raised eyebrows.
Symington rose to his feet, then seemed to hesitate. He looked at Quixwood, then at the jury. No one moved.
“Mr. Symington?” the judge asked courteously.
Symington smiled, a charming, almost luminous smile that Vespasia knew he could not possibly mean. The only chance he had was to win some sympathy from the jury, create some shred of doubt in their minds.
“Thank you, my lord,” Symington said gracefully. He looked up at Quixwood. “I hate this. Heaven only knows how you have suffered already, Mr. Quixwood, and I cannot imagine what you have lost in this whole terrible tragedy. I do not believe that the accused was the man who did this thing, but I do not believe that putting you through any further agony will assist me in proving that. I offer you my sincerest regrets over the fearful death of a woman who seems by every account to have been beautiful in all respects.”
He sat down again, to the amazement of the gallery, the jury, and the judge. Even Bower looked momentarily wrong-footed.
Vespasia felt her heart sink. Pitt and Narraway could not possibly have found anything yet. Why on earth did Symington not think of something to give them time? Was the man a fool? Or did he know he was beaten, and could see no point in stretching out the pain?
Bower stood up again, victory flushing his cheeks, making his eyes bright.
“The prosecution rests, my lord.”
Symington was pale as he stood again and asked the judge for an adjournment so he might speak privately with his client before beginning the defense.
Perhaps hoping that they could have a speedy end, the judge granted an adjournment until the following morning.
Vespasia stood up slowly, a little stiff, and waited a few minutes while the crowd pushed and jostled its way out. She did not want to linger, but she could not think of anywhere else to go. She had reached the main doors to the street and was hesitating there when she heard her name called. She turned to find Symington at her elbow.
“Lady Vespasia, may I speak with you, perhaps in half an hour or so? It is extremely pressing, or I wouldn’t trouble you.”
“Pressing is a magnificent piece of understatement, Mr. Symington,” she replied. “If there is anything at all that I can do, I am entirely at your disposal.”
“I’m afraid I must ask you to wait because now is the only chance I have to see Hythe again before tomorrow morning, although I have very little idea what I can say to him that will help, except a final plea to tell me the truth. I have nothing with which to defend him.”
“Of course I will wait.” She gave the only answer possible. “If you can show me where I may do so without being asked to leave?”
“I have the use of a room. Thank you.”
She followed where he directed her; as soon as he left her alone in the small room, she rose to begin to pace the floor. Her mind went over and over the facts she knew, seeking for any escape whatever.
The minutes ticked by. She heard voices and footsteps outside, but no one disturbed her.
They were going to lose tomorrow. It seemed inevitable. And Narraway was so convinced that Hythe was not guilty. Perhaps he was capable of deeper emotion than she had considered, but he would never be a sentimental man, following wishes where his reason denied. The violence against Catherine Quixwood had appalled him. He had never known her in life, yet in her terrible death she had touched something in him deeper than anger or pity at a crime.
Assuming both Catherine and Hythe were innocent of any romantic or physical liaison and it was, as Pitt and Narraway had conjectured, a matter of his finding information for her regarding investment in the fiasco of the Jameson Raid, then why did Hythe not say so now? If he were the man he claimed to be, what could possibly be worse than the fate of conviction and hanging for a shocking crime you didn’t even commit?
Lady Vespasia wondered what love or honor would make her willing to silently face such a hideous death.
Surely he was doing it for someone. And if so, it had to be Maris, whom he loved, and who had been loyal to him throughout. To save her from what, though? Destitution? But if he was prepared to remain silent about the truth to protect her, that could only mean that the truth would ruin someone else.
That in turn must be Quixwood. Or perhaps Pelham Forsbrook?
Would Hythe trust either of them, though? Not without something that committed them to keeping their word about caring for Maris. What could that be?
Vespasia was still pondering it all when Symington returned. The courage and grace he had shown in the courtroom had vanished. He looked totally beaten.
She did not ask if he had succeeded in getting information from Hythe; the answer was apparent.
“I don’t know what else to do,” he said, dropping into a chair and indicating with a weary gesture that she should sit opposite him.
She remained standing, unable to relax, but he appeared too exhausted to stand again.
“Mr. Symington, a reason for Mr. Hythe’s refusal to defend himself has occurred to me,” she said gravely. “He believes he cannot be saved, which in the circumstances is a reasonable assumption. However, if he is as noble a man as his wife believes, then he will not fight a hopeless battle for his own life or honor when to give in silently might preserve some measure of comfort and protection for her.”
Symington looked up, frowning. “Narraway suggested much the same thing. We realized if he is hanged, as he well might be, then her life will be wretched, and unless she has family, she will probably also be destitute.”
“So what if Quixwood has promised to look after her, even given Hythe some written commitment that cannot be broken?” she suggested. “On condition, of course, that Hythe does not reveal the financial information that he obtained for Catherine?”
“It’s certainly possible. But how the devil do we prove all this?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But for the sake of a man’s life, we must spend all the time we have left trying. I intend to go to Thomas Pitt’s home and wait for his return. He and Lord Narraway will solve this, if it can be done.”
“I shall come with you,” he insisted. “We have no time to waste in relaying messages to each other. Come.”
CHAPTER 19
Charlotte was completely unprepared when Vespasia arrived, with Peter Symington immediately behind her. Vespasia looked magnificent, dressed in an exquisitely cut costume of dark blue-gray with flawless white silk at the neck and pearls on her ears. If the intent had been somberness appropriate for a trial, she had just missed it.
“I apologize, my dear,” Vespasia said as a stammering Minnie Maude held the parlor door open for her. “But the situation is desperate. May I introduce Mr. Symington. As you know, he has undertaken the defense of Alban Hythe, for what I fear will be scant reward, and we are on the brink of defeat. We are beaten on every side and unless we can think of something tonight, tomorrow will deal us the coup de grâce. Although there will be little of grace about it. I do not like Mr. Bower, who represents the prosecution. There is a self-righteousness in the man, and a lack of imagination.” The vitality and determination in her face seemed to reject the possibility of both tragedy and defeat. Symington was clearly weary and bruised from battle, but the warmth of his smile robbed Charlotte of complaint.
“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt?” Symington said quietly. “I am aware that we are intruding, and I apologize.”
“You are most welcome,” Charlotte said sincerely. “Have you come straight from court? It’s early, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he replied. “The judge allowed me time. I’m sure he assumes it’s so that I can prepare myself for a
