He passed a group of pretty girls, seventeen or eighteen years old, their fair skin gleaming in the light from the myriad candles in the chandeliers, their eyes bright, their voices high with nervousness, full of giggles and little squeaks. Their mothers or aunts were only yards away. One must never be without a chaperone. Reputations could be ruined.

A couple of young men were eyeing them from a distance of a few yards, standing self-consciously, pretending not to notice. One of them was so stiff his back was almost arched. They reminded Rathbone of bantam cocks.

He felt a hand on his arm and turned to see a man in his middle forties with a lean and humorous face.

"Rathbone, how are you?" he said cheerfully. "Didn't expect to see you at this sort of thing!"

"Hello, FitzRobert!" Rathbone replied with pleasure. “I was invited, and I rather fancied a little idle amusement, a spot of champagne and music."

FitzRobert's smile broadened. "Just won a notable victory?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Rathbone admitted, reliving his satisfaction. "I have. How are you?" He regarded his friend more closely. "You look well." It was not entirely true, but he felt tact was the better part of perception.

"Oh, I am," FitzRobert said a shade too quickly. "Busy, you know. Politics is a demanding mistress." He smiled briefly.

Rathbone struggled to remember the man's wife's name, and it came to him with a sudden picture of her face, very beautiful in a smooth, oddly discontented way. "And how is Mary?" he added.

"Very well, thank you." FitzRobert put his hands in his pockets and looked away. His eye caught a group of people several yards in the distance. The man was stocky, balding, with a plain but genial face. His features were strong, and no skill of expensive tailoring could hide the awkwardness of his stance or the weight and power of his shoulders. The woman next to him, presumably his wife, was a head shorter than he, and extremely pretty, almost beautiful, with regular features, a long, straight nose, and wide eyes. The girl with them was demurely dressed in the customary white for a first season, only barely enhanced with trimmings of pink. The gown was doubtless extremely costly, but she did not need it to make her stand out among her peers. She was a little over average height, slender, and with quite the most beautiful hair Rathbone had ever seen. It was thick, of a muted golden bronze in color, and with a heavy curl which no art could have imitated.

"Are you acquainted with them?" Rathbone asked.

"Only slightly," FitzRobert answered without changing expression. "He is in trade of some sort. Made himself a fortune. But of course that hardly endears him to society, although they will put up with him for his money's sake. And he has had the grace to patronize the aits to the extent of tens of thousands of pounds." He shrugged slightly. "Which, of course, does not make him a gentleman but at least lends him some respectability." FitzRobert turned back to Rathbone, smiling because they both knew precisely what he meant: the subtle grades of acceptance which came so easily to those born to it and were nigh on impossible to those who were not.

Even Prince Albert was regarded with coolness by some, just as he disdained the frivolity, the wit, the self-indulgence and the sheer arrogant grace of some of the oldest aristocracy in the country, whose fortunes certainly equaled his own and whose wives had a better sense of fashion than the Queen- and jewels to match. Until very recently they had considered him a political upstart, and his endless notes and letters to be interfering.

Rathbone smiled back. He allowed FitzRobert to see in his eyes that he was going to pretend he had not noticed the shadow of unhappiness there, nor understood its deeply personal nature.

"Who is he?" he asked. "He does not look familiar to me."

"Barton Lambert," FitzRobert replied. "His daughter, Zillah, is engaged to marry Killian Melville, the architect. I don't see him here tonight." He looked around. "Devoted to his work. Not a very social man."

Rathbone was suddenly uncertain whether he wanted to know more or not. When there were crimes and desperate injustices to fight, why on earth should he spend his time and his skills in defending a foolish young man from the consequences of his ambition and his lack of forthrightness towards a young woman who had taken him at his behavior, if not his word-as it turned out, mistakenly. It was not a matter which should waste the time of the law. It could be settled with a few well-chosen words and a little sensitivity, and strategic realignment.

"Brilliant fellow," FitzRobert went on. "Probably one of the most original and daring thinkers of his generation. And has the technical skill and personal drive and persistence to see his ideas from the dreams into the reality."

"With suitable help from Barton Lambert," Rathbone added dryly.

FitzRobert was surprised. "Thought you didn't know him!"

"Not a great deal." Rathbone retreated with more speed than grace. "Only what T have heard. A word or two-you know how one does."

FitzRobert smiled. "Well, I suppose he has been on people's tongues lately. The engagement was in the Times."

Rathbone spoke almost before thinking. "Perhaps you could introduce me?"

"Of course," FitzRobert agreed. "Delighted to. For all his northern brashness, and a certain quickness to see insult where it is not intended, he is a very decent fellow. Honest as you like, and loyal. Once a friend, always a friend."

"I don't want to intrude." Rathbone took a step backwards, already regretting his words. "Perhaps…"

"Not at all," FitzRobert said with an expansive gesture. He took Rathbone by the arm. "Come on, by all means."

Rathbone had little choice but to follow, and a few moments later he was being introduced to Barton Lambert and his wife and daughter.

"How do you do, sir," Lambert said with a strong northern accent. His manner was open and friendly, but he seemed not to be too impressed by Rathbone's title.

Delphine Lambert, on the other hand, had a very different air. Closer to her, it was apparent that her marvelous jewelry was real-and almost certainly worth more than Rathbone made in half a year, although he did extremely well. And she was a remarkably pretty woman. Her skin was blemishless and the arch of her brows and delicate curve of her hairline were quite unique, as was the slope of her cheekbones. Her intelligence was apparent in her wide, clear eyes.

"How do you do, Sir Oliver," she said with charm, but marked reserve. Rathbone had an instant feeling that were her daughter not engaged to be married, her interest in him would have been quite different. He felt a surge of relief, which was ridiculous. He was perfectly capable of declining politely! He had done it for years.

Zillah was lovely. There was a naturalness and a spontaneity about her which Rathbone liked immediately. Also, she was unashamedly happy. The knowledge of how soon it would be shattered bothered Rathbone more than he had expected.

They spoke of the usual kind of trivia, and he could see her parents' pride in her, the quick glances of obvious affection from her father. Her pain would be his pain; her embarrassment would cut him more deeply than his own. Rathbone doubted Barton Lambert would forgive a man who hurt his daughter, privately or publicly. It was not difficult to understand. He was not a foolish man, nor one without worldly wisdom, or he could not have made the wealth he had in a harsh and highly competitive trade. Manchester-that was the area where his accent proclaimed him to have lived-was not a soft city nor one easily to refine the rough edges from a man's manner. But neither did it have the weary sophistication of London, the cosmopolitan mixture of cultures and the press and vigor of the world's traffic. There was a kind of innocence to Barton Lambert, and looking at his face, Rathbone was sure his anger would be of the same spontaneous and unstoppable character.