A Breach of Promise

by Anne Perry

  Hester’s mind was racing ahead. “Or perhaps the girl is in love with someone else and your client knows it,” she suggested. “It could be a matter of honor with him, the greatest gift to her he could give … and she dare not tell her parents, if this other person is unsuitable. Or on the other hand, it might be pride—he could not marry a woman he knew did not love him but did love someone else. I wouldn’t! No matter how willing he was to go through with it.”

  Rathbone smiled. “I’m sure you wouldn’t. But there is an optimism, or an arrogance, in many of us which makes us believe we can teach someone to love us if only we have the chance.” Then he wondered immediately if he should have said that. Was it not too close to the unspoken, vulnerable core of what lay inside himself? Did he not dream that with the chance, the time, the intimacy, Hester would learn to love him with the passion of her nature, not merely the abiding friendship? It had never occurred to him before that he might have anything in common with Melville beyond a terror of being trapped into a marriage he did not want. But perhaps he had?

  He found himself unable to meet her eyes. He looked away, at the curtains, through the window at the trees, then at Gabriel.

  He saw a flash of something in Gabriel’s face which could have been understanding. Gabriel was intelligent, sensitive, and before his injury he must have been remarkably handsome. His was a world of loss which made Melville’s situation, and even Zillah Lambert’s hurt feelings, seem so trivial, so easy to settle with a word or two of goodwill and an ability to forgive. If they were to smile and remain friends, society would talk about it for a brief while, but only until the next scandal broke.

  “I shall put it to him.” He turned to Hester at last. “Thank you for helping me to clarify my mind. I feel as if I have the case in better perspective.” He smiled at her, then looked again at Gabriel. “Thank you for your indulgence, Lieutenant Sheldon. You have been most gracious. I wish you a speedy return of health.”

  Gabriel bade him good-bye, as did Athol, and Hester rose and went with him to the door. Out on the landing, she looked at him gravely, studying his face. Was she imagining something personal rather than professional in his coming? He would very much rather she did not. He was not ready to commit himself again.

  “Thank you,” he repeated.” I—I find myself at a loss to understand the case, and I am afraid I shall be of little help to my client until I do. It all seems like needless pain at the moment. I have no defense to offer for him.”

  “There must be something vital that you don’t know,” she said seriously. There was no disappointment in her face that he could see, and certainly no withdrawing, or sense of criticism, or hope deferred. The knot of anxiety eased inside him. He found himself smiling at nothing.

  “I think you need to know what it is,” she went on. “It may be … physical.”

  “I have thought of that,” he said truthfully. “But how do you ask a man such a thing? Most men would suffer anything, even imprisonment, rather than admit it.”

  “I know,” she answered so softly it was little more than a whisper. “But there are euphemisms which could be used, white lies. A doctor could be found to swear he had some illness which would make marriage impossible. Her father would understand that, even if she did not.”

  “Of course … thank you for clarifying the thought so well. I …” He bit his lip ruefully. “I admit I had not known how to phrase it to ask him. Although I am not at all sure that is the answer.”

  “Well, if it is not, you need to learn what is.” She was perfectly direct. “You cannot afford to lose the case because you were unaware of the personal facts.”

  “I know. Of course you are right. I suppose I shall have to learn them for myself”—he smiled suddenly, widely—“and charge my client accordingly. In which case I had better win!”

  She smiled back and put out her hand to touch his with quick warmth, then started down the stairs to introduce him to Perdita Sheldon, who was standing at the bottom looking puzzled.

  5

  MONK STOOD near the fireplace in his rooms and stared at the flames as the coals settled in a shower of sparks. Oliver Rathbone had just left. He had been there for nearly two hours explaining all he knew about his present case and the details which troubled him. And indeed he had looked less assured than usual. The difference was subtle, an inflection of the voice, something in the way he stood, but to Monk, who knew him well, it was unmistakable.

  From what he had said, one could only conclude that Killian Melville had not told him the entire truth of the reason for his sudden refusal to marry Zillah Lambert. What was less easy to understand was why he still refused to tell Rathbone, who was bound to keep his confidence.

