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“You can use whatever word is natural to you,” Rathbone answered with a sneer he did not bother to hide. “You have no reputation to guard in here.”
Sacheverall flushed. Perhaps he was more aware than he showed that he was awkward beside Rathbone, clumsy, inelegant, that his ears were too large.
“If you think I won’t drag it up, you are mistaken!” Sacheverall said angrily. “I will! Every sordid detail necessary to prove my client’s case and claim the damages she’s due. Melville will end in prison … which is where he belongs.”
“If that is what Barton Lambert wants,” Rathbone said very quietly, his voice as calm as if he were addressing an elderly lady disposing her will. His mind was racing. “Then he must hate Melville … or fear him … far more than would be explained by anything we know so far. Although I do have an excellent detective working on the case, and if there is anything whatsoever in the history of any one of the Lambert family, from the day they were born, then he will find it.”
He saw Sacheverall’s face darken with anger, and ignored it. “And, of course, once you have opened the door for this kind of slander then anything will be permissible. The gallery will love it. The press will tear them apart like a pack of dogs.” Rathbone adjusted his legs a little more gracefully. “You and I are aware of that, naturally. We have seen it before. But are you sure the Lamberts are? Are you perfectly sure Mrs. Lambert is prepared to have her every act—every flirtation, every gift, every incident, letter, confidence—examined this way and interpreted by strangers? Can anyone at all be so certain of every moment of their lives?”
Two furious spots of color marked Sacheverall’s cheeks and he sat forward, his back straight, shoulders hunched.
“How dare you?” he grated. “You have sunk lower than I thought possible. Your client is guilty of acts that all civilized society regards as depraved. He has pursued and deceived an utterly innocent young woman for the furthering of his own ambition—and you threaten her with slander in order to aid him in escaping the consequences of his actions.” He jabbed his finger in the air and his lips were drawn into an almost invisible line. “You show that behind that facade of a gentleman you are without honor or principle. The best I can think of you is that you are ambitious and greedy. The worst is that you have a sympathy with your client which extends a great deal further than you would wish it supposed.”
Rathbone felt an absurd moment of chill as he realized what Sacheverall meant, then laughter. Then his dislike turned into something much greater.
“You have a prurient mind, Sacheverall, which seems to be fixed in one area. The reason for my refusing to admit to this act on my client’s behalf is extraordinarily simple. He has instructed me not to. I am bound by his wishes, as you are—or should be—bound by those of Miss Lambert and her family.” He put his fingertips together. “I do not know why Mr. Melville is so unwilling to marry her after having grown to know her as well as is undisputed between us. But if you have a jot of intelligence between your ears”—he saw Sacheverall flush; he had referred to them deliberately—“then you will consider the possibility that the reason has nothing to do with Isaac Wolff and everything to do with Miss Lambert herself.”
“She has nothing whatever to hide!” Sacheverall said between his teeth. “Do you imagine she would be foolish enough to go into this if she had? Her father is not an imbecile.”
Rathbone smiled patiently. “If he imagines he knows everything about his daughter’s life, then he is more than an imbecile,” he replied. “He is a babe abroad in the land, and not only deserving your protection, for the fee he pays you, but needing it, in common humanity.”
Sacheverall was shaken. It was in his eyes and his mouth. He was also very very angry indeed. His hand on the table was trembling.
Rathbone uncrossed his legs and stood up. “Give the matter a little more thought before you call these witnesses of yours and open up the area of private conduct in an effort to ruin Melville. I think you will find it is
not what Lambert wishes. Perhaps you should speak to Miss Lambert alone? You may find she has been maneuvered into this suit by circumstances and now is unable to withdraw without explaining far more than she wishes to. Fathers, on occasions, can be very … blind … where their daughters are concerned. It is not too late to settle this matter privately.”
“With damages?” Sacheverall demanded. “And a statement that Miss Lambert is innocent of any fault whatever?”
