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your strength when the time comes. I will do everything I can to help you, that I promise.”
Rhys looked at him without blinking and Rathbone looked back for a long moment, then with a slight smile, not of hope but only of a kind of warmth, he turned and left the room.
Outside on the landing, he waited until Hester joined him and closed the door.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
“I may have been a little rash,” he acknowledged with a tiny shrug, his voice so low she could only just hear him.
Her heart sank. For a moment she had allowed herself to hope. She realized just how much she trusted him, how deep her confidence ran that he could accomplish even the impossible. She had not been fair to lay such a burden on him. She had seen people do it to doctors, and then they had struggled under the weight of impossible hope, and then the despair which followed, and the guilt. Now she had done the same thing to Rathbone because she wanted it so much for Rhys.
“I am sorry,” she said humbly. “I know there may not be anything to be done.”
“There’ll be something,” he replied with a tiny frown between his brows, as if he were puzzled. “I am confused by him. I went in persuaded by circumstance and evidence of his guilt. Now that I have spoken to him, I don’t know what to think. I am not even sure what other possibilities there are. Why will he not answer as to who killed his father, if it was not him? Why will he not say what they quarreled over? You saw his face when I asked.”
She had no suggestions to give. She had lain awake and racked her brains night after night searching for the same answers herself.
“The only thing I can imagine is that he is defending someone,” she said quietly. “And the only people he would defend are his family or close friends. I cannot see Arthur Kynaston doing this, and Rhys’s only family here is his mother.”
“What do you know of his mother?” he asked, glancing towards the hall below them as he heard footsteps crossing it and fading away in the direction of the baize door through to the servants’ quarters. “Is it conceivable she has done something and that Rhys is willing to suffer even this to protect her?”
She hesitated. At first she had thought to deny even the possibility. She could recall far too vividly Rhys’s anger with Sylvestra, the joy he had taken in hurting her. Of course, he could not be protecting her. Then she realized that neither love nor guilt were always so clear. It was possible he loved and hated her at the same time, that he knew something which he would never betray, but that he still despised her for it.
“I don’t know,” she said aloud. “The more I think of it, the less sure I am. But I have no idea what.”
He was looking at her closely. “Haven’t you?”
“No. Of course not. If I knew I would tell you.”
He nodded. “Then if we are to help Rhys, we are going to have to know more than we do now. Since he cannot tell us, and I imagine Mrs. Duff either cannot or will not, we shall have to employ some other means.” A flicker of amusement touched his lips, “I know of none better than Monk, if he will consent to it and Mrs. Duff is prepared to agree.”
“Surely she cannot refuse?” Hester said, fearing as she spoke that Sylvestra might very well. “I mean … unless … without suggesting she fears there is something even worse to conceal?”
“I shall frame it so she will find it extremely difficult to refuse,” he promised. “I should also like to speak with Arthur and Duke Kynaston. What can you tell me about them?”
“I find it hard to believe Arthur is the chief protagonist in this,” she said sincerely. “He has honesty in him, an openness I could not but like. His elder brother Marmaduke is a different matter.” She bit her lip. “I should find it far easier to imagine he reacted with violence if challenged or criticized, and certainly if he felt himself in any danger. His words are quick enough to attempt to hurt.” Honesty compelled her to go on. “But he has been here to visit Rhys, and he certainly was not involved in a fight of anything like the proportions that killed Leighton Duff and left Rhys like this. I wish I could say that he was.”
Rathbone smiled. “I can see that, my dear, and hear it in your voice. Nevertheless, I shall visit them. I must begin somewhere, apart from engaging Monk. Perhaps we had better go and set Mrs. Duff’s mind at ease that at least we shall begin and give the battle all we have.”
Rathbone did as he had said, and asked Sylvestra’s permission to employ someone to learn more of the events with the view to helping Rhys, not simply to find material proof, as the police had done. He phrased his request in such a way she could scarcely refuse him without appearing to wish to abandon Rhys—and to have something of her own to conceal. He also asked her for the address of the Kynaston family, and she explained that Joel Kynaston had known Rhys since childhood and she was certain he would offer any assistance within his power.
After Rathbone had left she turned to Hester, her face pale and tense.
“Is there really anything he can do, Miss Latterly? Or are we simply fighting a battle we must lose, because to do less would be cowardly and a betrayal of courage and the sense of honor we admire? Please answer me honestly. I would rather have truth now. The time for reassuring lies, however well meant, is past. I need to know the truth in order to make the decisions I must.”
“I don’t know,” Hester said honestly. “We can none of us know until the case is heard and concluded. I have seen several trials, many of which have ended far from the way we had expected and believed. Never give up until there is nothing else left to try and it is all over. We are very far from that point now. Believe me, if anyone can mitigate even the worst circumstances, it is Sir Oliver.”
Sylvestra’s face softened in a smile, sadness touching her eyes.
“You are very fond of him, aren’t you.” It was barely a question.
Hester felt the heat in her face.
“Yes … yes, I have a high regard for him.” The words sounded stilted and absurd, so very halfhearted, and Rathbone deserved better than that. But the shadow of Monk was too sharp in her mind to allow Sylvestra to misunderstand, as she seemed willing to do. It was not difficult to comprehend. Love was one sweet and gentle thing, one thing which led on into the future in a world which for Sylvestra was full of darkness and violence and the ending of all the peace and hope she knew.
“I …” Hester started again. “I do have a great … regard for him.”
Sylvestra was too sensitive to probe any further, and Hester excused herself, saying she must go up and see how Rhys was.
