William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

naturally. He arrived at the Yorks’ magnificent house exactly at the time the invitation had mentioned. He was used to precision and he imagined York might be also. The door opened before he had time to pull the bell rope, as if the footman had been watching for him, as indeed he might.
    Rathbone thanked him, gave him his hat, and was escorted across the tessellated marble floor to the double doors of the withdrawing room. The footman opened them and announced him quietly.
    “Sir Oliver Rathbone, sir, ma’am.” He waited as Rathbone went in then closed the doors behind him without sound.
    The withdrawing room was very large, more than twenty feet long and at least as wide. The floor was luxuriously carpeted; the curtains on the four high windows were of a rich wine color, dark as burgundy, and in spite of the summer evening they were drawn closed. That part of the room faced the street, Rathbone realized; it was a quiet street but perhaps too open to passersby for comfort.
    The furniture echoed the same warm colors, and the chandeliers were reflected in polished wooden surfaces and the glass-fronted cabinets against the farthest wall. The mantelpiece was a superb piece of carving, simple in architecture but elaborate in decoration. It was the centerpiece around which all else was ordered.
    York himself was standing beside it. He was clearly comfortable, his suit expertly cut to hide his expanding waistline, a cigar in his hand. He was very much master of the situation. But it was York’s wife Rathbone looked at, with interest, then with surprise. The latter feeling sent a jolt running through him, almost of warning, a reminder to himself that he was no judge of character where women were concerned.
    He had expected someone rather ordinary, assuming York had married for financial, social, and dynastic reasons, probably with affection but certainly not out of the kind of passion that overrode reason. Everything he knew about the man, and his very considerable reputation, spoke of a person who never acted rashly. As a lawyer he had taken wise cases, never crusading ones. His political views were discreet. His two sons appeared to be cut from the same cloth: solid, intelligent, but without fire.
    Beata York did not in any way fit with that conception. She was older than Margaret—at least in her late forties—but she had a far more turbulent face. Her gray eyes were wide and burning with intelligence. Her hair was surprisingly fair, gold so pale as to be almost silver. At first Rathbone thought that she was truly beautiful, then thought the impression must be due to her gown; she was exquisitely dressed in some soft color that was neither gray nor cream. Then she smiled at him and moved forward to greet him, and he knew he had been right to begin with: she was beautiful.
    “Good evening, Sir Oliver.” Her voice was low, even a little husky. “I was so glad you were able to come. It would seem incomplete to celebrate without you.” If she had expected his wife, there was no hint of it in her expression.
    “Thank you for having me,” he answered, meeting her gaze. “It would be a poor celebration alone. And I believe the verdict was absolutely right; he was a man much in need of being removed from society and prevented from doing further damage.”
    “I’m told it was a very complicated case,” she went on. “How on earth do you remember all the details? Do you take a great many notes?When I write in a hurry I can never read it afterward.” She gave a little grimace of self-mockery, and then laughed lightly.
    “Neither can I,” he agreed. “I write only a word or two, and hope to remember the rest. I don’t have to make the decisions, thank goodness, only see that the game is fair.”
    “Is fair always the same as right, do you think?” she asked with sudden grave interest.
    He was caught off guard. It was far more profound a question than he had expected. It demanded an honest answer, not a trivial one. “Perhaps it is my duty to make it so,” he said quietly.
    She smiled at him, meeting his eyes, and turned to greet Bertrand Allan and his wife. They had just arrived and were talking to York closer to the door into the hall.
    Introductions were made and Rathbone found himself with Mrs. Allan. She was a woman of very ordinary features, a little too thin, but agreeable enough.
    “Congratulations, Sir Oliver,” she said courteously. “My husband says that it was an unusually difficult case that