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“Yes,” Geoffrey said guardedly, his face pale and stiff.
Lovat-Smith inclined his head. “We have heard that you have a somewhat violent temper when you are provoked beyond endurance.” He said it with a half smile, as if it were a foible, not a sin. “Did you quarrel with Prudence and lose control of yourself that morning?”
“No!” Geoffrey’s hands were white-knuckled on the railing.
“You did not murder her?” Lovat-Smith added, eyebrows raised, his voice with a slight lift in it.
“No I did not!” Geoffrey was shaking, emotion naked in his face.
There was a ripple of sympathy from somewhere in the gallery, and from another quarter a hiss of disbelief.
Hardie lifted his gavel, then let it fall without sound.
Rathbone rose from his seat and replaced Lovat-Smith on the floor of the court. His eyes met Lovat-Smith’s for an instant as they passed. He had lost the momentum, the brief ascendancy, and they both knew it.
He stared up at the witness stand.
“You tried to disabuse Prudence of this idea that her personal happiness lay with Sir Herbert Stanhope?” he asked mildly.
“Of course,” Geoffrey replied. “It was absurd.”
“Because Sir Herbert is already married?” He put his hands in his pockets and stood very casually.
“Naturally,” Geoffrey replied. “There was no way whatsoever in which he could offer her anything honorable except a professional regard. And if she persisted in behaving as if there were more, then she would lose even that.” His face tightened, showing his impatience with Rathbone for pursuing something so obvious, and so painful.
Rathbone frowned.
“Surely it was a remarkably foolish and self-destructive course of action for her to have taken? It could only bring embarrassment, unhappiness, and loss.”
“Precisely,” Geoffrey agreed with a bitter curl to his mouth. He was about to add something further when Rathbone interrupted him.
“You were very fond of Miss Barrymore, and had known her over a period of time. Indeed, you also knew her family. It must have distressed you to see her behaving in such a way?”
“Of course!” A flicker of anger crossed Geoffrey’s face and he looked at Rathbone with mounting irritation.
“You could see danger, even tragedy, ahead for her?” Rathbone pursued.
“I could. And so it has transpired!”
There was a murmur around the room. They also were growing impatient.
Judge Hardie leaned forward to speak.
Rathbone ignored him and hastened on. He did not want to lose what little attention he had by being interrupted.
“You were distressed,” he continued, his voice a little louder. “You had on several occasions asked Miss Barrymore to marry you, and she had refused you, apparently in the foolish belief that Sir Herbert had something he could offer her. Which, as you say, is patently absurd. You must have felt frustrated by her perversity. It was ridiculous, self-destructive, and quite unjust.”
Geoffrey’s fingers tightened again on the railing of the witness box and he leaned farther forward.
The creaking and rustling of fabric stopped as people realized what Rathbone was about to say.
“It would have made any man angry,” Rathbone went on silkily. “Even a man with a less violent temper than yours. And yet you say you did not quarrel over it? It seems you do not have a violent temper after all. In fact, it seems as if you have no temper whatsoever. I can think of very few men, if any”—he pulled a very slight face, not quite of contempt—“who would not have felt their anger rise over such treatment.”
The implication was obvious. His honor and his manhood were in question.
There was not a sound in the room except the scrape of Lovat-Smith’s chair as he moved to rise, then changed his mind.
Geoffrey swallowed. “Of course I was angry,” he said in a choked voice. “But I did not quarrel violently. I am not a violent man.”
