blood there, but none of 'em has got much more than a farthing to pay the porter with, no matter how it pleases 'em to look down on me. But now as I got the blunt, they ain't shy about hangin' on m'sleeve."
"I trust Miss Rand suffered no real harm, then?" Patrick asked, hoping to distract him before he launched on another discourse about his wealth.
"No—though she's a bit bruised where she went into the pavement, but she'll come about. Brave thing, Hamilton—deuced brace—and like I was saying, I owe you for it." As they'd reached the curb, Rand nodded to his liveried coachman, who responded with alacrity, opening the carriage door with a flourish. "Don't go to the coffee houses much, do you?" the old man went on. "Or if you do, I ain't seen you about."
"No, not very often."
"Aye, being Quality, I'd expect you was to prefer the clubs, eh?" Without allowing any time for an answer, Rand rambled on. "Ain't been any of the gentie-men's places—to the nobs I ain't but an encroaching mushroom, you know." He stepped back to allow Patrick to swing up onto a padded seat, then he climbed with an effort to take the one opposite. Wiping his brow with a lace-edged handkerchief, he muttered, "Ain't as young as I was to wish. No, sir, I ain't a young buck like yourself."
"Sometimes I don't feel particularly young anymore," Patrick admitted ruefully.
"You didn't take any harm when you was saving Ellie, did you?"
"No."
"She said you ruined a fine coat."
Patrick shrugged. "Nothing that cannot be replaced, I assure you." As the ornate town carriage lurched forward, he wondered why he'd committed himself to an hour or more of the old man's company.
"I’ll wager 'twas Weston's finest, wasn't it? Well, I don't mean to let you stand the loss, sir. If there's anything Bat Rand does, 'tis pay his honest debts."
"It was an insignificant amount at best," Patrick said dismissively.
"Insignificant? You saved my daughter from being run down, Hamilton! No, sir, I'm standin' you for a new one! What do them as caters to the bucks get for good coats anyways?"
"I'm afraid you'd have to ask my secretary."
"Ain't saying, eh? Well, I mean to find out." The man stared into the passing street for a moment, then looked again to Patrick. "Ellie's dear to me, Hamilton. Oh, she's got her queer starts, but she's a good gel. Pretty, too, but I don't need to tell you that—you sawher." ,
"Yes, she is," Patrick agreed warily.
"I might've been nigh to beneath the table the other night, but I still got eyes—I could see the way you was looking at her." When it appeared as though Patrick might speak, Rand lifted a silencing hand. "Told you—I ain't one as beats around the budget. If I think something, I'll say it." His pale blue eyes fixed on Patrick's face, and his expression sobered. "I want my gel to be happy, that's all."
"She told me about Samuel Rose's son," Patrick said quietly. "I'm sorry."
The old man's eyes went cold, then were veiled as he appeared to consider the watch fob that stretched across his rounded belly. "I ain't," he said finally. "I wasn't pleased about the boy at all, and I don't mean to say I was. I didn't make millions of bricks so as she could waste herself on no cent per cent. Rose!" he snorted. "Even the sound of it's namby-pamby, ain't it? A demned flower!"
"I rather like Sam," Patrick murmured. "I've sent a few clients to him."
"Borrowing money from 'em is one thing— marrying 'em is quite another!" Rand snapped. Recovering himself, he smiled again. "But it don't make no difference now, anyways, does it? Boy's gone wherever it is they go, ain't he? And I've been real patient with
Ellie, but I got to think of her future. It ain't as I was going to be around forever, you know."
Patrick picked at a crease in his black barrister's robe, then returned his attention to the old man. "There is much to admire in Miss Rand—she is possessed of beauty and kindness, which rarely come together. But if you are wishful of
"I trust Miss Rand suffered no real harm, then?" Patrick asked, hoping to distract him before he launched on another discourse about his wealth.
"No—though she's a bit bruised where she went into the pavement, but she'll come about. Brave thing, Hamilton—deuced brace—and like I was saying, I owe you for it." As they'd reached the curb, Rand nodded to his liveried coachman, who responded with alacrity, opening the carriage door with a flourish. "Don't go to the coffee houses much, do you?" the old man went on. "Or if you do, I ain't seen you about."
"No, not very often."
"Aye, being Quality, I'd expect you was to prefer the clubs, eh?" Without allowing any time for an answer, Rand rambled on. "Ain't been any of the gentie-men's places—to the nobs I ain't but an encroaching mushroom, you know." He stepped back to allow Patrick to swing up onto a padded seat, then he climbed with an effort to take the one opposite. Wiping his brow with a lace-edged handkerchief, he muttered, "Ain't as young as I was to wish. No, sir, I ain't a young buck like yourself."
"Sometimes I don't feel particularly young anymore," Patrick admitted ruefully.
"You didn't take any harm when you was saving Ellie, did you?"
"No."
"She said you ruined a fine coat."
Patrick shrugged. "Nothing that cannot be replaced, I assure you." As the ornate town carriage lurched forward, he wondered why he'd committed himself to an hour or more of the old man's company.
"I’ll wager 'twas Weston's finest, wasn't it? Well, I don't mean to let you stand the loss, sir. If there's anything Bat Rand does, 'tis pay his honest debts."
"It was an insignificant amount at best," Patrick said dismissively.
"Insignificant? You saved my daughter from being run down, Hamilton! No, sir, I'm standin' you for a new one! What do them as caters to the bucks get for good coats anyways?"
"I'm afraid you'd have to ask my secretary."
"Ain't saying, eh? Well, I mean to find out." The man stared into the passing street for a moment, then looked again to Patrick. "Ellie's dear to me, Hamilton. Oh, she's got her queer starts, but she's a good gel. Pretty, too, but I don't need to tell you that—you sawher." ,
"Yes, she is," Patrick agreed warily.
"I might've been nigh to beneath the table the other night, but I still got eyes—I could see the way you was looking at her." When it appeared as though Patrick might speak, Rand lifted a silencing hand. "Told you—I ain't one as beats around the budget. If I think something, I'll say it." His pale blue eyes fixed on Patrick's face, and his expression sobered. "I want my gel to be happy, that's all."
"She told me about Samuel Rose's son," Patrick said quietly. "I'm sorry."
The old man's eyes went cold, then were veiled as he appeared to consider the watch fob that stretched across his rounded belly. "I ain't," he said finally. "I wasn't pleased about the boy at all, and I don't mean to say I was. I didn't make millions of bricks so as she could waste herself on no cent per cent. Rose!" he snorted. "Even the sound of it's namby-pamby, ain't it? A demned flower!"
"I rather like Sam," Patrick murmured. "I've sent a few clients to him."
"Borrowing money from 'em is one thing— marrying 'em is quite another!" Rand snapped. Recovering himself, he smiled again. "But it don't make no difference now, anyways, does it? Boy's gone wherever it is they go, ain't he? And I've been real patient with
Ellie, but I got to think of her future. It ain't as I was going to be around forever, you know."
Patrick picked at a crease in his black barrister's robe, then returned his attention to the old man. "There is much to admire in Miss Rand—she is possessed of beauty and kindness, which rarely come together. But if you are wishful of
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