A Breach of Promise (3 page)

“Speaking of whom,” her friend continued, leaning even closer and moving her skirts absently, “Marian Harvey told me he is looking quite poorly these days, very pasty, you know,
quite lost his good complexion, and his figure. Dyspeptic, they say.”

“Well, he is a foreigner, you know,” the thinner of the two said, nodding as if that explained everything. “He may be our dear Queen’s husband, but—oh, you know I do wish she would stay with pink, and not ever that fierce shade of fuchsia. She looks hot enough to burst into flames any moment! They say she never ever chooses a thing without taking his advice. Some men are color-blind, I hear. It’s that German blood.”

“Nonsense!” came the instant retort. “English men can be just as color-blind, if they choose.”

Rathbone concealed a smile and moved away. He was well acquainted with the insularity of mind which still regarded the Prince Consort, given that official title three years before, in 1857, as being a foreigner, in spite of the fact that he was so deferred to by the Queen that he was king in all but name. He had a wide reputation for being painfully serious and more than a trifle pompous, not merely given to good works but completely overtaken by them to the point where pleasure of any sort was deeply suspect. Rathbone had met him once and found the experience daunting, and one he did not seek to repeat.

He passed a group of pretty girls, seventeen or eighteen years old, their fair skin gleaming in the light from the myriad candles in the chandeliers, their eyes bright, their voices high with nervousness, full of giggles and little squeaks. Their mothers or aunts were only yards away. One must never be without a chaperone. Reputations could be ruined.

A couple of young men were eyeing them from a distance of a few yards, standing self-consciously, pretending not to notice. One of them was so stiff his back was almost arched. They reminded Rathbone of bantam cocks.

He felt a hand on his arm and turned to see a man in his middle forties with a lean and humorous face.

“Rathbone, how are you?” he said cheerfully. “Didn’t expect to see you at this sort of thing!”

“Hello, FitzRobert!” Rathbone replied with pleasure. “I was
invited, and I rather fancied a little idle amusement, a spot of champagne and music.”

FitzRobert’s smile broadened. “Just won a notable victory?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Rathbone admitted, reliving his satisfaction. “I have. How are you?” He regarded his friend more closely. “You look well.” It was not entirely true, but he felt tact was the better part of perception.

“Oh, I am,” FitzRobert said a shade too quickly. “Busy, you know. Politics is a demanding mistress.” He smiled briefly.

Rathbone struggled to remember the man’s wife’s name, and it came to him with a sudden picture of her face, very beautiful in a smooth, oddly discontented way. “And how is Mary?” he added.

“Very well, thank you.” FitzRobert put his hands in his pockets and looked away. His eye caught a group of people several yards in the distance. The man was stocky, balding, with a plain but genial face. His features were strong, and no skill of expensive tailoring could hide the awkwardness of his stance or the weight and power of his shoulders. The woman next to him, presumably his wife, was a head shorter than he, and extremely pretty, almost beautiful, with regular features, a long, straight nose, and wide eyes. The girl with them was demurely dressed in the customary white for a first season, only barely enhanced with trimmings of pink. The gown was doubtless extremely costly, but she did not need it to make her stand out among her peers. She was a little over average height, slender, and with quite the most beautiful hair Rathbone had ever seen. It was thick, of a muted golden bronze in color, and with a heavy curl which no art could have imitated.

“Are you acquainted with them?” Rathbone asked.

“Only slightly,” FitzRobert answered without changing expression. “He is in trade of some sort. Made himself a fortune. But of course that hardly endears him to society, although they will put up with him for his money’s sake. And he has had the grace to patronize the arts to the extent of tens of thousands of pounds.” He shrugged slightly. “Which, of course, does not
make him a gentleman but at least lends him some respectability.” FitzRobert turned back to Rathbone, smiling because they both knew precisely what he meant: the subtle grades of acceptance which came so easily to those born to it and were nigh on impossible to those who were not.

Even Prince Albert was regarded with coolness by some, just as he disdained the frivolity, the wit, the self-indulgence and the sheer arrogant grace of some of the oldest aristocracy in the country, whose fortunes certainly equaled his own and whose wives had a better sense of fashion than the Queen—and jewels to match. Until very recently they had considered him a political upstart, and his endless notes and letters to be interfering.

