William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

man, elderly, a professor or something of that sort. Either way, a man completely unfit to battle it out in the ruthless courtrooms of London. How could he refuse politely? He looked at his father’s face and saw gentleness in it, and beneath that, the fear.
    At that moment, Rathbone would’ve given anything he had to undo his own arrogant stupidity—but it was too late.
    He thought about his mother, and what she would think of his betrayal of the family if she were still alive. She had believed in him so intensely as a child, unwaveringly. She had told him he could do anything. She had even sent him away to school, smiling as she hugged him for what she knew would be the last time, and watched him walk away, cheerfully ignorant. She had not clung to him for that extra moment, nor called him back.
    What if Henry were doing his best, but Brancaster was useless? How he would blame himself afterward!
    “Please ask him to come,” Rathbone said, then instantly wondered how big a mistake that was going to be. “He might not be willing to act for me when he knows more of the case. If he can’t, then I will have to reconsider …”
    “I doubt he’ll refuse. He’s a good man and never gives up a fight. But if he does, then I’ll continue to look,” Henry answered. There was a shadow of disappointment in his eyes. “Is there anything I can do for you? Do you wish me to see if Margaret is all right?” It was an awkward question, one put only tentatively.
    Rathbone smiled, self-mockingly. “No, thank you. There is no help you can offer her, and I would prefer you didn’t leave yourself open to her comments.”
    “Is it finished?” Henry said quietly. There was no way in his face to tell what he felt.
    “I think so,” Rathbone admitted. “It was more of a mistake than I had realized before. I’m sorry.” He was sorry, but the failure of his marriage was only a small part of many other larger and more urgent things he had to grieve over now.
    The guard returned and told Henry it was time for him to leave.
    Henry stood up slowly, swaying for a moment and then catching his balance by putting his hand on the table.
    “I’ll come again … soon,” he said a little huskily. “Keep your heart up.” Then without looking back he walked to the door, past the guard, and out. He didn’t say anything about his feelings; he never did. But it was not necessary. Of all the things in the world that Rathbone knew, or thought he knew, he had never doubted his father’s love. What he felt now was the terrible, choking weight of having let him down.
    I T WAS ANOTHER ENDLESS , painful day in the prison, before Rathbone heard that his lawyer had come to see him. He had spent the time grateful to be alone in the cell, although jeered at now and then by the inmates close enough to see through the bars of both their cells and his. He would be no match for them physically. Even the puniest of them would be wiry and quick on his feet, used to fighting for anything he could get. Rathbone had no weapon but his wits.
    He had gone over and over what he needed to say in this meeting. Regardless of Monk’s warning to not attempt to defend himself, he had still imagined what course Brancaster would take. But each time he did, he felt only more despair—the facts were undeniable, and he was too easy a target. They would make an example out of him, he was certain, no matter what argument Brancaster made.
    He had dreaded the guard coming to escort him to the meeting, which was ridiculous because it would be far worse for him if Brancaster did not arrive. Was the man really the fighter that Henry believed himto be? Even if he was … not even the best could win without weapons, ammunition.
    He did not want to hurt his father. He must accept Brancaster, however futile the battle seemed. He must be courteous, helpful, appear to have trust in him.
    The guard marched him along the corridor to the same small, stone-floored cell, and Rathbone found himself face-to-face with a very dark gentleman, no more than forty at the most. He was about Rathbone’s height but perhaps a little broader in the shoulder. His features were strong. He was handsome in a mercurial sort of way, and there was a sense of confidence in him almost as if he imagined himself invulnerable.
    As soon as the door was closed and locked Brancaster inclined his head in acknowledgment, then indicated the chair for Rathbone.
    “We have a reasonable amount of time,” he began