his judgment or he would never have loved Hermione. And the very word love seemed inappropriate when he thought of the emotion he had felt, the turmoil, the need, the loneliness. It was not for any real woman, it was for what he had imagined her to be, a dream figure who would fill all his own emptinesses, a woman of tenderness and purity, a woman who both loved and needed him. He had-never looked at the reality-a woman afraid of the heights and the depths of feeling, a small, craven woman who hugged her safety to her and was content to stand on the edge of all the heat of the battle.
How could Monk, of all people, condemn Prudence Barrymore for misjudgment?
And yet it still hurt. He strode across Newgate Street regardless of horses shying and drivers shouting at him and a light gig veering out of his way. He was nearly run down by a black landau; the footman riding at the side let fly at Monk a string of language that caused even the coachman to sit a little more upright in surprise.
Without making any deliberate decision, Monk found himself going in the general direction of the hospital, and after twenty minutes' swift walking, he hailed a hansom and completed the rest of the journey. He did not even know if Hester was on duty or in the nurses' dormitory catching some well-needed sleep, and he was honest enough to admit he did not care. She was the only person to whom he could confide the confusion and power of his feelings.
As it chanced, she had just fallen asleep after a long day's duty beginning before seven, but he knew where the nurses' dormitory was and he strode in with an air of such authority that no one stopped or questioned him until he was at the entrance doorway. Then a large nurse with ginger hair and arms like a navvy stood square in the middle, staring at him grimly.
"I need to see Miss Latterly in a matter of urgency," he said, glaring back at her. "Someone's life may depend on the matter." That was a lie, and he uttered it without a flicker.
"Oh yeah? Whose? Yours?"
He wondered what her regard for Sir Herbert Stanhope had been.
"None of your affair," he said tartly. "I've just come from the Old Bailey, and I have business here. Now out of my way, and fetch Miss Latterly for me."
"I don't care if yer've come from 'Ell on a broomstick, yer not comin' in 'ere." She folded her massive arms. "I'll go an' tell 'er as yer 'ere if yer tell me who yer are. She can come and see yer if she feels like it."
"Monk."
"Never!" she said in disbelief, looking him up and down.
"That's my name, not my calling, you fool!" he snapped. "Now tell Hester I'm here."
She snorted loudly, but she obeyed, and about three minutes later Hester herself came out of the dormitory looking tired, very hastily dressed, and her hair over her shoulder in a long brown braid. He had never seen it down before, and it startled him. She looked quite different, younger and more vulnerable. He had a twinge of guilt for having woken her on what was essentially a selfish errand. In all probability it would make no difference at all to the fate of Sir Herbert Stanhope whether he spoke to her this evening or not.
"What happened?" she said immediately, still too full of exhaustion and sleep to have thought of all the possibilities fear could suggest.
"Nothing in particular," he said, taking her arm to lead her away from the dormitory door. "I don't even know if it is going well or badly. I shouldn't have come, but there was no one else I really wished to speak to. Lovat-Smith has finished his case, and I wouldn't care to be in Stanhope's shoes. But then Geoffrey Taunton comes out of it badly too. He has a vile temper, and a record of violence. He was in the hospital at the time-but it's Stanhope in the dock, and nothing so far is strong enough to change their places."
They were in front of one of the few windows in the corridor and the late afternoon sun shone in a haze of dusty light over them and in a pool on the floor around their feet.
"Has Oliver any evidence to bring, do you know?" She was too tired to pretend formality where Rathbone was concerned.