Anne Perry - A Breach of Promise

He would not tell Hester either. She was no good at concealing anything.

He had another cup of tea, then thanked them and took his leave. He had perhaps two more days in which to find something useful about Zillah Lambert. Then Rathbone would have to concede defeat. There was nothing more Monk could do to help him. After that he would begin seriously to look for the two deformed children of Samuel Jackson.

At first he had not known where to begin with Zillah. Considering the time he had left, the whole idea was ludicrous. Then he remembered Mr. Burnham's account of Barton Lambert and the aristocrat who had wanted to build the hall and dedicate it to Prince Albert. Apparently, milord's son was enamored of Zillah, and at least for a while, she of him. If such a slip in discretion had ever taken place, this could be it.

It was not so easy to find records of the proposed building, nor of the collapse of the idea; perhaps its ignominy was the reason. He was several times rebuffed, and when he finally learned what he needed to know, he was perfectly sure he had spoken to sufficiently many people that word of his enquiries would be bound to leak back to Lambert himself. He would certainly know the reason for it, and what Monk hoped to find.

What he did find was rumor, gossip, and a little fact. Zillah had certainly flaunted her beauty, encouraged by Delphine, who seemed to get as much pleasure from it vicariously as did Zillah herself. She enjoyed all the usual pastimes: dancing, riding in carriages, swapping tales with other girls, and inventing stories, listening to music, walking, or rather parading, in the park. But she was a trifle more self-conscious than others and never lost her awareness of exactly how to dress to flatter her looks. She was never careless or ill groomed; her glorious hair was always beautifully done or undone. She watched scrupulously what she ate. Perhaps that was the sternest test of vanity. She did not ever allow herself to indulge in sweets or chocolates, rich pastries or cream cakes. If her mother guided her, it was so discreet it remained unobserved.

Yes, she had certainly flirted outrageously with Lord Tain-bridge's eldest son. It had very possibly gone beyond what could be regarded as innocent, although if it had been sufficient to sacrifice her virtue, no one was prepared to say.

Monk could only wonder. It might well have been. Young blood is hot, and passion and curiosity are potent forces. Perhaps Zillah was not the virgin she claimed. He could not find himself regarding that prospect with horror, only a sadness that the thought, the idea, should be enough to bring this public ruin on both herself and Melville. After all, it was a purely private matter… if, indeed, it was a matter at all.

He left at last to go to Rathbone's rooms and admit that he had nothing certain, only innuendo which might and might not be a weapon if used sufficiently skillfully. He turned over in his mind the subjects of marriage and beauty, and the set of values by which it seemed society judged a woman and led her to judge herself. If a girl was pretty and at least reasonably agreeable, unless some appalling scandal attached to her, she was certain of finding a husband. The prettier she was, the wider her choice, until it came to the aristocracy, where only a ravishing beauty could hope to overcome the barrier of poverty or ignominious family background.

So much depended on appearance. Why? One might suppose man was a creature with only one sense, that of sight. Did one acquire a wife merely to look at? Certainly good looks were most pleasing, a clear complexion, lovely hair, fine eyes. Actually, a beautiful mouth was the feature that most woke Monk's hungers-and his dreams.

But why? Did one imagine that the curve of a cheek or an eyelid actually had meaning? Did a lovely face always indicate a lovely character?

That was idiotic! Any man who still possessed the wits he was born with knew better than that.

In his mind-yes. But in his heart?

What of humor or courage, loyalty, gentleness, and for heaven's sake, intelligence?

He pushed his hands into his pockets and strode across the busy street between hansoms, drays, a wagon piled with carpets, and a coal cart, and stepped smartly up onto the curb at the far side. Unconsciously, he increased his pace.

Hester had all the latter qualities. And yet when he had become enchanted by a woman in these last years that he could remember-and according to the evidence, before that as well-they had been lovely women with beautiful, vulnerable faces who looked as if they were gentle, pliable, as if they needed him and would lean on his strength: utterly feminine women who complemented his masculinity.

He did not like the picture of himself that that painted.

And yet how many other men were the same? Offered a charming figure that suggested passion concealed but waiting, a pretty face that seemed innocent, agreeable, easily pleased, not too critical or too challenging, and one was immediately attracted, seeing behind all this a perfect companion.

No wonder girls like Zillah Lambert strove to fulfil that ideal. It was their prospect to social acceptability and financial security: a wedding ring; their own household; children; a change from dependence upon parents to dependence upon a husband who, with judicious management, might be persuaded to love her, cater to her, even indulge her.

He reached Rathbone's rooms and the manservant let him in.

Rathbone was standing beside the last of the fire, considering retiring for the night. He looked tired and unhappy. His face lightened momentarily with hope when Monk came in, then he saw his eyes and the light in him vanished.

"I'm sorry," Monk said sincerely. He hated this. He had wanted very much to be able to bring good news, not only for his own vanity but for Rathbone's sake, and if he were truthful, for Melville's also. The man who had created so much original and dynamic beauty of form should not be brought down by something so terribly unnecessary.

"Nothing?" Rathbone asked.

"She may have had what amounted to an affair with Lord Tainbridge's son, but there's no proof, only speculation. You could try threatening to suggest it in public, but I doubt you'd do anything but alienate the jury, and Sacheverall ought to know that."

Rathbone stood by the fire, staring into the flames. "I don't think there's any point. Melville is ruined. You haven't read the newspapers, have you?" This was more a statement than a question.

"No. Why?" Monk's heart sank. He did not know why it should matter so much, but it left him suddenly quite cold. "Why?" he repeated, moving closer to the fire himself.

Without looking up at him, Rathbone told him about Isaac Wolff and Sacheverall's evidence regarding him.

Monk heard him out in silence. He should not have been surprised. In fact, he should have found it himself. He should have looked harder at Melville. If he had found it, then he could have warned Rathbone so he would have made Melville withdraw.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I was looking for women. I never thought of that. I should have."

Rathbone shrugged. "So should I." He looked around and smiled. "We didn't do very well, did we?"

They stood together watching the fire die for several moments, until the manservant came to the door again. He opened it and stood in the entrance, his face white, his eyes wide and dark.

"Sir Oliver." His voice shook a little. "I am afraid, sir, you have just received a message… sir…"

"Yes?"

Monk clenched his fists and felt his body chill.

"I'm sorry, sir," the manservant went on, now in little more than a whisper. "But Mr. Melville has been found dead."

Rathbone stared at him.

"I'm sorry, Sir Oliver. I am afraid there is no doubt."

Rathbone closed his eyes and looked for a moment as if he were about to faint.