  As Monk stood warming himself by the dying embers he could not rid his mind of the fear that the problem was criminal. For all his urbane appearance, his smooth good manners, his supreme confidence, Oliver Rathbone was a man who took some extraordinary risks with his career. Perhaps he did not intend to be a crusader, but lately he had unwittingly become one. The Rostova case had nearly ruined him. This one, taken on impulse, looked unlikely to improve his reputation. Realistically, there seemed little he could accomplish for his client or gain for himself.

  Their interview had been awkward. Rathbone hated coming to Monk for help when it was personal rather than because a client had requested it. He had begun a trifle stiffly.

  Monk had been careful to hide his sardonic amusement—well, moderately careful. Such moments were too rare, and too pleasing, not to savor a little.

  Now he must decide what to do, where to begin. It was also his professional reputation being tested now. Why does a young man court a woman, apparently in every way a desirable match, and then on the brink of marriage risk his financial, professional and social well-being by breaking off the betrothal?

  Only for the most powerful of reasons.

  It must be the Lambert family, Zillah herself, or something to do with Melville’s own situation. Presumably, since he seemed to have courted her up until the last moment, it was something he had only just discovered. Or else it was some matter to do with his own life which he had believed he could keep hidden, and circumstances had proved him mistaken.

  Was he being blackmailed? It was a dark possibility, but one which would make sense of the presently inexplicable. Monk would begin, this afternoon, with Melville himself. The trial resumed on Monday morning, which gave him less than a day and a half in which to find something to help Rathbone.

  He put on his coat. It was already half past three, and he expected to be out until late evening—in fact, as long as he had any hope of finding someone awake who could be of assistance.

  Outside the weather was bright and mild, but there were clouds banking to the east beyond the rooftops and he was only too aware from experience that conditions could change in the space of ten or fifteen minutes from pleasant weather to a chill close to freezing and a soaking rain.

  He had made his decision to begin with a past client of his own, a man for whom he had solved a sensitive domestic problem and avoided a situation which could have become very ugly. Mr. Sandeman was correspondingly grateful, and had promised to give any assistance he was able should Monk ever need it. Monk was not sure if he had spoken impulsively, without any belief that he would ever be taken up on it, but this seemed like an excellent time to put it to the test.

  Accordingly, he arrived at Upper Bedford Place just after three o’clock, and asked if he might see Mr. Sandeman on a matter of urgency.

  “If it were not, I should not trouble him on a Saturday, and without writing first,” Monk explained to the butler, taking off his gloves and passing the man his hat and stick as if there were no question as to whether he would be received.

  “Certainly, sir,” the butler said, masking his surprise with long practice. “I shall see if Mr. Sandeman is at home.” That was the conventional way of saying he would see if the visitor could be welcomed or not. Naturally, he was perfectly
aware who was in the house and who was not. It was his job to be. “If you care to wait in the green room, sir, I am sure you will be comfortable.”

  The green room was very attractive, full of afternoon sunlight from white-painted windows which overlooked a garden where silver birch leaves shimmered in the breeze, making the air seem to dance. Inside the walls were papered with an unusually plain dark green, and two were hung with many paintings of landscapes. Monk remembered the room from his previous visit, when Sandeman had been so concerned about an apparent theft from his wife’s bedroom. But that had been satisfactorily dealt with, and it would be tactless to raise the issue now.

  Monk had not long to wait. The door opened and Robert Sandeman came in, a look of apprehension on his broad, good-natured face. He was a very wealthy man who continued to look as if he were wearing secondhand clothes, even when they were the best Savile Row could offer. They seemed to have been made for someone of an entirely different shape. He was the despair of his tailors.

  “Hello, Monk!” he said with evident surprise. “Nothing new arisen, has it?” He could not keep the anxiety out of his eyes.

  “Nothing at all,” Monk assured him. “I am looking into another matter entirely, for a friend, and hoped you might be able to give me a little assistance. I have to learn enough to provide some sort of answer by Monday morning, or else I would not have disturbed you like this.”