Rathbone smiled back. He allowed FitzRobert to see in his eyes that he was going to pretend he had not noticed the shadow of unhappiness there, nor understood its deeply personal nature.

“Who is he?” he asked. “He does not look familiar to me.”

“Barton Lambert,” FitzRobert replied. “His daughter, Zillah, is engaged to marry Killian Melville, the architect. I don’t see him here tonight.” He looked around. “Devoted to his work. Not a very social man.”

Rathbone was suddenly uncertain whether he wanted to know more or not. When there were crimes and desperate injustices to fight, why on earth should he spend his time and his skills in defending a foolish young man from the consequences of his ambition and his lack of forthrightness towards a young woman who had taken him at his behavior, if not his word—as it turned out, mistakenly. It was not a matter which should waste the time of the law. It could be settled with a few well-chosen words and a little sensitivity, and strategic realignment.

“Brilliant fellow,” FitzRobert went on. “Probably one of the most original and daring thinkers of his generation. And has the technical skill and personal drive and persistence to see his ideas from the dreams into the reality.”

“With suitable help from Barton Lambert,” Rathbone added dryly.

FitzRobert was surprised. “Thought you didn’t know him!”

“Not a great deal.” Rathbone retreated with more speed than grace. “Only what I have heard. A word or two—you know how one does.”

FitzRobert smiled. “Well, I suppose he has been on people’s tongues lately. The engagement was in the
Times.”

Rathbone spoke almost before thinking. “Perhaps you could introduce me?”

“Of course,” FitzRobert agreed. “Delighted to. For all his northern brashness, and a certain quickness to see insult where it is not intended, he is a very decent fellow. Honest as you like, and loyal. Once a friend, always a friend.”

“I don’t want to intrude.” Rathbone took a step backwards, already regretting his words. “Perhaps …”

“Not at all,” FitzRobert said with an expansive gesture. He took Rathbone by the arm. “Come on, by all means.”

Rathbone had little choice but to follow, and a few moments later he was being introduced to Barton Lambert and his wife and daughter.

“How do you do, sir,” Lambert said with a strong northern accent. His manner was open and friendly, but he seemed not to be too impressed by Rathbone’s title.

Delphine Lambert, on the other hand, had a very different air. Closer to her, it was apparent that her marvelous jewelry was real—and almost certainly worth more than Rathbone made in half a year, although he did extremely well. And she was a remarkably pretty woman. Her skin was blemishless and the arch of her brows and delicate curve of her hairline were quite unique, as was the slope of her cheekbones. Her intelligence was apparent in her wide, clear eyes.

“How do you do, Sir Oliver,” she said with charm, but marked reserve. Rathbone had an instant feeling that were her daughter not engaged to be married, her interest in him would have been quite different. He felt a surge of relief, which was ridiculous. He was perfectly capable of declining politely! He had done it for years.

Zillah was lovely. There was a naturalness and a spontaneity
about her which Rathbone liked immediately. Also, she was unashamedly happy. The knowledge of how soon it would be shattered bothered Rathbone more than he had expected.

They spoke of the usual kind of trivia, and he could see her parents’ pride in her, the quick glances of obvious affection from her father. Her pain would be his pain; her embarrassment would cut him more deeply than his own. Rathbone doubted Barton Lambert would forgive a man who hurt his daughter, privately or publicly. It was not difficult to understand. He was not a foolish man, nor one without worldly wisdom, or he could not have made the wealth he had in a harsh and highly competitive trade. Manchester—that was the area where his accent proclaimed him to have lived—was not a soft city nor one easily to refine the rough edges from a man’s manner. But neither did it have the weary sophistication of London, the cosmopolitan mixture of cultures and the press and vigor of the world’s traffic. There was a kind of innocence to Barton Lambert, and looking at his face, Rathbone was sure his anger would be of the same spontaneous and unstoppable character.

The conversation was about politics. FitzRobert had just said something about Mr. Gladstone.

“Fine man,” Lambert agreed. “Knew his family.” He nodded.

Of course. William Ewart Gladstone, “God’s vicar in the Treasury,” as he had been mockingly called, was a Manchester man. There was a ring of pride in Lambert’s voice.

