arrived at Rathbone's rooms and simply handed him a slip of paper on which was written an address and the name "Gabriel Sheldon." He passed it to Rathbone with a slight smile.
Rathbone glanced at it. "Thank you," he said simply. He did not know what else to add. It was a strangely artificial situation. They knew each other in some ways so well. Rathbone knew far more of Monk than anyone else except Hester-and possibly Callandra Daviot and John Evan, the sergeant who had worked with Monk before Monk left the police force following a violent quarrel with his superior. But Evan had seen him only intermittently since then; Rathbone had worked with him every few months. They had stood together in victory and despair, in mental and physical exhaustion, in the elation of triumph and the strange, acute pain of pity. Even if they had never voiced it, they each understood what the other felt.
Rathbone knew that Monk had lost his past, everything, until four years ago. He had discovered himself as a man in his forties, not a man he always liked, sometimes a man he despised, even feared. Rathbone had watched Monk struggle to regain his memory, and had seen the courage it required of Monk to look at what he had been: the occasional cruelty, the hasty judgments, made too often in ignorance and from fear. Monk had hesitated at times, flinching from what he would find, but in the end he had never refused to look.
Rathbone admired him for it. Indeed, he would have protected him and defended him were it possible. A part of him liked Monk quite naturally, despite their widely differing backgrounds. Rathbone was born to comfort and had received an excellent education with all the grace and social status which such an eduction afforded. Monk was the son of a fisherman from the far northeast, on the Scottish borders. His education had been struggled for, given as charity by the local vicar, who appreciated a boy of intellectual promise and driving will, and was prepared to tutor him for nothing. He had come south to London to make his fortune, assisted quickly by a man of wealth who had trained him in merchant banking until his own unjust prosecution and ruin.
Then, burning with indignation, Monk had joined the police, driven by anger and filled with passion to right the intolerable wrongs he saw.
That was so unlike Rathbone, who had studied law at Cambridge and risen easily from one position to another assisted by a mixture of patronage and his own brilliance.
Only his sense of purpose was similar, his ambition to achieve the highest, and perhaps his love of the beautiful things of life, of elegance and good taste. In Rathbone it was natural to dress perfectly. He looked and sounded the gentleman he was. It took no effort whatever.
For Monk it was an extravagance which had to be paid for by going without other things, but he never hesitated. Rathbone could not accuse him of vanity, but someone else might have, possibly even Hester herself, certainly Callandra Daviot. Rathbone had never known a woman who gave less considered thought to her appearance. But for all Monk's natural elegance and carefully attentive grooming, he would never have the assurance Rathbone did, because it came with breeding and could not be acquired.
"Thank you," he repeated. "I'm obliged. If you will excuse me, I will go and see her immediately. I have no time to lose."
Monk nodded, a very slight smile on his lips. "But everything else," he said dryly. "Let me know if I can help with your case, but it sounds hopeless to me. What is she like, this jilted lady?"
"Young, pretty, even-tempered, sufficiently intelligent to be interesting and not enough to be daunting, and an heiress," Rathbone replied, putting on his coat and opening the door for Monk, satisfied at the surprise in Monk's face. "She also has a spotless reputation," he added. "And she does not drink nor is she extravagant, sharp-tongued nor given to gossip. Have you a hansom waiting, or would you care to share one?"
"I have one waiting," Monk replied. "I assume you would like to share it with me?"
"I would," Rathbone agreed, and strode out briskly.
The door of the Sheldon house was opened by a very young footman and Rathbone gave his name but did not offer him a card. He did not wish to make it appear a professional call.
"I am a friend of Miss