  Sandeman’s relief was almost palpable. He closed the door behind him and waved at one of the large chairs, sitting in one of the others.

  “My dear fellow, by all means. Whatever I can do.”

  “Thank you,” Monk accepted immediately. On the journey there he had tried to decide exactly how to approach the subject without appearing intrusive in areas no gentleman would discuss. There was no easy solution. “It is another matter of delicacy,” he began. “Perhaps a domestic issue, or possibly financial. It is all so undefined at the moment. And I do not wish to break anyone’s confidence or jeopardize their privacy.”

  “Quite so,” Sandeman said quickly. “Quite so.” He looked relieved. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, wrinkling his trousers hopelessly. “So what can I tell you that may be of service?”

  Monk began very carefully. “Are you familiar with the work of an architect named Killian Melville?”

  Sandeman was quite openly surprised. “Yes! Yes, I am. Brilliant fellow. Unique. His work is quite new, you know? Nothing like anybody else’s. Not in the least vulgar,” he added quickly, in case Monk should misunderstand him. “He manages to make spaces look larger than they are. Don’t know how he does it. Something to do with shades of color and the way lines are directed. Uses curves and arches in an unusual way.” He drew breath to go on, then closed his mouth again. “Mustn’t ask why you want to know.”

  Monk knew he was very conscious of his own need for privacy, and if Monk were to betray Melville or Lambert, then Sandeman would assume he would do the same to him. The situation required the most subtle handling. And yet if he were to be of any use to Rathbone he must discover Melville’s secret, and do it before Monday morning. He was rash to have accepted the case, but he could never resist a challenge from Oliver Rathbone, however it was placed before him, however disguised. He thought wryly that probably Rathbone knew that when he had come.

  He smiled at Sandeman. “I daresay it will be in the evening newspapers, if it was not in the morning ones,” he acknowledged. “Unfortunately, those things cannot be kept private, as I believe they should be.”

  Sandeman raised his eyebrows. “Oh? I am sorry to hear that. Poor fellow. Surprised, mind you. Never heard the slightest whisper against him, myself.” His eyes narrowed and he regarded Monk deceptively closely. His mild manner hid a more astute mind than many had supposed, to their cost. Still he refused to ask the nature of the charge.

  “Not the slightest?” Monk pressed, knowing he must tread extremely carefully.

  “Nothing but praise,” Sandeman affirmed. “Not everyone likes his work, of course. But then if they did it would mean he was mediocre, safe, and pedestrian. And he is certainly not that. Everyone’s friend is no one’s, you know?” He regarded Monk quizzically, although he knew he agreed. “Can’t bear a man who trims his sails to meet the prevailing wind all the time and never stands for anything himself. Melville is not one of those.” He frowned, wrinkling his brows together. “But that is hardly a thing one would sue a man for, or have him charged in law. You did not say whether it was a civil suit or a criminal one.”

  “Civil.”

  “Not a building less than standard.” Sandeman made it a statement. “I don’t believe that. He knows his job superbly. I would be prepared to say he is the best architect of his generation, perhaps of the century.” He stared at Monk as if prepared to defy a challenge.

  “Where did he study?” Monk enquired.

  Sandeman thought for a moment. “You know, I have no idea,” he said with evident surprise. “I haven’t heard anyone mention it. Is it of importance?”

  “Probably not,” Monk answered. “It is unlikely the difficulty stems so far back. I assume that you have never heard suggestion that he is financially untrustworthy or—”

  Sandeman did not allow him to finish. “He is an architect, Monk. A man of vision, even genius. He is not a banker or a trader. He sells ideas. I think rather than beating around the circumference of this, you had better tell me, in confidence, the nature of this difficulty. If it is the subject of a court case, then it will soon enough become public.”

  Monk was more than ready. “He is being sued for breach of promise.”

  Sandeman sat perfectly still. He did not speak, but disbelief was in every line of him.

  “I am in the employ of the barrister seeking to defend him,” Monk answered to the question in Sandeman’s face.

