William Monk 16 - Execution Dock

of breeding. She would not know how to be vulgar. It was one of the things that most pleased him about her. He would like to have told her so, but to say so now would be forced. It would be robbed of all sincerity, and he did mean it.
    They arrived at the reception at precisely the best time, neither early enough to seem too eager, nor late enough to appear as if wanting to draw attention to themselves. To be ostentatious was ill-bred, to say the least.
    Margaret was dressed in cool plain colors, shading towards the blues rather than the reds, and subdued, as if in shadow. Her bodice was cut low, but she could wear it without showing more of herself than was modest, because she was slender. Her skirt was full, and she had always known how to walk with great grace.
    “You look lovely,” he said to her quietly as they came slowly down the stairs, her hand resting lightly on his arm. He saw the color warm her neck and cheeks, and was glad he meant it; it was no empty compliment.
    They were greeted by the hostess, a thin, handsome woman of excellent family who had married money, and was a little uncertain whether she had been as wise as she thought. She smiled shyly and welcomed everyone, then fell back on polite conversation about nothing at all, leaving people wondering if they had accepted an invitation they were offered only out of courtesy.
    “Poor soul,” Margaret said quietly as she and Rathbone moved into the crowd, nodding to acquaintances, acknowledging briefly those whose names they could not immediately remember, or whom they wished to avoid. Some people did not know when to allow a conversation to die a natural death.
    “Poor soul?” Rathbone questioned, wondering if there were something he should have known.
    Margaret smiled. “Our hostess made a financially suitable marriage, and is more than a little out of her depth within ‘trade,’ instead of aristocracy,” she explained. “But if one wishes to, one can learn.”
    He raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”
    For the first time in several days, she laughed outright. “You look concerned, Oliver. Do you regard yourself as trade? I had not seen myselfas impoverished. And I certainly did not marry you for money I refused wealthier men than you. I thought you might be interesting.”
    He let out his breath slowly, feeling a certain warmth rise up his cheeks. This was the woman he had fallen in love with. “I am professional,” he replied with mock tartness. “Which is nothing at all like trade. But it is still a considerable advantage to have a well-bred wife, even if she does have rather more wit and spirit than is entirely comfortable.”
    She gripped his arm for a moment, then eased away. “It is not good for you to be comfortable all the time,” she told him. “You become complacent, and that is most unattractive. Perhaps you had better find whoever it is you wish to see.”
    He sighed. “Perhaps I had,” he conceded, the misery swelling inside him again, making it hard to draw his breath.
    It was not difficult to encounter Sullivan without it seeming forced, but Rathbone could feel his heart pounding; it was hard to get his breath, and when he spoke, to keep his voice steady. What would he do if Sullivan simply refused to see him alone? Rathbone must phrase it so that he had no suspicion. Or does a guilty man always suspect?
    They were separated from the next group by a yard or two, and Sullivan had his back to an alcove full of books and objets d'art.
    “Ah! Nice to see you, Rathbone,” he said warmly. “Still celebrating your victory, I imagine? You achieved what I would have thought was damned near impossible.”
    Rathbone hid his feelings about his own part in the trial, which were growing more and more repugnant to him all the time. “Thank you,” he accepted, since to do anything less would be discourteous, and he had to be civil at least until he could find a time and place to speak to Sullivan alone. He was used to seeing him in his wig and robes, and at a distance of several yards, from the floor of the court up to the judicial bench. Closer he was still a handsome man, but the features were a little less clearly defined, the skin blotchier, as if his health were compromised, perhaps by self-indulgence, and the resultant dyspepsia. “It proved less difficult than I foresaw,” he added, since Sullivan seemed to be waiting for him to say something further.
    “River Police dug their own graves,” Sullivan replied