A Breach of Promise

by Anne Perry

  Rathbone admired him for that. Perhaps Zillah did not gain all her refinement of character from her mother.

  Rathbone left the courthouse and went out into the bright afternoon with the sharp sun and wind promising a clear evening. Twilight would not be until after eight o’clock. It made the day seem long, the night over so quickly the next morning would be there almost before he had been to sleep. If Monk did not find anything he would have to call witnesses merely to waste time. Witnesses to what? McKeever would know what he was doing, and Sacheverall certainly would.

  His only hope lay in there being something, however slight, in the Lambert family history which would persuade Barton Lambert to settle for a modest amount of damages.

  He walked briskly towards a hansom, and then at the last moment changed his mind and decided not to ride but to continue on foot until he had consumed some of the energy of anger and frustration inside himself. He had not acquitted himself well in the case, but that mattered very little beside his concern for Melville’s future.

  If only Melville had been honest with him and told him about Wolff! But he should have guessed it was something like that. Melville was not a very muscular man; he had a visionary’s face, a subtle and delicate mind, a poet’s imagination. Rathbone should have told Monk all that, and then perhaps Monk would have found Wolff before Sacheverall did, and this scandal at least could have been forestalled. Rathbone had the powerful impression that had Barton Lambert known he would not have pressed the suit.

  Perhaps Delphine would not have wished to either. She was not hurt by the revelation, to judge from her manner, but it was certainly embarrassing.

  He had dined out and it was nearly nine o’clock when he reached his rooms and his manservant presented him with the evening newspapers.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he apologized.

  Rathbone saw immediately what had precipitated the remark and the look of distress upon the manservant’s somber face. The headlines were lurid, vulgar and aroused speculation even further than Sacheverall had. Not a shred of dignity or honor was left to Melville—or Isaac Wolff either. Even Zillah did not escape prurient suggestions and a note of condescension masked in pity, but lacking any sense of true compassion. She was the catalyst of self-righteous anger, but no thought for her feelings came through the details and the outpouring of criticism, judgment and supposition.

  Rathbone was too restless to remain at home. There was a rage inside him which demanded physical action, even if it was completely pointless.

  He took his coat and hat and stick, not for any purpose beyond the pleasant feel of its weight in his hand, and went out to visit Monk.

  However, Monk was not in, and there was no point in waiting for him in his empty and rather cold room, even though his landlady offered him the opportunity. He left again and went to his club.

  He sat and brooded over a single-malt whiskey for nearly an hour, attempting to think creatively, until he was joined by an old friend who sat down in the chair opposite him, bringing another whiskey to replace the one Rathbone had nearly finished.

  “Rotten business,” he said sympathetically. “Never know where you’ll find the beggars, do you.”

  Rathbone looked up. “What did you say?”

  “Never know where you’ll find the beggars,” the man repeated. His name was Boothroyd and he was a solicitor in family law.

  “What beggars?” Rathbone said edgily.

  “Homosexuals.” Boothroyd pushed over the glass he had brought for Rathbone. “For heaven’s sake, man, don’t be coy! There’s nothing to protect now. Angry with yourself you didn’t guess, no doubt, but then you always were a trifle naive, my dear chap. Always thinking in terms of the greater crimes, murder, arson and grand theft, not sordid little bedroom perversions. Looking beyond the mark.”

  A turmoil of thoughts boiled up in Rathbone’s mind, awareness that Boothroyd was right in that he should have thought of it, blind rage at the man’s complacency and ignorance of the torrent of pain he was dismissing with a few callous sentences, and then a deeper stirring of a different kind of questioning and anger that these judgments were even a matter of law.

  He looked up at Boothroyd and ignored the whiskey.

  “I suppose I imagined that what a man did in his bedroom, providing he injured no one, was his own affair,” he said clearly and very distinctly.

  Boothroyd was startled. His rather bulbous eyes widened in amazement.

  “Are you saying you approve of buggery?” he asked, his voice lifting sharply at the end of the word in incredulity.

  “There are a lot of things I don’t approve of,” Rathbone answered with the careful enunciation which marked his icy temper. “I don’t approve of a man who uses his wife without love or consideration for her feelings. I don’t approve of a woman who sells her body to obtain material goods, or power, or any other commodity, in or outside marriage. I don’t approve of cruelty, physical or of the mind.” He stared at Boothroyd unwaveringly. “I don’t approve of lies or manipulation or coercion or blackmail. For that matter, I don’t approve of greed or idleness or jealousy. But I do not believe we should improve our society by attempting to legislate against them. All one would do is turn every petty-minded busybody and every mealymouthed gossip into a spy, a snoop and a telltale.”

  Boothroyd was staring at him as if he could scarcely believe his ears.

  “Of all the things I disapprove of,” Rathbone went on, lowering his voice a little, but still just as passionate and just as freezingly angry, “I think that two men loving each other in the privacy of their own homes, involving no outsiders, is neither my business nor is it my interest, and I have no desire to make it so.”

  “I am surprised you call it love,” Boothroyd said with some astringence. “Although perhaps I should not be.”

