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“I apologize,” Rathbone said insincerely. “But Sir Herbert is also in an impossible position, ma’am, and one of considerably more peril to himself.” He inclined his head a little. “I require you to answer, because if you would not accept Mr. Taunton, then that would indicate that you know of some reason why Prudence Barrymore also might not have accepted him. Which would mean her behavior was not so unreasonable, nor necessarily in any way connected with Sir Herbert, or any hopes she may have entertained regarding him. Do you see?”
“Yes,” she conceded reluctantly. “Yes, I see.”
He waited. At last the crowd on the public benches was caught. He could hear the rustle of taffeta and bombazine as they craned forward. They did not totally understand what was to come, but they knew drama when they smelled it, and they knew fear.
Nanette took a deep breath. “Yes—I would,” she said in a strangled voice.
“Indeed.” Rathbone nodded. “So I had been led to believe.” He walked a pace or two, then turned to her again. “In fact, you are very fond of Mr. Taunton yourself, are you not? Sufficiently so to have marred your affection for Miss Barrymore when he persistently courted her in spite of her repeated refusal of his offers?”
There was a mutter of anger around the room. Several jurors shifted uncomfortably.
Nanette was truly appalled. The tide of scarlet ran right to the dark line of her hair, and she clung to the rail of the witness box as if to support herself. The rustle of embarrassment increased, but in no one did it exceed curiosity. No one looked away.
“If you suggest that I lie, sir, you are mistaken,” Nanette said at length.
Rathbone was politeness itself.
“Not at all, Miss Cuthbertson. I suggest that your perception of the truth, like that of most of us in the grip of extreme emotion, is likely to be colored by our own imperatives. That is not to lie, simply to be mistaken.”
She glared at him, confused and wretched, but not able to think of a retaliation.
But Rathbone knew the tone of drama would pass and reason reassert itself. He had achieved little to help Sir Herbert yet.
“You cared for him enough not to be dissuaded by his violent temper, Miss Cuthbertson?” he resumed.
Now suddenly she was pale.
“Violent temper?” she repeated. “That is nonsense, sir. Mr. Taunton is the gentlest of men.”
But the crowd watching her intently had seen the difference between disbelief and shock. They knew from the tightness of her body beneath its fashionable gown and huge skirts that she was perfectly aware what Rathbone alluded to. Her confusion was to hide it, not to understand it.
“If I were to ask Mr. Archibald Purbright, would he agree with me?” Rathbone said smoothly. “I doubt Mrs. Waldemar would think so.”
Lovat-Smith shot to his feet, his voice husky with assumed bewilderment.
“My lord, who is Archibald Purbright? My learned friend has made no previous mention of such a person. If he has evidence he must testify to it here, where the Crown may question him and weigh its validity. We cannot accept—”
“Yes, Mr. Lovat-Smith,” Hardie interrupted him. “I am quite aware that Mr. Purbright has not been called.” He turned to Rathbone, eyebrows raised inquiringly. “Perhaps you had better explain yourself?”
“I do not intend to call Mr. Purbright, my lord, unless Miss Cuthbertson should make it necessary.” It was a bluff. He had no idea where to find Archibald Purbright.
Hardie turned to Nanette.
She stood stiffly, white-faced.
“It was a solitary incident, and some time ago.” She almost choked on her words. “The man had been cheating. I regret having to say so, but it is true.” She shot a look of loathing at Rathbone. “And Mrs. Waldemar would bear me out on that!”
The moment’s tension evaporated. Lovat-Smith smiled.
“And Mr. Taunton was no doubt quite understandably extremely frustrated and felt a burning sense of injustice,” Rathbone agreed. “As would we all. To have done your best, to feel you deserve to win because you are the better player, and to be constantly cheated out of your victory would be enough to try the temper of most of us.”
He hesitated, taking a step or two casually and turning. “And in this instance, Mr. Taunton lashed out with such extreme violence that he was only prevented from doing Mr. Purbright a serious, perhaps fatal, injury by the overpowering strength of two of his friends.”
Suddenly the tension was back again. Gasps of shock were clearly audible amid rustles of movement, scrapings of shoes as people sat sharply upright. In the dock Sir Herbert’s lips curled in the very smallest smile. Even Hardie stiffened.
Lovat-Smith hid his surprise with difficulty. It was there on his face only for an instant, but Rathbone saw it. Their eyes met, then Rathbone looked back at Nanette.
“Do you not think it is possible, Miss Cuthbertson—indeed, do you not in your heart fear—that Mr. Taunton may have felt just the same sense of frustration and injustice with Miss Barrymore for persistently refusing him when she had no other admirer at hand, and no justifiable reason, in his view, for her actions?” His voice was calm, even solicitous. “Might he not have lashed out at her, if perhaps she were foolish enough to have mocked him or in some way slighted him to make her rejection plain? There were no friends to restrain him in the hospital corridor at that early hour of the morning. She was tired after a long night nursing the sick, and she would not expect violence—”
