Stutlying the girl before him, thinking that the slight huskiness of her voice made him think of a great deal more than her eyes and hair, he murmured regretfully, "And I had such hopes of being toadeaten." "Not before pigs fly, sir."
"Very well, then." He held out his hand as he would to a man, daring her to take it. "As much as I am distressed by the message, I must admire your candor, Miss Rand."
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,
"Well, actually no matter what you choose to call her, Miss Rand—as an English citizen she has a right to be defended in a court of law."
"With such feeling?"
"One must persuade a jury, after all."
She sighed. "I suppose I ought to know better than
to fence words with a barrister, shouldn't I? Very well—shall I offer you a bargain?'' "Cry friends?" he suggested.
Again, a smile played at the corners of her mouth. "No. The most I am prepared for is civility."
"Really, Elise—" Mrs. Rand protested weakly. "What Mr. Hamilton is to think—that is, sir, you must forgive her—but Bat—my husband, that is—has always encouraged her—" She hesitated, then looked anxiously upward. "Well, there has always been an easy discourse between them, I'm afraid."
"Until Ben, Mama." Looking at Patrick again, Elise explained, "What she means, Mr. Hamilton, is that when it suits him, Papa treats me like a son— otherwise, he bullocks me shamelessly, which is how he treats most females." Elise cast another sidewise glance at her mother. "That is what you wished to say, isn't it?"
"Not precisely," the woman said weakly.
It was Patrick's turn to smile. "And what do I contribute to your bargain, Miss Rand?"
"You don't stare—and you don't make bad poetry of my eyes or my hair. Nor do you flirt, sir."
"You make it sound like a common dinner-table occurrence."
"Common enough that I never wear sapphires anymore, I'm afraid." The corners of her mouth twitched. "My hair, however, usually defeats them— one of Papa's clerks wrote of my 'rose-gold halo,' which was a great deal of nonsense. There is nothing angelic about me, you see."
"And for my restraint, what shall I get in return?" he inquired softly.
"The civility I have alreatly mentioned."
"Mr. Hamilton, I don't know what to say," her mother tried again. "Usually she is possessed of manners. Indeed, but I have never—"
"We have never had Mrs. Coates's lawyer here before," Elise finished for her.
Stutlying the girl before him, thinking that the slight huskiness of her voice made him think of a great deal more than her eyes and hair, he murmured regretfully, "And I had such hopes of being toadeaten." "Not before pigs fly, sir."
"Very well, then." He held out his hand as he would to a man, daring her to take it. "As much as I am distressed by the message, I must admire your candor, Miss Rand."
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,
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