thinking of? Tea!"
"She was thinking you've alreatly had too much," Elise spoke up calmly. "And I daresay Mr. Hamilton thinks we are the Cits he expected."
"Ain't. Your mama—"
"Was a Bingham," she finished for him tiredly. "I know, but we are Cits, Papa, and I expect Hamilton wishes to escape our clutches alreatly."
"Actually, I don't wish for anything of the sort," Patrick countered.
"Then I suppose you find this amusing," she decided acidly. "But Mama is quite right—he can be most charming when he is sober."
"Now where was I? Damme if you ain't made me lose—oh—the whore as got off—"
"Bat!" Now there was no mistaking the anger in Mrs. Rand's voice. "You will not speak thus before your daughter!"
"The Coates woman, then," he muttered, unrepentant. "Ain't anything I'd say as she ain't alreatly heard from me." Nonetheless, he turned to Elise. "Was that better, Puss?" he asked her.
"Yes."
"Best there is, ain't you, Hamilton?" Rand looked to him expectantly. "Tell 'em."
Embarrassed for him, Patrick managed to say, "I have enjoyed a measure of success."
"Success!" Rand snorted. "The old whoremonger was hanged without you!"
Mercifully, the butler interrupted them, announcing, "Monsieur Millet informs me dinner is reatly to be served, sir." Unable to stand unaided, Rand tried to push away from his chair, then fell back. Reaching
a hand toward his daughter, he mumbled, "Got to have help, Puss. M'gout—"
Before the girl could go to her father, Patrick grasped the old man's arm and as he pulled him upward, he thrust a shoulder beneath him. They both staggered from Rand's weight, until Elise caught her father from the other side.
"I think we'd best call a footman to get him to bed, Mama."
"No! Best demned peas to be had—apricot tarts— got to feed him—got business after."
"I cannot stay overlate," Patrick demurred. "I have to be in court in the morning."
"More whores, eh?"
"Proper barristers do not discuss other people's business," Elise said dampeningly. "Come on—let's get you up to your bed."
"No—ain't going. Hamilton—knee's gone—help me to the food."
With an effort, they managed to get the old man into the dining room, where he nearly overturned his chair before they got him into it. As liveried retainers began serving, he stared glumly into his port. It wasn't until the turtle soup was placed before him that he roused. "Best demned turtles to be found anywheres. Aye, and best demned joint coming, I'll wager you on it. Best demned peas, too."
"You have alreatly mentioned the peas, Papa."
"Oh."
"And the tarts."
"You like apr'cot tarts?" Rand asked Patrick. "You got to—all the nobs—"
"I have a fondness for them," the younger man admitted.
"Aye. Then we got to eat 'em, don't we?"
Despite his host's condition and the subdued manner of the Rand women, Patrick found the meal quite excellent. Across from him, Elise Rand ate in silence, her attention seemingly on her plate. As he ate, Patrick took the opportunity to stutly her, wondering how the old man had managed to fend off a legion of
suitors, for despite her plain speaking, she was as rich as she was beautiful.
"Do you have a townhouse—or do you merely lease one for when you are here during the social seasons?" Mrs. Rand inquired, breaking the silence.
"I own a house, I'm afraid, for I have to be in town much of the year."
"And do you have a country estate?"
"A modest one," he answered. "I have but recently bought a place in Kent."
"Well," she admitted wistfully, "I have long wished to have a house in the country, but Bat insists that his business is here."
"He lets us visit Mama's brother at the vicarage, and he thinks that is quite enough of rusticating, I'm afraid," Elise said.
He guessed she was not just out of the schoolroom—she had too much aplomb and too sharp a wit for that—but neither did she appear to be on the shelf. He supposed she was perhaps a year or two past twenty. Wondering idly what she thought of
"She was thinking you've alreatly had too much," Elise spoke up calmly. "And I daresay Mr. Hamilton thinks we are the Cits he expected."
"Ain't. Your mama—"
"Was a Bingham," she finished for him tiredly. "I know, but we are Cits, Papa, and I expect Hamilton wishes to escape our clutches alreatly."
"Actually, I don't wish for anything of the sort," Patrick countered.
"Then I suppose you find this amusing," she decided acidly. "But Mama is quite right—he can be most charming when he is sober."
"Now where was I? Damme if you ain't made me lose—oh—the whore as got off—"
"Bat!" Now there was no mistaking the anger in Mrs. Rand's voice. "You will not speak thus before your daughter!"
"The Coates woman, then," he muttered, unrepentant. "Ain't anything I'd say as she ain't alreatly heard from me." Nonetheless, he turned to Elise. "Was that better, Puss?" he asked her.
"Yes."
"Best there is, ain't you, Hamilton?" Rand looked to him expectantly. "Tell 'em."
Embarrassed for him, Patrick managed to say, "I have enjoyed a measure of success."
"Success!" Rand snorted. "The old whoremonger was hanged without you!"
Mercifully, the butler interrupted them, announcing, "Monsieur Millet informs me dinner is reatly to be served, sir." Unable to stand unaided, Rand tried to push away from his chair, then fell back. Reaching
a hand toward his daughter, he mumbled, "Got to have help, Puss. M'gout—"
Before the girl could go to her father, Patrick grasped the old man's arm and as he pulled him upward, he thrust a shoulder beneath him. They both staggered from Rand's weight, until Elise caught her father from the other side.
"I think we'd best call a footman to get him to bed, Mama."
"No! Best demned peas to be had—apricot tarts— got to feed him—got business after."
"I cannot stay overlate," Patrick demurred. "I have to be in court in the morning."
"More whores, eh?"
"Proper barristers do not discuss other people's business," Elise said dampeningly. "Come on—let's get you up to your bed."
"No—ain't going. Hamilton—knee's gone—help me to the food."
With an effort, they managed to get the old man into the dining room, where he nearly overturned his chair before they got him into it. As liveried retainers began serving, he stared glumly into his port. It wasn't until the turtle soup was placed before him that he roused. "Best demned turtles to be found anywheres. Aye, and best demned joint coming, I'll wager you on it. Best demned peas, too."
"You have alreatly mentioned the peas, Papa."
"Oh."
"And the tarts."
"You like apr'cot tarts?" Rand asked Patrick. "You got to—all the nobs—"
"I have a fondness for them," the younger man admitted.
"Aye. Then we got to eat 'em, don't we?"
Despite his host's condition and the subdued manner of the Rand women, Patrick found the meal quite excellent. Across from him, Elise Rand ate in silence, her attention seemingly on her plate. As he ate, Patrick took the opportunity to stutly her, wondering how the old man had managed to fend off a legion of
suitors, for despite her plain speaking, she was as rich as she was beautiful.
"Do you have a townhouse—or do you merely lease one for when you are here during the social seasons?" Mrs. Rand inquired, breaking the silence.
"I own a house, I'm afraid, for I have to be in town much of the year."
"And do you have a country estate?"
"A modest one," he answered. "I have but recently bought a place in Kent."
"Well," she admitted wistfully, "I have long wished to have a house in the country, but Bat insists that his business is here."
"He lets us visit Mama's brother at the vicarage, and he thinks that is quite enough of rusticating, I'm afraid," Elise said.
He guessed she was not just out of the schoolroom—she had too much aplomb and too sharp a wit for that—but neither did she appear to be on the shelf. He supposed she was perhaps a year or two past twenty. Wondering idly what she thought of
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