A Breach of Promise

  “ANNE PERRY,

  HAILED AS THE QUEEN OF

  THE VICTORIAN MYSTERY,

  SHOWS WHY WITH

  A BREACH OF PROMISE.”

  —San Diego Union-Tribune

  “Scenes of Victorian England so rich in detail that they seem more a product of Perry’s memory than her prodigious research … Perry fans will enjoy the reappearance] of nurse/amateur detective Hester Latterly as a foil to Zillah and her perfectionist mother, Delphine…. When the denouement finally comes, it’s a surprise.”

  —The Denver Post

  “The book is satisfyingly complex, with just the right amount of Dickensian justice.”

  —Rocky Mountain News

  “A banquet for history buffs who live to see the Victorians chastised for acting like citizens of their age … The surprises [Perry’s] kept for last will knit the whole novel together more tightly than anything she’s published in the past ten years.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “[An] exceptional novel … Perry does a masterful job depicting Victorian hypocrisy regarding women.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  By Anne Perry

  Published by Fawcett/Ivy Books:

  Featuring William Monk:

  THE FACE OF A STRANGER

  A DANGEROUS MOURNING

  DEFEND AND BETRAY

  A SUDDEN, FEARFUL DEATH

  THE SINS OF THE WOLF

  CAIN HIS BROTHER

  WEIGHED IN THE BALANCE

  THE SILENT CRY

  A BREACH OF PROMISE

  THE TWISTED ROOT

  SLAVES OF OBSESSION

  FUNERAL IN BLUE

  DEATH OF A STRANGER

  THE SHIFTING TIDE

  DARK ASSASSIN

  EXECUTION DOCK

  Featuring Thomas and Charlotte Pitt:

  THE CATER STREET HANGMAN

  CALLANDER SQUARE

  PARAGON WALK

  RESURRECTION ROW

  BLUEGATE FIELDS

  RUTLAND PLACE

  DEATH IN THE DEVIL’S ACRE

  CARDINGTON CRESCENT

  SILENCE IN HANOVER CLOSE

  BETHLEHEM ROAD

  HIGHGATE RISE

  BELGRAVE SQUARE

  FARRIERS’ LANE

  THE HYDE PARK HEADSMAN

  TRAITORS GATE

  PENTECOST ALLEY

  ASHWORTH HALL

  BRUNSWICK GARDENS

  BEDFORD SQUARE

  HALF MOON STREET

  THE WHTTECHAPEL CONSPIRACY

  SOUTHAMPTON ROW

  SEVEN DIALS

  LONG SPOON LANE

  BUCKINGHAM PALACE GARDENS

  The World War I Novels:

  NO GRAVES AS YET

  SHOULDER THE SKY

  ANGELS IN THE GLOOM

  AT SOME DISPUTED BARRICADE

  WE SHALL NOT SLEEP

  The Christmas Novels:

  A CHRISTMAS JOURNEY

  A CHRISTMAS VISITOR

  A CHRISTMAS GUEST

  A CHRISTMAS SECRET

  A CHRISTMAS BEGINNING

  A CHRISTMAS GRACE

  Books published by The Random House Publishing Group are available at quantity discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales use. For details, please call 1-800-733-3000.

  An Ivy Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Copyright © 1998 by Anne Perry

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ivy Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing. Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Ivy Books and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99-90546

  eISBN: 978-0-307-87545-7

  v3.1

  To Ken Weir

  for his friendship

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  OLIVER RATHBONE LEANED BACK in his chair and let out a sigh of satisfaction. He had just successfully completed a long and tedious case. He had won most substantial damages for his client over a wrongful accusation. The man’s name was completely cleared and he was grateful. He had told Rathbone that he was brilliant, and Rathbone had accepted the compliment with grace and appropriate humility, brushing it aside as more a courtesy than truth. But he had worked very hard and had exercised excellent judgment. He had once again used the skills which had made him one of the finest barristers in London, if not in England.

