Revenge in a Cold River by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online

circumstances would tempt Oliver to take the law into his own hands, and so bring about his disbarment?
    She remembered flashes of conversation, but above all the look in Ingram’s eyes. Yes…yes, he knew, and had intended it to happen exactly as it had.
    Rathbone had been perhaps the most brilliant lawyer in London, even in England. He was articulate, witty, and unconventional. He dared to take cases others might have avoided. He won even when it had seemed impossible. He was elevated to the bench. And he was in love with Ingram York’s wife. Nothing had ever been said, but she knew it.
    And Ingram knew it! It was probably that which had provoked his complete loss of control, and the apoplectic fit that had resulted in his being taken to the hospital, paralyzed, and half out of his wits. Beata had been in limbo since then. But now that Ingram was dead, after a suitable period of mourning, she and Rathbone would be free to…what? Marry? Of course! He would ask her. Obliquely he had said as much. At least she thought he had.
    But now that they were both free, the reality of the situation might make their feelings different. When things were only dreams, they were so very much safer.
    Rathbone had had an unhappy marriage. Ingram had at least created the situation that had ended it—unintentionally, of course. Margaret Rathbone had left Oliver before then, when he had earlier on defended her father the best he could, but failed to save him from conviction for murder. Margaret believed her father innocent, in spite of damning evidence, and blamed Rathbone for his death. Rathbone’s open disgrace and disbarment had given Margaret the social excuse to sue him for divorce, which he had not contested.
    He was in front of Beata now, slender, elegantly dressed as always, and suitably in black for the funeral of an eminent judge. He was possibly the only person who knew how Ingram had really died, isolated in the horror of his own mind.
    “Please accept my sympathies, Lady York,” Rathbone said gravely. His eyes met hers, searching to know how she was, to give her support and a warmth he could not show. “It must be a very difficult day for you.”
    “Thank you, Sir Oliver,” she replied. “Everyone has been very generous. It is something to be grateful for.” She had imagined this meeting, when Ingram was gone and it was the beginning of the future. She had thought it would be easier. She was a very accomplished woman, gracious with everyone, able to wear a mask of dignity—and, more than that, charm—no matter how she felt inside. In fact, she was certain that her composure had never slipped. If it had, someone would have commented, and sooner or later it would have come back to her.
    With Rathbone, she had always been in control, beautiful in her own way, unattainable to him. Why on earth was she stumbling inside now, and so afraid? Please heaven, people would put it down to the occasion. Ingram’s death had been expected for more than a year, yet the reality of it was different. There was no surprise, but still there was shock, a kind of numbness.
    “He was greatly respected,” Rathbone was saying.
    Was he respected? Or did at least some of his colleagues know what he was really like? Did he tell stories about what he had done to her? Men did—some men. She was not completely naïve.
    Rathbone was looking at her, waiting for her to answer, however meaninglessly. Had
he
heard stories? The blood flamed up her face, as hot as fire.
    “I…I believe so,” she said abruptly. “But people are generous at such times….”
    Now Rathbone smiled. “Of course they are,” he agreed wryly. “Either they thought well of him, or they are secretly highly relieved that he has gone.” He gave the slightest shrug. “Or else, of course, they have the deepest respect for you, and would go to considerable lengths to offer you whatever comfort or support they can. Why would any of us speak ill of him now? It cannot harm him, and