Rolf stood stiffly in the box. He did not move his hands from his sides but remained at attention.
“Sir, the situation is an old one, of some twelve-odd years. You know nothing of it except the last few months. For you to assume that you could possibly understand it is ridiculous.”
“I need to understand it,” Rathbone assured him. “The court needs to.”
“You do not!” Rolf contradicted. “It has nothing to do with Friedrich’s death or with the Countess Rostova’s slander.”
The judge looked at Rolf, a slight frown creasing his forehead, but when he spoke his voice was still infinitely polite.
“You are not the jury in this matter, Count Lansdorff. You are in an English court now, and I will decide what is necessary and what is not, according to the law. And those twelve gentlemen”—he indicated the jury—“will deliberate and decide what they believe to be true. I cannot force you to answer Sir Oliver’s questions. I can only advise you that should you fail to do so, you will invite an adverse opinion as to the reason for your silence. And murder is a capital crime. This particular murder was committed on English soil and is subject to English law, whoever the man or woman who committed it may be.”
Rolf looked ashen.
“I have no idea who killed Friedrich or why. Ask your questions.” He did not add “and be damned,” but it was in his face.
“Thank you, my lord,” Rathbone acknowledged, then turned back to Rolf.
“Was the Princess Gisela aware of your negotiations, Count Lansdorff?”
“Not from me. Whether Friedrich told her or not, I don’t know.”
“You could not deduce from her behavior?” Rathbone said with surprise.
“She is not a woman whose thoughts or feelings are readily visible in her expression,” Rolf answered coldly and without even glancing towards Gisela. “Whether her continued”—he searched for the word—“enjoyment of the party was due to ignorance of our mission or to confidence that Friedrich would never leave her, I have no way of knowing.”
“Had you ever joined such a party before, Count Lansdorff?”
“Not if Friedrich was there, no. I am the Queen’s brother. Friedrich chose to go into exile rather than fulfill his destiny.” The damnation was complete in his expression and in the tone of his hard, precise voice.
“So we may deduce that Gisela believed Friedrich would not leave her?”
“You may deduce what you please, sir.”
Harvester smiled bleakly. Rathbone caught it out of the corner of his eye. He tried another approach.
“Were you empowered to make any decisions regarding terms or concessions to Prince Friedrich, Count Lansdorff? Or did you have to refer back to the Queen?”
“There were no concessions to make,” Rolf answered with a frown. “I thought I had made that plain, sir. Her Majesty would not countenance the return of Gisela Berentz, either as crown princess or as consort. If Friedrich did not accept those terms, then another leader for the cause would be sought.”
“Who?”
“I do not know.”
Rathbone thought that was a lie, but he could see from Rolf’s face that it was the only answer he would receive.
“It is a very extreme hatred the Queen has for the Princess Gisela,” he said thoughtfully. “It seems contrary to the best interests of her country to allow such a personal emotion to govern her actions.” It was not really a question, but he hoped it would sting Rolf into a defensive response.
He was successful.
“It is not a personal hatred!” Rolf said. “The woman was unacceptable as Friedrich’s wife … for many reasons, none of which are merely personal.” He used the term with the utmost derision.
Rathbone deliberately turned and stared at Gisela as she sat beside Harvester. She was a picture of grief, a perfect victim. Harvester did not need to defend her from Rolf, her own demeanor did it better than any words of his could have. He looked angry, but satisfied.
Zorah was sitting upright, tense, her face white.
Rathbone turned back to Rolf.
“She seems eminently suitable to me,” he said innocently. “She has dignity, presence, the admiration, even the love or the envy, of half the world. What more could you wish?”
Rolf’s mouth twisted with an emotion which was as much pain as scorn.
“She has the art to seduce men, the wit to make herself the center of attention, and the style to dress well. That is all.”
There was a hiss from the gallery. One of the jurors let out an exclamation of horror.
“Oh, come sir …” Rathbone protested, his pulse suddenly racing, his mouth dry. “That seems, at the very kindest, ungallant and highly prejudiced—at the worst, as if founded in some acutely personal hatred—”
Rolf lost his temper. At last he unbent and leaned forward over the railing, glaring across at Rathbone.
“That you should be ignorant of her nature, sir, is hardly your fault. Most of Europe is ignorant of it, thank God. I would that they could have remained so, but you force my hand. Like any other royal house, we need an heir. Waldo will not provide one, through no fault of his own. That is not a matter I can or will discuss. Gisela is childless of her own choice—”