  He found himself smiling in anticipation of a most pleasant evening at Lady Hardesty’s ball. Miss Annabelle Hardesty had been presented to the Queen, and had even earned an agreeable comment from Prince Albert. She was launched upon society. It was an evening in which all manner of victories might be celebrated. It would be a charming affair.

  There was a knock on the door, interrupting his reverie.

  “Yes?” He sat up straight. He was not expecting anyone. He had rather thought he would go home early, perhaps take a short walk in the park and enjoy the late-spring air, see the chestnuts coming into bloom.

  The door opened and Simms, his chief clerk, looked in.

  “What is it?” Rathbone asked with a frown.

  “A young gentleman to see you, Sir Oliver,” Simms replied very seriously. “He has no appointment, but seems extremely worried.” His brow puckered with concern and he looked at Rathbone intently. “He’s quite a young gentleman, sir, and although he’s doing his best to hide it, I think he is more than a little afraid.”

  “Then I suppose you had better ask him to come in,” Rathbone conceded, more from his regard for Simms than conviction that the young man’s difficulty was one he could solve.

  “Thank you, sir.” Simms bowed very slightly and withdrew.

  The moment after, the door swung wide again and the young man stood in the entrance. He was, as Simms had said, deeply troubled. He was not tall—perhaps an inch less than Rathbone himself—although his slender build and the squareness of his shoulders gave him an extra appearance of height. He had very fair skin and fine, regular features. Strength was given to his face by the width of his jaw and the level, unflinching gaze with which he met Rathbone’s eyes. It was difficult to place his age, as it can be with those of a very fair complexion, but he could not have been far on either side of thirty

  Rathbone rose to his feet.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Come in, and tell me in what way I may be of service to you.”

  “Good afternoon, Sir Oliver.” The young man closed the door behind him and advanced towards the chair in front of Rathbone’s desk. He was breathing very steadily, as if it were a deliberate effort, and when he was closer it was possible to see that his shoulders were tense, his body almost rigid.

  “My name is Killian Melville,” he began slowly, watching Rathbone’s face. “I am an architect.” He said it with great meaning; his light voice almost caressed the word. He hesitated, still staring at Rathbone. “I am afraid that I am about to be sued for breach of promise.”

  “Promise to do what?” Rathbone asked, although he was all but certain he knew. That particular phrase held one meaning above all others.

  Melville swallowed. “To marry Miss
Zillah Lambert, the daughter of my patron, Mr. Barton Lambert.” He obviously found difficulty even in saying the words. There was a kind of despair in his face.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Melville.” Rathbone indicated the chair opposite him. “By all means tell me the details, but I think it is quite possible I may be unable to help you.” Already his instinctive liking for the young man was waning. He had little sympathy for people who flirted and made promises they did not intend to keep, or who sought to improve their social and financial situations by using the affections of a woman whose position might be an advantage to them. They deserved the blame and the misfortune which followed.

  Melville sat down, but the bleakness of his expression made it apparent he had heard the disapproval in Rathbone’s voice and understood it only too well.

  “I had no intention of hurting Miss Lambert,” he began awkwardly. “Of causing injury either to her feelings or to her reputation….”

  “Is her reputation in question?” Rathbone asked rather coolly.

  Melville flushed, a wave of color rising up his fair cheeks.

  “No it is not, not in the way you mean!” he said hotly. “But if a … if a man breaks off an engagement to marry—or seems to—then people will raise questions as to the lady’s morals. They will wonder if he has learned something of her which is … which has changed his mind.”

  “And have you?” Rathbone asked. That at least could prove some excuse, both ethically and in law, if it could be proved.

  “No!” Melville’s reply was unhesitating. “As far as I know she is blameless.”

  “Is the matter financial?” Rathbone pursued the next most likely problem. Perhaps Melville required a wife of larger fortune. Although if her father was able to be a patron to architects, then he must be of very considerable wealth. A social disadvantage seemed more likely. Or possibly Melville could not afford to keep her in the manner which she would expect.

