A Breach of Promise - Anne Perry [53]
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 Latterly, who I believe is staying here temporarily,” he said. “I realize it is probably not a convenient time to call, but the matter is of some urgency, and I am prepared to wait, should that be necessary. Would you tell her this and ask Mr. Sheldon if it is permissible for one to interrupt Miss Latterly?” Then he offered the card.
The footman took it, glanced at its expensive lettering and noted the title.
“Yes, Sir Oliver, I’ll take it straightaway. Would you care to wait in the library, sir?”
“Thank you, that would be excellent,” Rathbone accepted, and followed the man across a modest hallway to a most agreeable room lined on two sides with books and overlooking a small, rather exuberant garden, now full of lots of narcissi and early leaves of lupines. The stone wall he could see was festooned with the bare branches of honeysuckle and climbing roses, all greatly in need of pruning.
The fire was not lit and the air was chilly. The