a bride any man might consider himself most fortunate to win."
"Thank you, sir."
"T cannot imagine why Killian Melville cast aside his opportunity, but the shortcoming is with him, most certainly not in you."
Melville jerked up his head.
Sacheverall stared at Rathbone, then at the judge.
McKeever leaned over his bench. "Your point, Sir Oliver? You seem to be maligning your own client."
"My point, my lord, is that Miss Lambert is not a young lady who will receive only one offer or opportunity of marriage," he replied expansively, looking at her as he said it. "She is most desirable in every way. She does not seem to have a failing or a weakness, above the merest frailties we may all expect in any human person. She will undoubtably receive many more offers of marriage, at least as fortunate as that of Mr. Melville, possibly more so. She may easily win the heart of a man with title and fortune to offer her. I cannot agree with my learned friend Mr. Sacheverall"-he waved his arm at her-"that she has suffered a great injury, or indeed with her mother, Mrs. Lambert. I do not refer to her feelings, of course, which are undeniably injured. She has been insulted and her trust beffayed. But her worldly future has not been injured. Unfortunately, our personal feelings cannot be protected from the wounds of love. To accept the gift of life is to accept also the risks."
"Really!" Sacheverall protested, starting to his feet and walking forward.
McKeever raised his scant eyebrows and his wide blue eyes were innocent. "Yes, Mr. Sacheverall?"
"I..." Sacheverall gave up in disgust and returned to his seat.
"Have you anything further to put to Miss Lambert?" McKeever asked them both.
They each declined, and he adjourned the court until the following day.
Rathbone left feeling thoroughly miserable. He had scored a slight victory over Sacheverall on the point of Zillah Lambert's very evident charm and apparent innocence, but it would not win him the case, and they both knew it. It made Melville's behavior all the more incomprehensible, and the thought that filled Rathbone's mind as he walked smartly along the footpath, avoiding the eyes of the few professional acquaintances he passed and heading for the nearest hansom cab, was just what did Melville know about Zillah, or her family, that he refused to say? And that thought must also sooner or later cross the mind of almost every one of her friends and enemies in society as well. Certainly it would cross the lips of the mothers of her rivals. And they would make doubly sure that it entered the ears of the mothers of suitable young gentlemen, heirs to titles and fortunes.
If anyone was marrying Zillah Lambert for love, it would seem he could not do better, but that was not the majority of those whom her mother would seek. Even if no one was vulgar enough to say so, the jurors were men of the world, and no doubt married themselves, perhaps with sons who would soon seek brides. Would they accept willingly a girl about whom there were questions?
It was beginning to rain and he had to run to catch a hansom before a couple of gentlemen in short temper could beat him to it. He heard their cries of frustration as he slammed the door and gave the driver his address.
Two hours later, after he had dined without enjoying it and then paced the floor for thirty-five minutes, he went out again to look for another cab to Melville's rooms.
He had only been there once before, Melville had come to him during their preparation for trial. The building was a handsome Georgian town house, but in no way different from its neighbors on either side. However, once he was past the vestibule, across the hall and up the stairs to the second floor, where Melville had his rooms, it was utterly individual. The inside had been gutted and the new walls were curved and washed with colors giving a unique appearance of space and light. They had been used to create optical illusions of both distance and warmth. One room seemed to blend into the next. Ivories and golds and shades of brown sugar blended with the richness of polished wood. One brilliant fuchsia-red cushion caught the eye. Another in hot Turkish pink echoed it.
Killian Melville sat in the middle of the floor on an embroidered camel saddle. He looked wretched. He barely glanced up as Rathbone came in and the maid disappeared.