  Melville stiffened. “Certainly not!”

  “You would not be the first young man not in a financial position to marry,” Rathbone said a little more gently, leaning back in his chair and regarding the young man opposite him. “It is a common enough state. Did you perhaps mislead Mr. Lambert about your prospects, albeit unintentionally?”

  Melville let out his breath in a sigh. “No. No, I was very candid with him.” The shadow of a smile crossed his face, an unexpected light of humor in it, rueful and self-mocking. “Not that there would have been any point in doing any less. Mr. Lambert is largely responsible for my success. He would be in a better position to estimate my financial future than my banker or my broker would.”

  “Have you some other encumbrance, Mr. Melville? A previously incurred relationship, some reason why you are not free to marry?”

  Melville’s voice was very quiet. “No. I …” He looked away from Rathbone, for the first time avoiding his eyes. “I simply cannot bear to! I like Zillah … Miss Lambert. I regard her as a good and charming friend, but I do not wish to marry her!” He looked up again quickly, this time meeting Rathbone’s eyes, and his voice was urgent. “It all happened around me … without my even being sensible to what was occurring. That may sound absurd to you, but believe me, it is true. I took it to be a most pleasant acquaintance.” His eyes softened. “A mutual interest in art and music and other pleasures of the mind, discussion, appreciation of the beauties of nature and of thought … I—I found her a most delightful friend … gentle, modest, intelligent …” Suddenly the desperation was back in his face. “I discovered to my horror that Zillah’s mother had completely misunderstood. She had read it as a declaration of love, and before I knew where I was, she had begun to make arrangements for a wedding!”

  He was sitting upright in the chair opposite Rathbone, his back straight, his hands strong and square, the nails very short, as if now and then he bit them. He clasped the chair arms as if he could not let them go.

  “I tried to explain that that was not what I had meant,” he went on, biting his lips as he spoke. “But how do you do that without appearing grossly hurtful, offensive? How do I say that I do not feel that kind of emotion for her without insulting her and wounding her feelings unforgivably?” His voice rose. “And yet I never said anything, so far as I can recall, that sounded like … that was intended to mean … I have racked my brain, Sir Oliver, until I now no longer have any clear recollection of what I did say. I only know that announcements have been made in the Times, and the date is set, and I had no say in the matter at all.” His face was pale, except for two spots of color in his cheeks. “It has all happened as if I were a prop in the center of some stage around whom the whole dance revolves, and yet I can do nothing at all to affect it. And suddenly the music is going to stop, and they are all going to wait for me to play my part and make everyone happy. I can’t do it!” He was filled with quiet despair, like a trapped creature who can no longer fight and has nowhere to run.

  Rathbone found his sympathy touched in spite of his better judgment.

  “Has Miss Lambert any idea of your feelings?” he asked.

  Melville’s shoulders lifted slightly.

  “I don’t know; I don’t think so. She is … she is caught up in the wedding plans. I sometimes look at her face and it seems to me as if it is quite unreal to her. It is the wedding itself which has occasioned such enormous preparation, the gown, the wedding breakfast, who will be invited and who will not, what society will think.”

  Rathbone found himself smiling with the same half-ironic appreciation of frailty and fear that he had seen in Melville’s eyes. He had some slight experience of society matrons who had successfully married a daughter, to the envy and the chagrin of their friends. Appearance far outweighed substance at that point. They had long ago ceased to consider whether the bride was happy, confident, or even what she actually wished. They assumed it must be what they wished for her, and acted accordingly.

  Then he was afraid Melville might think he was laughing at him, which was far from the case. He leaned forward.

  “I sympathize, Mr. Melville. It is most unpleasant to feel manipulated and as if no one is listening to you or considering your wishes. But then, from those of my friends who are married, I believe it is a not uncommon experience at the time of the ceremony itself. The bridegroom can seem little more than a necessary part of the stage property and not a principal in the act. That will pass, immediately after the day itself is over.”