“Mr. Melville has never implied that she was less than totally charming and desirable, an excellent bride for any man,” Rathbone said truthfully. “He simply does not wish to marry her himself. His reason is no one else’s concern. Perhaps Miss Lambert’s feelings are engaged elsewhere but she cannot afford to admit it—if the gentleman is unsuitable. Perhaps married already.”
“That’s untrue!” Sacheverall responded instantly and with considerable heat.
“Probably,” Rathbone agreed, standing by the door now. “I am merely pointing out that the possibilities are many, and none of them need to concern the law or the general public. Consult with your clients and let me know.” And before Sacheverall could make any further response, Rathbone went out and closed the door, surprised to find his own throat tight and his hands clammy.
As it happened, the court did not resume for another two days, and Rathbone spent the time desperately trying to capitalize on the brief respite he had gained. First he went to see Isaac Wolff, having obtained his address from Melville. He had not known what to expect. Perhaps at the back of his mind was the fear that Sacheverall was right and that visiting Wolff would confirm it beyond anything he could argue to himself—and therefore ultimately to the court.
As he walked along Wakefield Street, just off Regent Square, looking for the correct number, he realized how little defined was the impression he had of Killian Melville. He did not know the man at all. He was usually aware of intense emotion in him; his revulsion, almost terror, at the idea of marrying Zillah Lambert was so real it was almost palpable in the air. His love of his art was real. One had only to look at the work itself to lose all possible doubt of that. The light and beauty that flooded it spoke more of the inner man, of his dreams and his values, than anything he might say.
But there remained in him something concealed, elusive. The core of the man was shielded and, to Rathbone at least, inaccessible. He had made no judgment within himself.
He reached the house in which Wolff had rooms and pulled the bell at the door. A manservant showed him in and up the stairs to a very gracious hall opening into apartments which took up the whole of the front of the house.
Isaac Wolff admitted him and led him to a sitting room which overlooked the street, but the windows were sufficiently well curtained that the sense of privacy was in no way marred. It was old-fashioned. There was nothing of the grace and imagination of Killian Melville’s architecture, but it was also restful and extremely pleasing. The furniture was dark and heavy, the walls lined with books, although there was no time to look and see what subjects they covered.
Wolff stared at him levelly and with a cold intensity. It was not unfriendly, but it was guarded. He was anticipating attack. Rathbone wondered if it had happened before—suspicion, accusation, innuendo. It must be a wretched way to live.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wolff.” Rathbone found himself apologetic. This was an intrusion any man would loathe. “I’m sorry, but I have to speak to you about today’s evidence. I have already consulted with Mr. Sacheverall, and it is possible he may persuade Mr. Lambert to settle without returning to court, but it is a very slender hope, and we certainly cannot count on it.”
Wolff took a deep breath and let it out silently. A very slight smile touched his lips.
“You must be extremely effective, Sir Oliver. What on earth did you say to him that he would even consider settling? He seems to have won outright. What he says is untrue, but there is no way I could prove it.”
“No one can ever prove such things,” Rathbone agreed, coming a step or two farther into the room and taking the seat Wolff indicated to him. “That is the nature of slander. It works by innuendo, belief and imagination. It plays upon the ugliest sides of human nature, but so subtly there is no armor against it. It is the coward’s tool, and like most men, I despise it.” He looked at Wolff’s dark face with its brilliant eyes and curious, sensitive mouth. “But as I pointed out to Sacheverall, it is a weapon that fits almost any hand, mine as well as his, if need be.”
“Yours?” Wolff looked surprised. He remained standing, his back now to the window, silhouetted against it. “Who could you slander, and how would it help? Would it not simply reduce Melville to the appearance of a viciousness born of desperation?”
“Yes, probably. And it is not inconceivable he would refuse to do it anyway,” Rathbone conceded. “But Sacheverall does not know that, nor dare he rely upon it. He cannot be certain that if Melville is staring ruin in the face, he may not alter his hitherto honorable character and strike anywhere he can.”
