Rathbone acknowledged this with a nod of courtesy.

"During this time that Mr. Melville called frequently at your home, sir, was he employed by you to design and oversee the construction of buildings you had commissioned?"

"He was."

"And he was friendly with all your family?"

"Not the way you're putting it, sir," Lambert argued. "You're trying to say he was equally friendly with all of us, and that's not so. He was civil and pleasant to Mrs. Lambert. He was always pleasant with me, but he would be, wouldn't he?" He raised his eyebrows. "I was his patron in his profession- his employer, in a sense. He'd have been a fool to be less than polite to me." But his eyes avoided Melville as he spoke. "Not that I didn't think he liked me, mind; and I liked him. Well-spoken, intelligent, decent-thinking young man, I thought him. But it is my daughter he spent time with, laughed and talked with, shared his ideas and his dreams with, and no doubt all of hers too."

His face was full of the sharpness of the regret and the sense of betrayal he felt. "I can see them clear in my mind's eye even as I stand here, heads bent together, talking and laughing, looking in each other's eyes. You can't tell me he wasn't courting her, because I was there!" His look defied Rathbone, or anyone, to contradict him.

Rathbone had nothing to fight with, and he knew it. It angered him more than he had expected that all this distress could have been avoided. The rows of avid faces in the gallery need never have witnessed these people's humiliation. Their private quarrels and griefs should have remained exactly that, known only to their own circle. It was no one else's concern. He hated what he was doing, what they were all doing here. The whole forced performance of grooming every young woman for marriage and parading her before what amounted to the market, judging her human worth by her marriageability, was offensive.

"Mr. Lambert," he said, rather more brusquely than he had meant to, "when did Mr. Melville ask you for your daughter's hand in marriage?"

Lambert looked startled.

Rathbone waited.

"Well… he didn't," Lambert admitted. "Not in so many words. He should have, I grant you. It was an omission of good manners I was willing to overlook."

"Possibly it was an omission of good manners," Rathbone agreed. "Or possibly it was an omission of intent? Is it possible he was very fond of Miss Lambert, but in a brotherly way, rather than as a suitor, and his affection was misinterpreted… with the best of intentions, and in all innocence?"

"By a man of our age, perhaps, Sir Oliver," Lambert said dryly. "Although I doubt it. A man of Melville's years does not normally feel like a brother towards a handsome and good-natured young woman."

There was a faint titter around the room, almost like the rustle of leaves.

Rathbone kept his composure with difficulty. He did not like being taken for Lambert's age-and was startled by how much it offended him. Lambert must be at least fifty.

"There are many young ladies I admire and find pleasant company," he said rather stiffly, "but I do not wish to marry them."

Lambert said nothing.

Rathbone was obliged to continue. He was not serving Melville's cause.

"So Mr. Melville did not ask you for your daughter's hand, and yet it was assumed by you all that he wished to marry her, and arrangements were made, announcements were given and so forth. By whom, sir?"

"My wife and myself, of course. We are the bride's parents." Lambert looked at him with raised eyebrows. He had a very broad, blunt face. "That is customary!"

"I know it is," Rathbone conceded. "I am only trying to establish that Mr. Melville took no part in it. It could have been conducted without his awareness of just how seriously his relationship with Miss Lambert was being viewed."

"Only if he was a complete fool!" Lambert snorted.

"Perhaps he was." Rathbone smiled. "He would not be the first young man to behave like a fool where a young lady is concerned."

There was a burst of laughter in the gallery, and even the judge had a smile on his face.

"Is my learned friend saying that his client is a fool, my lord?" Sacheverall enquired.

"I rather think I am," Rathbone acknowledged. "But not a knave, my lord."

The judge's bright blue eyes were very wide, very innocent. The light shone on the bald crown of his head, making a halo of his white hair.

"An unusual defense, Sir Oliver, but not unique. I hope your client will thank you for it, should you succeed."

Rathbone smiled ruefully. He was thinking the same thing. He turned to Lambert again.

"You say, sir, that the breaking of the betrothal came without any warning at all. Was that to you, Mr. Lambert, or to everyone?"

"I beg your pardon?" Lambert looked confused.

"Is it not possible that Mr. Melville, when he realized how far arrangements had progressed, spoke to Miss Lambert and tried to tell her that matters had proceeded further than he was happy with, but that she did not tell you that? Perhaps she did not believe he was serious, or thought he was only suffering a nervousness which would pass with time?"

"Well…"

"It is possible, is it not?"

"Possible," Lambert conceded. "But I don't believe it."

"Naturally." Rathbone nodded. "Thank you. I don't think I have anything more to ask you."

Sacheverall declined to pursue the subject. He was in a strong position, and he was thoroughly aware of it.

Rathbone wondered why he had not asked Lambert about the damage done to his daughter's reputation, and why indeed he was pursuing this case instead of allowing the matter to remain at least somewhat more private. The omission was not one he would have made himself.

The answer came immediately.

Sacheverall, looking extremely pleased with himself, called Delphine Lambert to the stand.

She came in looking harassed and distressed, but with a supreme dignity. She was a small woman, but carried herself so superbly she gave the impression of regality. She was dressed in deep blue, which flattered her complexion, and the huge skirts with their crinoline hoops emphasized her still-tiny waist. She mounted the witness-box with difficulty, because of the narrowness of the steps, and turned to face the clerk who swore her in.

Sacheverall apologized for the distress he would cause her in having to speak to her on so delicate a matter, with the implication that this too was Melville's fault, then proceeded with his first question.

"Mrs. Lambert, were you present during most of the growing relationship between Mr. Melville and your daughter?"

"Naturally!" Her eyes widened. "It is usual for a mother to chaperone her daughter at such times. I have only the one daughter, so it was easy for me."

"So you observed everything that took place?" Sachev-erall asked.

"Yes." She nodded. "And I assure you there was never anything in the least out of order. I thought myself a good judge of character, but I was completely duped." She looked lost, and innocent, as if she still did not fully understand what had happened.

Rathbone wondered if Sacheverall had schooled her brilliantly or if he had simply been given the perfect witness.

Sacheverall was too astute to belabor the point. The jurors had seen her. He even forbore from glancing at Rathbone.

"Mrs. Lambert," he continued, "would you be good enough to describe for us a typical encounter between Miss Lambert and Mr. Melville, one as like many others as you may be able to recall."

"Certainly, if you wish." She straightened her shoulders even more, but without the slightest exaggeration. She was not doing it for effect. This truly was an ordeal for her. Her bearing and her voice were full of fear, and she understood the darkness this cast over her daughter's future.