William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

told us that she confided many of her inner feelings to you, which is quite natural, of course.” He smiled up at her and saw an answering flicker touch her lips only sufficient to be civil. She did not like him because of who he represented. “You also spoke of another admirer, whose attentions she rejected,” he continued. “Were you referring to Mr. Geoffrey Taunton?”
    A pinkness colored her cheeks, but she kept her composure. She must have been aware that question would come.
    “I was.”
    “You considered her foolish and unreasonable not to have accepted him?”
    Lovat-Smith rose to his feet. “We have already covered that subject, my lord. The witness has said as much. I fear in his desperation, my learned friend is wasting the court’s time.”
    Hardie looked at Rathbone inquiringly.
    “Mr. Rathbone, have you some point, other than to give yourself time?”
    “Indeed I have, my lord,” Rathbone replied.
    “Then proceed to it,” Hardie directed.
    Rathbone inclined his head, then turned back to Nanette.
    “You know Mr. Taunton well enough to judge that he is an admirable young man?”
    The pink flushed her cheeks again. It was becoming, and possibly she knew it.
    “I do.”
    “Indeed? You know of no reason why Prudence Barrymore should not have accepted him?”
    “None whatever.” This time there was some defiance in her voice and she lifted her chin a trifle higher. She was beginning to feel she had the measure of Rathbone. Even in the body of the court attention was waning. This was tedious, verging on pitiful. Sir Herbert in the dock lost his sharp interest and began to look anxious. Rathbone was achieving nothing. Only Lovat-Smith sat with a guarded expression on his face.
    “Would you yourself accept him, were he to offer?” Rathbone asked mildly. “The question is hypothetical, of course,” he added before Hardie could interrupt.
    The blood burned up Nanette’s cheeks. There was a hiss of breath around the room. One of the jurors in the back row cleared his throat noisily.
    “I …” Nanette stammered awkwardly. She could not deny it, or she would effectively be refusing him, the last thing on earth she wished. “I—you …” She composed herself with difficulty. “You place me in an impossible position, sir!”
    “I apologize,” Rathbone said insincerely. “But Sir Herbert is also in an impossible position, ma’am, and one of considerably more peril to himself.” He inclined his head a little. “I require you to answer, because if you would not accept Mr. Taunton, then that would indicate that you know of some reason why Prudence Barrymore also might not have accepted him. Which would mean her behavior was not so unreasonable, nor necessarily in any way connectedwith Sir Herbert, or any hopes she may have entertained regarding him. Do you see?”
    “Yes,” she conceded reluctantly. “Yes, I see.”
    He waited. At last the crowd on the public benches was caught. He could hear the rustle of taffeta and bombazine as they craned forward. They did not totally understand what was to come, but they knew drama when they smelled it, and they knew fear.
    Nanette took a deep breath. “Yes—I would,” she said in a strangled voice.
    “Indeed.” Rathbone nodded. “So I had been led to believe.” He walked a pace or two, then turned to her again. “In fact, you are very fond of Mr. Taunton yourself, are you not? Sufficiently so to have marred your affection for Miss Barrymore when he persistently courted her in spite of her repeated refusal of his offers?”
    There was a mutter of anger around the room. Several jurors shifted uncomfortably.
    Nanette was truly appalled. The tide of scarlet ran right to the dark line of her hair, and she clung to the rail of the witness box as if to support herself. The rustle of embarrassment increased, but in no one did it exceed curiosity. No one looked away.
    “If you suggest that I lie, sir, you are mistaken,” Nanette said at length.
    Rathbone was politeness itself.
    “Not at all, Miss Cuthbertson. I suggest that your perception of the truth, like that of most of us in the grip of extreme emotion, is likely to be colored by our own imperatives. That is not to lie, simply to be mistaken.”
    She glared at him, confused and wretched, but not able to think of a retaliation.
    But Rathbone knew the tone of drama would pass and reason reassert itself. He had achieved little to help Sir Herbert yet.
    “You cared for him enough not to be