A Breach of Promise - Anne Perry [67]
Monk nodded. Words were not necessary.
“He sat up night after night reading those plans,” Mr. Burnham said in little above a whisper. “And he found a flaw in them … a fatal flaw! At first he could hardly believe it—he could not bear to! It was the shattering of his dreams. And not only his, but his wife’s as well, and such possible future happiness for his daughter; although that, of course, was less problematical. She was a very charming girl and would no doubt find other suitors. I don’t think it was a matter of the heart—at least not deeply.” He smiled with some indulgence. “Shall we say a touch of glamour, to which we are most of us susceptible?”
“But Lambert chose to decline the building?” Monk concluded, eating the last piece of his treacle tart. It was an illuminating story, although not helpful to his cause. It said much of Barton Lambert but shed no light upon Melville’s reason for abandoning Zillah.
“Yes … much to milord’s anger,” Mr. Burnham agreed. “Lambert’s withdrawal provoked questions, and the flaws in the plan were exposed. Reputations were damaged.”
“Lambert made powerful enemies?” It was hardly a motive for Melville’s act, but he had to press every point.
“Oh no, my dear fellow,” Mr. Burnham said with a broad smile. “On the contrary, he came out of it rather well. We may be a society with our share of sycophants and hypocrites, but there are still many who admire an honest man. It was milord who suffered.”
“I see.”
“You look disappointed,” Mr. Burnham observed, regarding Monk keenly. “What had you hoped?”
“An explanation as to why a young man might be reluctant to marry Miss Lambert,” Monk confessed. “I suppose her reputation is as impeccable as it seems?” Florence wound herself around his ankles, doubtless leaving long, silky hairs on his trouser legs.
Mr. Burnham’s sparse eyebrows shot up. “So far as I know, she has the normal share of high spirits, and a young and pretty girl’s desire to flirt and trifle more than is modest, to play the game dangerously from time to time. That is no more than healthy. Let us say she is not tedious and leave it at that?”
Monk laughed in spite of himself. The evening had been most enjoyable, and as far as he could see of no use whatever to Rathbone. He thanked Mr. Burnham sincerely and remained another half hour listening to irrelevant stories, then went home without removing the cat hairs, in case it should offend Mr. Burnham, and considered his tactics for the morrow.
He spent Sunday morning equally fruitlessly. He called upon two or three acquaintances, who merely confirmed what he had already heard. One of them owned a gambling house in the less-reputable part of the West End and occasionally loaned money to gentlemen temporarily embarrassed in a financial way. He usually knew who owed money, and to whom. He was expert in assessing precisely what any given man was worth. He was better at it than many a legitimate banker. He had never heard of Killian Melville, and he knew of Barton Lambert only by repute. Neither of them owed a halfpenny to anyone, so far as he was aware. Certainly neither of them gambled heavily.
Another acquaintance, who owned a couple of brothels in the Haymarket area and was familiar with the tastes and weaknesses of many of the leading gentlemen in society, also knew neither man.
By early afternoon Monk was irritable, chilly in the intermittent showers of rain, and profoundly discouraged. It appeared Killian Melville was simply a young man who had made a rash offer of marriage, perhaps in a moment of physical passion, and now regretted it and was foolish enough to believe he could walk away unscathed. Perhaps he had prevailed upon her virtue and now despised