  “Love is a euphemism for a lot of relationships,” Rathbone snapped back, feeling his cheeks burn as he understood what Boothroyd meant, but the rage in him refused to correct it, dear as he knew it might cost him.

  “The Bible says it is a sin,” Boothroyd pointed out. “I think all Christian men agree.”

  “So is lusting after a woman in your heart,” Rathbone pointed out. “Christ was rather specific about that. Most of us are guilty of it nevertheless. I am, and will probably continue to be. Would you legislate against it?”

  “Don’t be absurd!”

  “Precisely,” Rathbone agreed between clenched teeth, his voice crystalline with precision. “There are a great many things which are better left to God to judge, and I think whatever Melville or Wolff does in private is among them.”

  “You are in a minority!” Boothroyd replied sharply, drinking the whiskey he had originally brought for Rathbone and rising to his feet.

  “That does not make me wrong,” Rathbone answered him.

  “It will make you damned well misunderstood!” Boothroyd warned.

  “So I see.” Rathbone arched his brows sarcastically and remained sitting. “But I do not find that an adequate reason to change.”

  “On your own head be it!” Boothroyd turned and walked away, leaving Rathbone furious, embarrassed and frightened, but absolutely determined not to change.

  7

  WHILE RATHBONE WAS STRUGGLING SO fruitlessly in court, knowing he could only lose, Monk was already planning to pursue every avenue into the possible weaknesses in any member of the Lambert family. Zillah herself was the one whose flaws would have most relevance to the issue, so it was with her he began. Not that he expected to succeed. She was almost certainly exactly what she appeared to be, and regrettably, Killian Melville was also what he appeared to be. The whole issue was a tragedy which, with even ordinary common sense, need not have happened.

  He began to walk restlessly back and forth across the room.

  Zillah Lambert was less than half his age, a child of financial privilege and complete innocence as to the ways of the world. As far as he knew, this was the first misfortune ever to strike he
r. How could he begin to understand her life?

  He would have welcomed Hester’s advice, and perhaps even more, Callandra’s. But Callandra was still in Scotland and it was too soon to call on Hester again, although she remained curiously sharp in his mind.

  His contacts in the underworld of crime and poverty on the borders of the law were of no use to him. Zillah Lambert lived the closed life of girls just turning into women, leaving the schoolroom and preparing for marriage, seeking husbands—and love, if possible. Perhaps they dreamed of glamour, romance, teeming emotions before the steadier years ahead of domesticity and children, of making their mark in society, and eventually of settling with a mature resignation and exercise of power—and, one hoped, serene prosperity. It was a life unimaginable to him, totally feminine, and of a dependency not in the least attractive. But it was apparently what most women wished.

  He did not need gossip, but something tangible enough to make Lambert withdraw his case. It was an ugly thing to seek. Monk’s sympathies were largely with Zillah Lambert, because however you looked at it, Melville had behaved like a fool. And so had Rathbone for taking the case and allowing it to come to trial. He could not win. He should have settled long before this.

  Unless, of course, there really was something about Zillah which Melville had discovered when it was too late, but out of regard for her or for her father, who had been his patron and friend, or even possibly because he could not prove it, he had felt unable to marry her.

  Monk owed him at least that possibility.

  He stopped pacing the floor, collected his hat and coat and set out to find someone who frequented the same circles as the Lamberts and might give him a word, a remark let slip, anything he could follow which might unravel into whatever it was Melville had learned. He had only a hazy idea who, but certainly they would not come to him while he was sitting in Fitzroy Street.

  He was crossing Tottenham Court Road, only half watching the traffic, when a better idea came to him. It should have been obvious from the beginning. If Melville had discovered this blemish, whatever it was, then he should follow Melville’s path, not Zillah Lambert’s. And that would necessarily be far easier. He changed direction abruptly and strode south towards Oxford Street, passing fashionable ladies, men about business and a steadily thickening stream of traffic. He had a definite goal.

  By late afternoon he knew far more of Killian Melville’s daily habits, his working hours, which were extraordinarily long, his very restricted social life, and his solitary recreation, which seemed only an extension of his work, by walks taken alone and apparently deep in thought. Melville spent hours in art galleries and museums, but always on his own, except for rare encounters with a dark and slightly eccentric man named Isaac Wolff, who was apparently also an intellectual of some sort, given to study of some artistic work, but of a more literary nature.

  His flash of inspiration had not worked. If Melville had learned something about Zillah Lambert, it had been by chance and not in the course of his usual day.

  Monk returned home tired and with sore feet and a filthy temper, also a determination not to be beaten. If ordinary intelligence failed, then he had little left to lose. He would resort to bravado and what amounted in effect to lies.

  When he had had more money from a regular salary in the police force, even if not a generous salary, he had spent a great deal of it on clothes. From his days as a banker, he still had silk shirts he had cared for, beautifully cut boots and dancing shoes which he seldom wore, two suits of cutaway jacket and tails, several very good gold studs and cuff links. He was too vain to have allowed himself to grow out of clothes he could not now afford to replace.

  He dressed with the utmost care, gritted his teeth against the humiliation of possible rejection, and set out for a long and testing evening.

