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“So, you shouldn’t accuse important people, because people would rather believe them than you? No wonder they get away with it—they know they will. That’s probably why they do it and will go on doing it!”
She saw the disgust in his eyes and it hurt. She knew the prejudice he had experienced. At least, she knew a tiny bit of it. Her name was now Flannery—obviously Irish—and she had been turned away from one or two places. It had confused her at first, then given her a curious sense of pride in being Patrick’s wife and belonging to his family, his clan, even if only by marriage. Finally, the fury had come that anyone should be treated that way. Maybe Cassie and Sophie would have it one day; then Jemima would tear the offenders to bits.
She put up her hand and touched Patrick’s cheek, very gently. “If it was me in that position, I hope I would try to make the decision imagining I knew the price and what it might do, whether he pays it or not. I don’t know whether she’s thought it out.”
“But you do believe her?” he insisted. “You don’t think she let him in?”
“No, of course I don’t. But I know she knew him, and really quite liked him. That’s why it hurts so much.”
Patrick bent forward and kissed her.
At least temporarily she forgot about Rebecca, even though she knew that had been his intention. She would start worrying about whether anything would come of the issue tomorrow.
CHAPTER
Three
THE NEXT MORNING Daniel walked into the office of fford Croft and Gibson with a sense of urgency. He had not slept well after the evening at home, seeing Jemima again and finding all the old familiarity little changed. Under the new wife and mother, and all the responsibility that that brought, the old Jemima was still there, just lightly covered: the sense of joy, of adventure, the curiosity that he knew so well.
But this morning, the weight of Patrick’s story about Sidney’s crime lay heavily upon him. The revolting nature of it was bad enough, but the injustice of his escape by claiming diplomatic immunity was worse. It was cowardly, deeply offensive, but legal. There were reasons for this immunity to exist. Diplomats in foreign countries were highly vulnerable. They could be blamed for offenses of which they were innocent, but easily convicted—in a sense, held to ransom. It was up to them to behave in such a manner that they were above suspicion. No country could afford to have its diplomats blacken their reputation.
Not only did Rebecca Thorwood deserve better, but Daniel also wanted Philip Sidney punished for embarrassing and disgracing Britain and the diplomats who represented it, in America or anywhere else. It scorched him, and he longed either to find a way to disprove it or, regrettably far more likely, to see Sidney punished, even if it had to be accomplished obliquely.
“Morning, Impney,” he said to the chief clerk.
“Good morning, sir,” Impney replied with a deferential nod. “Mr. fford Croft is not in yet. Would you like a pot of tea, sir? I can have it ready in five minutes.”
Daniel thought for only a second. “No, thank you, Impney. Is Mr. Kitteridge in?”
“Yes, sir. If I might say so, there is no one with him yet. He has about half an hour before his first appointment.”
Daniel gave him a warm smile. “Thank you, Impney, you are a jewel.”
“Thank you, sir,” Impney replied gravely, but his eyes were bright.
Daniel went straight to Kitteridge’s office and knocked on the door. He put his hand on the knob and then hesitated. It would be a bad start to asking Kitteridge’s advice if he walked in without waiting for an answer. He knocked again.
“Bring it in, Impney!” Kitteridge said from inside.
Daniel opened the door and went in, closing it behind him. “Good morning.”
Kitteridge looked up from his desk, faintly surprised. The senior barrister was a few years older than Daniel, comfortably into his thirties. He had an odd face: not handsome, but lit by a very obvious intelligence. His hair was well cut, but still unruly, as if it did not quite fit his head. It was when he stood that one could see his unusual height. He was even taller than Daniel, who was over six foot, but in contrast to Daniel, Kitteridge had no grace at all. He seemed to be all elbows and knees.
“Pitt! Sorry. I was expecting Impney with the mail. What is it? You look full of…what?”
Daniel walked over to the chair on the other side of Kitteridge’s desk and sat down. “I’ve got something of a dilemma.”
Kitteridge gave a twisted little smile, but it was out of amusement rather than any sort of condescension. That misunderstanding Daniel no longer had, not since the Graves case. “So, you want to share it with me?” Kitteridge asked.
A few months ago, Daniel would have been put off by that remark, but he had seen another side of Kitteridge, or perhaps “glimpsed” would be a better word. It was there, and then gone again, self-protective. “Yes,” he agreed. He considered Kitteridge a friend, but definitely a senior friend in the law and in the company, at least for now. “I need your advice,” he began.
“Legally?”
“And morally. I think I know what the answer is, morally,” Daniel replied.
A flicker of humor crossed Kitteridge’s face. “Which means the exact opposite. You are sure you know the answer morally. You don’t know how to accomplish it legally.”
Daniel took a deep breath. “Yes, exactly,” he admitted. He decided to go on before Kitteridge interrupted. He wanted to engage Kitteridge’s sense of outrage before coming to legal difficulties. “A British diplomat in Washington is accused of breaking into the bedroom of the daughter of a distinguished family. He assaulted her physically, tore her nightclothes, stole a valuable diamond necklace off her neck, and then escaped, but not before her father came to her screams. He saw the intruder and recognized him; they had met socially.”