“Couldn’t be less like the Prime Minister,” FitzRobert went on, referring, no doubt, to Lord Palmerston’s reputation for wit and good fellowship and the distinct enjoyment of life, its pleasures as well as its duties.

A thought crossed Rathbone’s mind about Mr. Gladstone’s fairly well known vigor regarding the opposite sex, and the occasionally understandable interpretation of his hospitality for the less fortunate of them, whose souls he believed he might save. However, in deference to the ladies present, especially Zillah, he forbore from making any remark. He caught
FitzRobert’s eye and kept his face perfectly composed, but with difficulty.

They were joined a moment later by another handsome woman, accompanied by two unmarried daughters. They were all dutifully introduced, and Rathbone saw the lady’s eyes sparkle with interest as she automatically assessed his eligibility, his social status and his probable income. Apparently she found them all satisfactory. She smiled at him generously.

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Sir Oliver. May I present my elder daughter, Margaret.”

“How do you do, Sir Oliver,” Margaret replied obediently. She was a comely enough girl with candid blue eyes and rather ordinary features. Her brown hair had been elaborately curled for the occasion. It probably became her better in its natural state, but an opportunity such as this was not to be wasted by informality. No artifice for glamour was left untried.

“How do you do, Miss Ballinger,” Rathbone said civilly. He hated these forced conversations and wished more than ever that he had refused to come across with FitzRobert. Nothing he could possibly learn about Barton Lambert or his daughter would compensate for the awkwardness of it. In fact, it would be of no use whatever, because he did not intend to take Killian Melville’s case, should it arise. It was Melville’s own fault he was in this predicament, and he should use his common sense to get himself out of it, or else abide the consequences, which were more than likely to be only the same as those experienced by the majority of men in the world. Zillah Lambert was most attractive and would come with a handsome dowry. Left to his own choice he might well do very much worse.

“And my younger daughter, Julia,” Mrs. Ballinger was saying to him.

“How do you do, Miss Julia.” Rathbone inclined his head towards her. She was no prettier than her sister and had the same frank, almost amused stare.

“Did you attend the concert at Lady Thorpe’s house yesterday evening?” Mrs. Ballinger was asking Mrs. Lambert. “We went for Margaret’s sake. She is so fond of music, and of
course is a most accomplished violinist, if I do say so myself.” She turned to Rathbone with a bright smile. “Are you fond of music, Sir Oliver?”

Rathbone wanted to lie and say he was tone-deaf. He saw the eagerness in Mrs. Ballinger’s face and the embarrassment in Margaret’s. She must feel as if she were bloodstock being paraded in front of a prospective buyer. It was not far from the truth.

Mrs. Lambert smiled with inner satisfaction. She had already won and no longer needed to compete. The triumph of it was luminous in her eyes. Zillah herself looked serenely happy.

Rathbone felt like part of a group picnicking in the sun, and he was the only one aware of the clouds thickening over the horizon, and growing chill in the air.

Mrs. Ballinger was waiting for a reply.

Rathbone looked at Margaret, and his compassion overcame his sense and he answered with the truth.

“Yes, I am very fond of music, particularly the violin.”

Mrs. Ballinger’s answer was immediate.

“Then perhaps you would care to visit with us some occasion and hear Margaret play. We are holding a soirée next Thursday.”

Margaret bit her lip and the color mounted up her face. She turned away from Rathbone, and he was quite certain she would have looked daggers at her mother had she dared. He wondered how many times before she had endured this scene, or ones like it.

He had walked straight into the trap. He was almost as angry as Margaret at the blatancy of it. And yet neither of them could do anything without making it worse.

Delphine Lambert was watching with an air of gentle amusement, her delicate mouth not quite smiling.

It was Julia Ballinger who broke the minute’s silence.

“I daresay Sir Oliver does not have his diary to hand, Mama. I am sure he will send us a card to say whether he is able to accept, if we allow him our address.”

Margaret shot her a look of gratitude.

Rathbone smiled. “You are perfectly correct, Miss Julia. I am afraid I am not certain of my engagements a week ahead. My memory is not as exact as I should like, and I should be mortified to find I had offended someone by failing to attend an invitation I had already accepted. Or indeed that a case kept me overlong where I had foreseen it might …”