  Sandeman let out his breath slowly. “I see.” But there was doubt in his voice. He looked at Monk now with a certain carefulness. Something was unexplained. The debt between them was not sufficient to override his other loyalties, and there was a perceptible coolness in the room. “I doubt I can help you,” he continued. “As far as I know Melville, he is a man of complete probity, both publicly and privately. I have never heard anything whatever to his discredit.” He met Monk’s gaze steadily. “And I can tell you that without any discomfort of mind, knowing that I owe you a great deal for your assistance to me when I depended upon you.”

  Monk smiled with a harsh twist of his lips. “The case may become ugly. I expect the family of the girl to suggest serious flaws in his character in order to explain his behavior in terms other than some fault in their daughter. If Melville is vulnerable in any way he has not told us, or even is not aware of, we need to know it in advance in order to defend him.”

  Sandeman’s face eased, and his large body relaxed in his chair, crumpling his suit still further. “Oh, I see.” He did not apologize for his suspicion, it was too subtle to have been voiced, but it was there in his eyes, the suddenly warmer smile.

  “Who is the lady?”

  Monk did not hesitate; there was nothing to be lost. “Miss Zillah Lambert.”

  “Indeed?” Sandeman was silent for a moment. “I still cannot help you. I know a little of Barton Lambert. Not a sophisticated man, but on the other hand he is nobody’s dupe either. He made his own fortune by hard work and good judgment—and a certain amount of courage. In my limited experience he has not been one to be socially ambitious, nor to take a slight easily.”

  “And his wife?” Monk said with the shadow of a smile.

  Sandeman drew in his breath and there was a flicker in his eyes which expressed possibly more than he was willing to say.

  “A very pretty woman. Met her several times. Even dined at their home once.” He put his head a trifle to one side, a look of mild surprise on his face. “I confess I had not expected to find it so extraordinarily beautiful. And it was, believe me, Monk. I have dined with some of the wealthiest families in Englan
d, and some of the oldest, but for its scale, nothing outdid Lambert’s home. It was full of invention … architectural invention, I mean, not scientific. It was brilliantly innovative. That was Killian Melville.” He began to smile as he spoke, and his eyes took on a faraway shine as he retreated into memory. “As we went into the hall the floor was red oak, lovely warm color to it, and the walls were in different shades like … like sweet and dry sherry … no, more like brown sugar. But because of the windows it was full of light. It was one of those rare places where instantly one feels both a warmth and a curious sense of peace. There was a width, a space about it. All the lines pleased the eye. Nothing intruded or was cramped.”

  Monk did not interrupt, although he found the impression he was gaining more of Killian Melville than of Lambert. He did not want to like Melville, because he believed the case was hopeless. It would be so much more comfortable to believe him a knave, a fool, or both. It would be emotionally expensive to feel a desperate need to save him, to struggle, and fail, and have to watch him ruined. He pushed away the thought.

  Sandeman was still recalling the house. He obviously enjoyed it.

  “The dining room was marvelous,” he said enthusiastically and leaning forward a little. “I had seen a lot of magnificent rooms before and was a bit blasé. I thought I had seen every possible combination and variation of line and color, but this was different.” He was watching Monk’s reaction, wanting to be sure Monk appreciated what he was saying. “Not so much in obvious construction but in smaller ways, so the overall impression was again one of lightness, simplicity, and it was only on reflection one began to realize what was different. It was largely a matter of perfect proportion, of relation between curve and perpendicular, circle and horizontal, and always of light.”

  “You are saying Melville is a true genius,” Monk observed.

  “Yes … yes, I suppose I am,” Sandeman agreed. “But I am also saying that Lambert understood that and appreciated it. I am also saying that Mrs. Lambert was fully sensitive to it too, and that she complemented it perfectly. Everything in her dining room was superb. There was not a lily in the vases with a blemish on it, not a smear or a chip on the crystal, a scratch on the silver, a mark or a loose thread in the linen.” He nodded his head slightly. “It was all in equally exquisite taste. And she was the perfect hostess. The food, of course, was delicious, and abundant without ever being ostentatious. The slightest vulgarity would have been abhorrent to her.”