Defend and Betray by Anne Perry Page A

Not that that would be difficult; she would have no idea how to flirt if her life depended upon it. Her sister-in-law had told her that countless times. If only she could be like Imogen and appeal with sweet helplessness to people, simply by her manner, so men instinctively would desire to help her. It was very nice to be efficient, but it could also be a disadvantage to be obviously so. It was also not especially attractive— either to men or to women. Men thought it unbecoming, and women found it vaguely insulting to them.
    Her thoughts were interrupted by the hansom's arrival at Vere Street and Oliver Rathbone's offices, and she was obliged to descend and pay the driver. Since it was already five minutes before her appointment, she mounted the steps and presented herself to the clerk.
    A few minutes later the inner door opened and Rathbone came out. He was precisely as she had remembered him; indeed she was taken aback by the vividness of her recall. He was little above average height, with fair hair graying a trifle at the temples, and dark eyes that were acutely aware of all laughter and absurdity, and yet liable to change expression to anger or pity with an instant's warning.
    “How agreeable to see you again, Miss Latterly,” he said with a smile. “Won't you please come into my office, where you may tell me what business it is that brings you here?” He stood back a little to allow her to pass, then followed her in and closed the door behind him. He invited her to sit in one of the large, comfortable chairs. The office was as it had been last time she was there, spacious, surprisingly free from the oppressive feeling of too many books, and with bright light from the windows as if it were a place from which to observe the world, not one in which to hide from it.
    “Thank you,” she accepted, arranging her skirts only minimally. She would not give the impression of a social call.
    He sat down behind his desk and regarded her with interest.
    “Another desperate case of injustice?” he asked, his eyes bright.
    Instantly she felt defensive, and had to guard herself from allowing him to dictate the conversation. She remembered quickly that this was his profession, questioning people in such a way that they betrayed themselves in their answers.
    “I would be foolish to prejudge it, Mr. Rathbone,” she replied with an equally charming smile. “If you were ill, I should be irritated if you consulted me and then prescribed your own treatment.”
    Now his amusement was unmistakable.
    “If some time I consult you, Miss Latterly, I shall keep that in mind. Although I doubt I should be so rash as ever to think of preempting your judgment. When I am ill, I am quite a pitiful object, I assure you.”
    “People are also frightened and vulnerable, even pitiful, when they are accused of crime and face the law without anyone to defend them—or at least anyone adequate to the occasion,” she answered.
    “And you think I might be adequate to this particular occasion?” he asked. “I am complimented, if not exactly flattered.”
    “You might be, if you understood the occasion,” she said a trifle tartly.
    His smile was wide and quite without guile. He had beautiful teeth.
    “Bravo, Miss Latterly. I see you have not changed. Please tell me, what is this occasion?”
    “Have you read of the recent death of General Thaddeus Carlyon?” She asked so as to avoid telling him that with which he was already familiar.
    “I saw the obituary. I believe he met with an accident, did he not? A fall when he was out visiting someone. Was it not accidental?” He looked curious.
    “No. It seems he could not have fallen in precisely that way, at least not so as to kill himself.”
    “The obituary did not describe the injury.”
    Memory of Damaris's words came back to her, and a wry, bitter humor. “No—they wouldn't. It has an element of the absurd. He fell over the banister from the first landing onto a suit of armor.”
    “And