William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

which, if he did not attend to them, would make the threads of daily life harder to pick up. He could not mourn the Melville case indefinitely. Perhaps thinking of something else, being surrounded by other people whose minds were occupied with other matters, would make it easier for him. It might prove like a cold bath, agonizing for the first few minutes, then invigorating, or at least leaving him a little warmer afterwards from the chill of grief.
    He attended a dinner party at the house of a man who had long been an associate, and perhaps also a friend—at least their acquaintance went back to their earliest days of practicing law.
    James Laurence had married well, and his house in Mayfair was very fine indeed. Rathbone could have afforded one like it if he had wanted one sufficiently. He might have had to do without one or two other things, but it would not have been impossible.
    But Laurence had chosen to marry and to entertain in society. He also selected cases largely according to the fee he would charge, in order to support his choice. Rathbone did not wish to do that. His rooms suited him perfectly well. Of course, if he married that would have to change.
    He went in and found several of the guests already arrived. The chandeliers were dazzling. The sound of laughter and the chink of glass filled the room amid the exquisitely colored skirts of the women, the glitter of jewels and the pallor of shoulders and bosoms.
    He was greeted and absorbed into the company immediately. Everyone was courteous and spoke of all manner of subjects: what was currently playing at the theater; the last parliamentary debate and what might be expected of the next; a little bit of harmless gossip as to who might marry whom. It was light and pleasantly relaxing.
    Only after dinner, when the ladies had retired to the withdrawing room and the gentlemen remained at the table, passing port and savoring a little excellent Stilton, was the matter of Keelin Melville raised, and then it was obliquely.
    “Poor old Lambert,” Lofthouse said ruefully, holding his glass in his hand and turning it around so the light fell through the ruby liquid. “He must feel a complete fool.”
    “It’s his daughter I’m sorry for,” Weatherall replied abruptly. “How must she feel? She’s been taken in completely.”
    Lofthouse turned to look at him, his tufted eyebrows raised. “She hasn’t paid out a fortune for buildings which are worthless now!” he retorted, his voice heavy with impatience.
    Rathbone was already raw. His temper snapped.
    “Neither has Lambert!” he said very clearly.
    Half a dozen people at the table swiveled to look at him, caught as much by the tone of his voice as by his words.
    “I beg your pardon?” Colonel Weatherall said with puzzlement, his thin, white hair catching the light.
    “I said, ‘Neither has Lambert,’ “Rathbone repeated. “Any building he has paid for is exactly the same today as it was a week ago.”
    “Hardly!” Lofthouse laughed. “My dear fellow, you, of all people, know the truth! I don’t mean to be unkind, or to make an issue of your misfortune, if that is the word, but Melville was a woman, for heaven’s sake.” He said no more, as if that fact was all the explanation required.
    Weatherall cleared his throat and coughed into his handkerchief.
    A ginger-haired man helped himself to more cheese.
    “Precisely,” Rathbone agreed, facing Lofthouse unblinkingly.“The buildings are exactly the same. Our knowledge of Melville’s sex has changed, but not of her architectural skills.”
    “Oh! Come now!” Lofthouse laughed again, glancing along the table at the others before looking back at Rathbone. “You cannot seriously be suggesting that a woman—a young woman at that—can conceive and draw up technically perfect plans for the sort of buildings Lambert commissioned and had built, for heaven’s sake? Really, Rathbone. We all sympathize with your embarrassment. We have all of us made mistakes of judgment at one time or another….” A smile curled his lips. “Although not, I think, of that order … or nature …” His smile broadened.
    Rathbone could feel the rage inside him almost beyond his grasp to contain. How dare this complacent oaf make a shabby joke out of Keelin Melville’s tragedy and society’s prejudice?
    “Lofthouse, I think …” Laurence began, although there was a look of humor in his eyes also, or so it seemed to Rathbone. He was not in the mood to