  He had no idea where parties such as he required might be held on this particular night. He took a hansom and ordered the driver up and down the streets of Mayfair and Belgravia until he saw a large number of carriages stopping outside a well-lit home and elegant men and women alighting and going up the steps and inside.

  He stopped the driver, paid him and alighted also. He was inviting disaster, but he had little alternative left, except to report failure, and he was not going to do that. He hesitated, pretending to look for something in his pocket, until he could walk in with half a dozen people, four of them women, and appear to be part of their group. Indeed, one of the younger ladies seemed to find the idea appealing and he capitalized on it without a second thought.

  Inside the main reception hall was already thronged with people, at least a hundred, and more were arriving all the time. It appeared to be a ball, and if he was fortunate the hostess would be only too happy to have another single and presentable man of good height who could and would dance. He traded upon it.

  It was nearly midnight, amid a whirl of music, chatter, high-pitched laughter and the clink of glasses when he scraped into conversation with a middle-aged lady in blue who knew Delphine Lambert well and was happy to gossip about her.

  “Charming,” she said, looking straight at Monk.

  Monk had no shame at all.

  “How very generous of you,” he said, smiling back at her. “If even in your company she seemed so, then she must indeed be exceptional.”

  The orchestra was playing and the music danced in his head. He restrained himself with an effort.

  “You flatter me, Mr. Monk,” she responded, clearly pleased.

  “Not at all,” he denied, as he had to. “I see you in front of me, while Mrs. Lambert is merely a name. She has no grace, no humor, no spark of wit or warmth of character for me to comment on.” He looked so directly at her she must take his implication to be that she did.

  This was the most gracious attention she had received in a long time. She was not about to let it go. She was quite aware of her friends a few yards away watching her with amazement and envy. She would talk about Delphine for as long as this delightful and rather intriguing man wished her to.

  A pretty girl in pale pink swirled by, laughing up at her partner, flirting outrageously for the brief moment she was out of her mother’s reach.

  A gentleman with ginger hair bumped into a waiter.

  “It is not really wit or humor she has,” she elaborated, prepared to go into any degree of detail. “Not that she is without it, of course,” she amended. “But her charm lies rather in her extraordinary delicacy and beauty. It is not …” She thought for a moment. “It is not the beauty of amazing coloring or exquisite hair, although she does have a beautiful brow. Her figure is comely enough, but she is not very tall.” She herself was only three or four inches less than Monk’s own height. “It is the beauty of perfection,” she continued. “Of even the tiniest detail being flawless. She never makes a mistake. Oh …” She gave a little laugh. “I daresay it is the sort of thing only another woman would notice. Aman might only know there was something less attractive but not be able to put his finger upon what it might be. But Delphine … Mrs. Lambert … always rises above the little things that trip the rest of us.”

  The waltz was ended and replaced by a very slow pavane, or something of the sort. The temptation to dance was removed temporarily.

  “How interesting,” he said, watching her intently as if there were no one else in the room. “You are extraordinarily observant, Mrs. Waterson. You have a keen eye.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Monk.” She blushed faintly.

  “And a gift with words,” he added for good measure.

  She needed no further encouragement. She launched into varied stories not only of Delphine but, with a little guidance, of Zillah as well. She described their social round with some flair. Under Monk’s flattery she did indeed exhibit an acute observation of manners and foibles and the intricacies which give clue to character.

  A waiter offered them glasses of champagne and Monk seized one for Mrs. Waterson and one for himself. He was more than ready for it. All around them wa
s laughter and color and swirl of movement.

  “Only a careful eye could tell,” Mrs. Waterson continued, leaning a little closer and lowering her voice confidentially, “but the whole bodice had been taken apart and restitched with the fabric going crosswise. Much more flattering.” She nodded. “And her use of colors. It is more than just a flair, you know, in her it is a positive art. Nothing is too much trouble if it will produce beauty.”

  She was watching him intently, completely oblivious of a couple so close the woman’s skirts touched her own, and who seemed to be having a fierce but almost silent quarrel. “You know I have heard it said,” she told him earnestly, “that the skill in always appearing beautiful is not so much a matter of the features you are born with, or even of disguising those which are less than the best, but in drawing the onlooker’s eye to those which are exceptional. And the others are barely noticed.” There was triumph in her face. “Never apologize or appear to be ashamed or attempting to conceal.” She raised her chin. “Walk with pride, smile, dare the world to accept you on your own terms. Believe yourself beautiful, and then others will also. That takes a great deal of courage, Mr. Monk, and a formidable strength of will.”

  “Indeed it does,” he agreed, wishing she would proceed to something which might conceivably be relevant to Rathbone’s case. “Invaluable advice for a mother to pass on to her daughter.”

  “Oh, I am sure she did,” Mrs. Waterson said with a little lift of her shoulder. “Miss Lambert is quite lovely, and was never permitted to be anything less. The minutest details were given the utmost attention. Of course, nature assisted her beautifully!”

  They were playing a waltz again. Could they dance and then return to the subject? No, of course not. It would be forgotten, become forced. He might even lose her altogether. Damn Rathbone!

  It was time for a little more judicious flattery. One could not expect a woman to spend above an hour praising another woman.