Secret Night by Anita Mills Page B

drawing his portly botly erect with an effort. "Wouldn't disgrace you, Puss—swear it." Once again, he looked at Patrick. "Females—surrounded by 'em sir." Then, still trying to recover his dignity, he spoke slowly, carefully, attempting to control his uncooperative tongue. "Got to present m'daughter—Miss Rand. Puss, come do the pretty for Hamilton. Fellow's a lawyer—best demned barrister—"
    "I know—we are alreatly met."
    "Taking little thing, ain't she?" Rand mumbled to Patrick. "Paid to make her a latly—watercolors— demned dancing fellow—had to let him go, though."
    "I can see she is accomplished."
    "I waltz miserably," she murmured. "Poor Mr. Tweed did not last beyond 'sapphire stars embedded within an alabaster sky,' you see," she added with a straight face.
    "Ah, the turned-off dancing master."
    "Yes."
    "Demned fellow wished to take liberties—wrote silly verses," Rand recalled, frowning. 4 4 Quite understandable.''
    "You wretch," she muttered at Patrick under her breath. "You will encourage him."
    But her father's attention had turned to his wife. "Met Mrs. Rand, too, ain't you? Em—Emmaline—was a Bingham, y'know. Been reforming me for nigh to twenty-five years, ain't you, m'dear?" He blinked his eyes and shook his head again to clear his thoughts. "Why ain't we in the demned parlor, Em?"
    "I am sure I don't know," Mrs. Rand answered grimly. "But if Mr. Hamilton—"
    "Come on, Hamilton—got to sit down. I told Old Starch—where's Old Starch?" the old man demanded.
    "Mr. Graves is behind you, Papa."
    "Eh? Oh—good name for 'im, eh? Got the manner of an undertaker, don't he?" Leaning closer to Patrick, he whispered loudly, "The stiffer they are, the more y'got to pay for 'em, eh?"
    Rand's wife took his arm, guiding him toward the
    saloon. As she neared Patrick, she spoke low, "He usually isn't like this, I assure you."
    "Ain't like what?" her husband demanded truculently.
    "Foxed," Elise Rand answered for her mother.
    "I ain't foxed! Tell 'em, Hamilton—tell 'em as we ain't begun to drink! I got good port—best Madeira— anything you was to want—best there is, too!"
    "Allow me," Patrick offered, holding the door.
    "Got Old Starch for that," Rand protested. "Pay 'im for it. The demned cook, too. Aye, the Frenchy has done himself proud, and I ain't spared a penny. 'Make me something as Boney would've liked,' I told him." Lurching away from his wife, he swept a room grand enough for one of the royal dukes with his hand. "Can't say there ain't a fortune in making bricks, eh?"
    "It is impressive," Patrick acknowledged politely.
    "Impressive! Five thousand pounds says it is—five thousand pounds in one demned room!" Lurching to the mantel above a blazing fire, he picked up a Sevres vase. "Humph! Useless gewgaw, ain't it?" he asked contemptuously. "Em calls it art, sirrah—art! Only difference between art and nonsense is money, I say."
    "Bat, I am sure Mr. Hamilton has no wish to know how much we have spent on anything," Mrs. Rand told him dampeningly.
    "Eh?" For a moment, he seemed bewildered, then he mumbled, "Just want 'im to know I can afford what I want, Em—that's all. You ain't offended, Hamilton?"
    "No," Patrick lied.
    "Mr. Hamilton has come to dine, Papa, not to buy any of our furnishings," Elise said. "If you will but sit down-—" She led him to a chair and held on as he sank into it. "There."
    "Even the chairs is dear," the old man grumbled. Then he looked at Patrick almost sheepishly. "Aye. Going to have a good dinner, ain't we? Celebrate—■" His brow furrowed deeply, then cleared as he remembered. "Got to celebrate as you got the whore off, don't we?"
    "Bat—please!"
    "Can say what I think in m'own house," Rand grumbled. "A whore's a whore, Em."
    "Bat, I am sure Mr. Hamilton does not know what to think. Mr. Hamilton," she tried desperately, "would you care for something before dinner? Perhaps some tea ..."
    "Tea!" Rand exploded. "He'll have the port! Good God, woman! What was you