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Two spots of color burned on her cheeks. He had hurt her, and he saw it. There were times when her composure bordered on arrogance, and this was one of them. He was aware of having stepped in front of the hansom without looking. He was actually fortunate not to have been run over.
She lifted her eyebrows in sarcasm. “Is that what you waded through the gutter to tell me?”
“No, of course it isn’t!” He had not meant to quarrel with her. Why did he allow her to make him feel so defensive? He would not have spoken to any other woman that way. The very familiarity of her face, the curious mixture of vulnerability, bravado and true strength, made him aware of how much she had woven herself into the threads of his life, and it frightened him. She could not leave without tearing it apart, and that knowledge left him open to more hurt than he had armor to deal with. And yet he was driving her out himself.
He breathed in and out slowly, making an effort to control his temper. Even if she could not do that, he could.
“I came because I thought you might be of some assistance in the case I am investigating for Rathbone,” he explained. “The trial continues tomorrow, and he is in considerable difficulty.”
Her concern was immediate, but who was it for, himself or Rathbone?
“You mean the architect who broke his word? What are you trying to learn?”
“The reason for it, of course,” he replied.
She sat down, very straight-backed. He could imagine some governess in her childhood had come and poked the middle of her spine with a sharp ruler. She sat now as if there were a spike behind the padding of the chair.
“I meant what is wrong with him, or wrong with her,” she explained patiently, as though he were slow-witted.
“Either,” he answered. “He takes precedence, so if there is anything, at least Rathbone can be forewarned—if there is any defense.” He sat down on the other chair.
She stared at him solemnly. “What did you learn?”
He was ashamed of his failure. The expectancy in her eyes stung him. She had no idea how difficult it was to acquire the sort of information Rathbone needed. It could take weeks, if it was possible at all. He was seeking the most intimate details of people’s lives, things they told no one. It had been a hopeless request in the first place.
“Nothing that is not in the public domain,” he replied with an edge to his voice. “I might know if Rathbone had asked me a month ago. I don’t know what possessed him to take the case. He has no chance of winning. The girl’s reputation is impeccable, her father’s even better. He is a man of more than ordinary honor.”
“And isn’t Melville, apart from this?” she challenged.
“So far as I know, but this is a very large exception,” he returned. He looked at her very directly. “I would have expected you to have more sympathy with a young woman publicly jilted by a man she had every reason to suppose loved her.”
The color drained from her face, leaving her white to the lips.
He was overtaken with a tide of guilt for his clumsiness. The implication was not at all what he had intended; he had meant only that she was also a young woman. But it was too late to say that now. It would sound false, an artificial apology. He was furious with himself. He must think of something intelligent to say to contradict it, and quickly. But it must not be a retreat.
“I thought you might be able to imagine what she might have done to cause him to react this way,” he said. He wanted to tell her not to be so idiotic! Of course he did not think she had been in this position herself. Any man who would jilt her this way was a fool not worthy of second thought, still less of grief, and certainly not worthy of her! If she applied an atom of sense to the matter, she would know what he had meant. And even if he thought it, he would not have said so. It was completely unjust of her even to entertain such an idea of him.
“Did you?” she said coldly. “I’m surprised. You never gave the impression you thought I had led a colorful life … in that respect. In fact, very much the opposite.”
He lost his temper. “For heaven’s sake, Hester, don’t be so childish! I never thought of your early life, painted scarlet or utterly drab! I thought that as a woman you might understand her feelings better than I, that’s all. But I can see that I was clearly—” He stopped as the door opened and a burly, muscular man came in, his face agitated. He closed the door behind him, ignoring Monk and turning to Hester.
She stood up, Monk forgotten. The anger fled out of her eyes, her mouth, and was instantly replaced by concern.
“Is something wrong?”
The large man’s eyes flickered at Monk.
“This is Mr. Monk,” Hester said, introducing him perfunctorily as he too rose to his feet. “Mr. Athol Sheldon.” She gave them no time to speak to each other but hurried on. “What is wrong? Is it Gabriel?”
Athol Sheldon relaxed a fraction, his powerful shoulders stopped straining his jacket and he let out his breath in a sigh. Apparently, having found her he already felt better, as if somehow the problem were in control.
“Yes—I’m afraid he fell asleep and seems to have had a nightmare. He is—quite unwell. I … I don’t know what to do for him, and poor Perdita is dreadfully upset.” He half swiveled on his foot to acknowledge Monk. “I am sorry to intrude,” he said briefly; it was lip service to courtesy. He looked back instantly to Hester. It was not necessary to request she come; she was already moving towards the door.
Monk followed her because he could not simply ignore what was obviously an emergency of some sort. It was an unbecoming curiosity to go with them, and callous indifference to stay. The former was instinctive to him.
Athol led the way across the hall and up the stairs. If he found Monk’s presence odd he was too involved in his own concern to remark it. There was a maid standing at the top of the stairs, a woman of perhaps forty or so, her thin face creased with worry, her eyes going swiftly not to Athol but to Hester. A younger woman with a lovely, frightened face stood a yard away from her, her cheeks pale, her lips trembling. She twisted her hands together, the light catching the gold of her wedding ring. She too looked at Hester desperately. She seemed on the verge of tears.
The door ahead of them was ajar, and Hester went past them after only the briefest hesitation, not as if she was undecided, certainly not afraid, but simply allowing herself time to be reassured. Then she went into the room, and Monk could see over her shoulder a wide bed with a young man lying crumpled over in it, his fair hair tousled, his face buried in the pillow. It was a moment before Monk realized his left sleeve was empty.
