William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

but at least lends him some respectability.” FitzRobert turned back to Rathbone, smiling because they both knew precisely what he meant: the subtle grades of acceptance which came so easily to those born to it and were nigh on impossible to those who were not.
    Even Prince Albert was regarded with coolness by some, just as he disdained the frivolity, the wit, the self-indulgence and the sheer arrogant grace of some of the oldest aristocracy in the country, whose fortunes certainly equaled his own and whose wives had a better sense of fashion than the Queen—and jewels to match. Until very recently they had considered him a political upstart, and his endless notes and letters to be interfering.
    Rathbone smiled back. He allowed FitzRobert to see in his eyes that he was going to pretend he had not noticed the shadow of unhappiness there, nor understood its deeply personal nature.
    “Who is he?” he asked. “He does not look familiar to me.”
    “Barton Lambert,” FitzRobert replied. “His daughter, Zillah, is engaged to marry Killian Melville, the architect. I don’t see him here tonight.” He looked around. “Devoted to his work. Not a very social man.”
    Rathbone was suddenly uncertain whether he wanted to know more or not. When there were crimes and desperate injustices to fight, why on earth should he spend his time and his skills in defending a foolish young man from the consequences of his ambition and his lack of forthrightness towards a young woman who had taken him at his behavior, if not his word—as it turned out, mistakenly. It was not a matter which should waste the time of the law. It could be settled with a few well-chosen words and a little sensitivity, and strategic realignment.
    “Brilliant fellow,” FitzRobert went on. “Probably one of the most original and daring thinkers of his generation. And has the technical skill and personal drive and persistence to see his ideas from the dreams into the reality.”
    “With suitable help from Barton Lambert,” Rathbone added dryly.
    FitzRobert was surprised. “Thought you didn’t know him!”
    “Not a great deal.” Rathbone retreated with more speed than grace. “Only what I have heard. A word or two—you know how one does.”
    FitzRobert smiled. “Well, I suppose he has been on people’s tongues lately. The engagement was in the
Times.”
    Rathbone spoke almost before thinking. “Perhaps you could introduce me?”
    “Of course,” FitzRobert agreed. “Delighted to. For all his northern brashness, and a certain quickness to see insult where it is not intended, he is a very decent fellow. Honest as you like, and loyal. Once a friend, always a friend.”
    “I don’t want to intrude.” Rathbone took a step backwards, already regretting his words. “Perhaps …”
    “Not at all,” FitzRobert said with an expansive gesture. He took Rathbone by the arm. “Come on, by all means.”
    Rathbone had little choice but to follow, and a few moments later he was being introduced to Barton Lambert and his wife and daughter.
    “How do you do, sir,” Lambert said with a strong northern accent. His manner was open and friendly, but he seemed not to be too impressed by Rathbone’s title.
    Delphine Lambert, on the other hand, had a very different air. Closer to her, it was apparent that her marvelous jewelry was real—and almost certainly worth more than Rathbone made in half a year, although he did extremely well. And she was a remarkably pretty woman. Her skin was blemishless and the arch of her brows and delicate curve of her hairline were quite unique, as was the slope of her cheekbones. Her intelligence was apparent in her wide, clear eyes.
    “How do you do, Sir Oliver,” she said with charm, but marked reserve. Rathbone had an instant feeling that were her daughter not engaged to be married, her interest in him would have been quite different. He felt a surge of relief, which was ridiculous. He was perfectly capable of declining politely! He had done it for years.
    Zillah was lovely. There was a naturalness and a spontaneityabout her which Rathbone liked immediately. Also, she was unashamedly happy. The knowledge of how soon it would be shattered bothered Rathbone more than he had expected.
    They spoke of the usual kind of trivia, and he could see her parents’ pride in her, the quick glances of obvious affection from her father. Her pain would be his pain; her embarrassment would cut him more deeply than his own. Rathbone