  “I am not suffering from nervousness of the day, Sir Oliver,” Melville said levelly, although such self-control obviously cost him a great effort of will. “Nor do I feel any pique at being placed at the side of events rather than in the center. I simply cannot”—he seemed to have difficulty forming the words with his lips—“bear … to find myself married to Zillah … Miss Lambert. I have no desire to be married to anyone at all. If at some time I shall have, it will be of my own choosing, and of theirs, not something that has been assumed by others and organized around me. I …” Now at last there was a thread of real panic in him, and his knuckles were white where he gripped the ends of the chair arms. “I feel trapped!”

  Rathbone could see that he spoke the truth.

  “I assume you have done what you can to escape the contract—”

  “There was no contract!” Melville cut across him. “Simply an assumption, which I did not realize soon enough to deny with any dignity or sensitivity. Now it is too late. My refusal, all my arguments, will be seen as a breach of promise.” His green-blue eyes were growing wilder, his words more rapid. “They forget what was actually said and remember the facts quite differently from the reality. I cannot stand there and argue ‘You said this’ and ‘I said that.’ “He jerked one hand up sharply. “It would be absurd and degrading, and achieve nothing but mutual blame and hurt. I assure you, Sir Oliver, Mrs. Lambert is never going to admit she presumed something which was not so and that I gave her daughter no proposal of marriage, literal or implicit. How could she, now that she has announ
ced it to the world?”

  Rathbone could see that that was indeed so unlikely as to be considered impossible.

  “And Mr. Lambert?” He made a last attempt, more out of habit than a belief he would learn anything which would provide a defense.

  Melville’s expression was difficult to read, a mixture of admiration and despair. He sank back in the chair. “Mr. Lambert is an honest man, straightforward in word and deed. He drives a hard bargain, which is how he made his fortune, but strictly fair.” The lines around his mouth softened. “But of course he loves his daughter, and he’s fiercely loyal. He’s sensitive about his northern roots and he sometimes fancies high society thinks the less of him because he earned his money in trade … and for that matter, so they do.” He winced a little. “I suppose it was unnecessary to say that. I apologize.”

  Rathbone waved it aside. “So he would be quick to defend her from anything he saw as an insult,” he concluded.

  “Yes. And there is hardly a greater insult than to break a contract of marriage.” The fear was sharp in Melville’s voice again. “He cannot afford to believe me that there was none. Mrs. Lambert is a formidable woman—” He stopped abruptly.

  “I see.” Rathbone did see, extremely clearly, the nature of the predicament. He also felt increasingly certain that Melville was withholding something which he knew to be of importance. “Have you told me all the facts, Mr. Melville?”

  “All that are relevant, yes.” Melville spoke so unhesitatingly that Rathbone was sure he was lying. He had been expecting the question and was prepared for it.

  “You have not found your affections engaged elsewhere?” He looked at Melville closely and thought he saw a faint flush in his cheeks, although his eyes did not waver.

  “I have no desire or intention of marrying anyone else,” Melville said with conviction. “You may search all you care to, you will find nothing to suggest I have paid the slightest court to any other lady. I work extremely hard, Sir Oliver. It is one of the most difficult things in the world to establish oneself as an architect.” There was a ring of bitterness in his voice, and something which was almost certainly pride. His clear eyes were filled with light. “It requires time and skill in negotiation, patience, the art of diplomacy, as well as a vision of precisely what makes a building both beautiful and functional, strong enough to endure through generations of time and yet not so exorbitantly expensive that no one can afford to construct it. It requires a magnitude of ideas and yet note of the minutest detail. Perhaps the law is the same.” He raised his brows and stared questioningly, almost challengingly. For the first time Rathbone was conscious of the man’s remarkable mind, the breadth and the power of his intellect. He must indeed have an extraordinary strength of will. His present problem was not indicative of his character. He was certainly not a man of indecision.