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“He’s not underage!” she said hotly, rising also. “It is if he wants you to!”
He smiled with dry, rueful amusement. “My dear Hester, if he cannot speak or write, and has no occupation of his own, he will not only have very little power to defend himself, he will have no financial means.”
“His father is—was—wealthy. He will have been left provided for,” she protested.
“Not if he killed his father, Hester. You know that as well as I do. If he is convicted of the crime, he cannot inherit.”
She was furious. “You mean he cannot have a defense because if he is found guilty he will not be able to pay? That is monstrous.” She was so angry she almost choked on the words. “It’s …”
He put both hands on her shoulders, holding her so firmly she was obliged to face him.
“I did not say that, Hester. I think you know me better than to imagine I work only for money.…”
She swallowed. She had cause to be ashamed. She had come to plead with him to take on an impossible case because she believed he would.
“I am sorry.”
“But I do work within the law,” he finished. “In the circumstances, I shall have to speak first to his mother.” His lips twisted with genuine humor. “Although I imagine that with you in the house, and doubtless in charge, I shall find her cooperative.”
She blushed. “Thank you, Oliver.”
He said nothing, but made a little sound of acquiescence.
It was mid-evening before Rathbone arrived at Ebury Street. Hester had informed Sylvestra of his willingness at least to consider the case, and Sylvestra had been too confused and unhappy to argue. She had consulted her own solicitor, a mild man skilled in the matters of property, inheritance and finance, and totally out of his depth where the criminal law was concerned. He was willing to engage anyone recommended to him who was willing to undertake such an unpromising cause.
“Sir Oliver Rathbone,” the butler announced, and Rathbone came into the withdrawing room almost on his heels. He was as elegant as always, with the ease of someone who knows his own power and feels no need to impress.
“How do you do, Mrs. Duff,” he said with a very slight smile. “Miss Latterly.”
“How do you do, Sir Oliver,” Sylvestra replied with a commendable calm she could not have felt. “It is good of you to have come. I am not sure what you can do for my son. Miss Latterly speaks most highly of you, but I fear our situation may be beyond any help. Please do sit down.” She indicated the chair opposite and he accepted.
Hester sat on the sofa, a little removed from them, but where she could watch both their faces.
“One does not always know what a defense will be until one begins, Mrs. Duff,” Rathbone replied calmly. “May I assume that you wish your son to have any assistance that is possible, in his present tragic circumstances?” He looked at her patiently, gently, as if his words had been a simple question and without pressure.
“Yes …” she said slowly. “Yes, of course. I …” Her face was composed, but it was plain from the shadows under her eyes and the fine lines of stress around her lips that the effort cost her very dearly. It would be inconceivable that it should not.
Rathbone smiled immediately. “Of course, you cannot yet see what can be done. I admit, neither can I, but that is not unusual. Whatever the truth of the matter may prove to be, we must see that, as much as possible, both justice and mercy are served. That cannot be unless Mr. Duff is represented by someone who will fight as hard for him as if he believed him valuable, capable of hope and of pain, and deserving every opportunity to explain himself.”
Sylvestra frowned. “You are already a brilliant advocate for him, Sir Oliver. I could not possibly disagree with anything you have said. No one could.” She sat without moving, a touch of immobility in spite of the emotion which must be tearing inside her. It was an extraordinary self-discipline, learned over the years, to have the strength to apply now. “What confuses me is why you shou
ld wish to represent my son,” she continued. “And it is obvious from your presence here, let alone your words, that you do. I know better than to imagine you are some young man seeking to make a career and a name for himself … not that you would choose this case if you were. Nor are you so hungry for business that you would pursue any case at all. Why my son, Sir Oliver?”
Rathbone smiled, and there was a very faint touch of color in his cheeks.
“For Miss Latterly’s sake, Mrs. Duff. She feels very strongly for Rhys’s plight, regardless of whether he should prove guilty of this or not. She persuaded me that he needs the best defense he can obtain. With your agreement, I shall do all in my power to see that he has it.”
Hester felt the blood burn up her own face and she looked away, avoiding Rathbone’s eyes, in case he should glance in her direction. She had used his feeling for her, perhaps even misled him, because she was uncertain of her own emotions. She was guilty, but she did not regret it. She would do the same again. If she did not fight for Rhys, there was no one else who could.
Sylvestra relaxed at last, the rigidity easing out of her shoulders.
“Thank you, Sir Oliver, both for your honesty and for your compassion for my son. I fear there will be few others, if any at all, who will feel the same for him. He … he will be regarded … I think … as a monster.” She stopped abruptly, unable to go on. The words were too hard, too painfully true, and it was a future which loomed within days, not weeks. It would be the pattern of life from then on. The world would be changed forever.
Hester wanted to argue, just to offer any comfort at all, but it would be a lie, and they all knew it. Anything she said would only belittle the truth and imply that she did not understand.
Rathbone rose to his feet. “It will be my task to see that everything that can be said for him is put as eloquently as possible, Mrs. Duff. Now, I would like to speak to Rhys myself. Perhaps you would allow Miss Latterly to take me upstairs.”
Sylvestra rose also, taking a step forward.
