Weighed in the Balance

9

LATE IN OCTOBER, the day before the trial began, Rathbone was joined at his club by the Lord Chancellor.

“Afternoon, Rathbone.” He sank gently into the seat opposite and crossed his legs. Immediately, the steward was at his elbow.

“Brandy,” the Lord Chancellor said agreeably. “Got some Napoleon brandy, I know. Bring a spot, and for Sir Oliver, too.”

“Thank you,” Rathbone accepted with surprise—and a little foreboding.

The Lord Chancellor looked at him gravely. “Nasty business,” he said with a very faint smile which did not reach his eyes. They were steady, clear and cold. “I hope you are going to be able to handle it with discretion. Can’t predict a woman like that. Have to tread very warily. Can’t get her to withdraw, I suppose?”

“No sir,” Rathbone confessed. “I’ve tried every argument I can think of.”

“Most unfortunate.” The Lord Chancellor frowned. The steward brought the brandy, and he thanked him for it. Rathbone took his. It could have been cold tea for any pleasure he had in it. “Most unfortunate,” the Lord Chancellor repeated, sipping at the balloon glass in his hands and then continuing to warm the liquid and savor its aroma. “Still, no doubt you have it all in control.”

“Yes, naturally,” Rathbone lied. No point in admitting defeat before it was inevitable.

“Indeed.” The Lord Chancellor was apparently not so easily satisfied. “I trust you have some means of preventing her from making any further ill-considered remarks in open court? You must find some way of convincing her not only that she has nothing to gain, but that she still has something to lose.” He regarded Rathbone closely.

There was no avoiding a reply, and it must be specific.

“She is most concerned in the future of her country,” he said with assurance. “She will not do anything which will further jeopardize its struggle to retain independence.”

“I do not find that of any particular comfort, Sir Oliver,” the Lord Chancellor said grimly.

Rathbone hesitated. He had had it in mind that he should at least prevent Zorah from implicating Queen Ulrike, either directly or indirectly. But if the Lord Chancellor had not thought of that disaster, he would not put it into his way,

“I shall persuade her certain charges or insinuations would be against her country’s welfare,” Rathbone replied.

“Will you,” the Lord Chancellor said doubtfully.

Rathbone smiled.

The Lord Chancellor smiled back bleakly and finished his brandy.

His words were echoing in Rathbone’s head the following day when the trial began. It was expected to be the slander case of the century, and long before the judge called the court to order, the benches were packed and there was not even room to stand at the back. The ushers had the greatest possible difficulty in keeping the aisles sufficiently clear to avoid hazard to safety.

Before entering the courtroom, Rathbone tried one last time to persuade Zorah to withdraw.

“It is not too late,” he said urgently. “You can still admit you were overcome by grief and spoke without due thought.”

“I am not overcome,” she said with a self-mocking smile. “I spoke after very careful thought indeed, and I meant what I said.” She was dressed in tawny reds and browns. Her jacket was beautifully tailored to her slender shoulders and straight back, and the skirt swept out in an unbroken line over its hoops. Her attire was devastatingly unsuitable for the occasion. She did not look remotely penitent or consumed by grief. She looked magnificent.

“I am going into battle without weapons or armor.” He heard his voice rise in desperation. “I still have nothing!”

“You have great skill.” She smiled at him, her green eyes bright with confidence. He had no idea whether it was real or assumed. As always, she took no notice whatever of what he said, except to find a disarming reply. He had never had a more irresponsible client, or one who tried his patience so far.

“There is no point in being the best shot in the world if you have no weapon to fire,” he protested, “and no ammunition.”

“You will find something.” She lifted her chin a little. “Now, Sir Oliver, is it not time for us to enter the fray? The usher is beckoning. He is an usher, is he not, that little man over there waving at you? That is the correct term?”

Rathbone did not bother to answer but stood aside for her to precede him. He squared his shoulders and adjusted his cravat for the umpteenth time, actually sending it slightly askew, and went into the courtroom. He must present the perfect image.

Instantly the hum of conversation ceased. Everyone was staring, first at him, then at Zorah. She walked across the small space of the open floor to the seats at the table for the defendant, her head high, her back stiff, looking neither right nor left.

There was a dull murmur of resentment. Everyone was curious to see the woman who could be so unimaginably wicked as to make such an accusation as this against one of the heroines of the age. People craned forward to stare, their faces hardened with anger and dislike. Rathbone could feel it like a cold wave as he followed her, held the chair for her as she sat with extraordinary grace and swept her huge skirts about her.

The murmur of sound started again, movement, whispered words.

Then a moment later there was silence. The farther door opened and Ashley Harvester, Q.C., held it while his client, the widowed Princess Gisela, came into the court. One could sense the electric excitement, the indrawn breath of anticipation.

Rathbone’s first thought was that she was smaller than he had expected. There was no reason for it, but he had imagined the woman who had been the center of the two greatest royal scandals in her nation’s history to be more imposing. She was so thin as to look fragile, as if rough handling would break her. She was dressed in unrelieved black, from the exquisite hat with the widow’s veil and the perfectly cut jacket bodice, emphasizing her delicate shoulders and waist, to the huge taffeta skirt which made her body seem almost doll-like above it, as if she would snap off in the middle were anyone to be ungentle with her.

There was a sigh of outgoing breath around the crowd. Spontaneously, a man called out “Bravo!” and a woman sobbed “God bless you!”

Slowly, with black-gloved hands, Gisela lifted her veil, then turned hesitantly and gave them a wan smile.

Rathbone stared at her with overwhelming curiosity. She was not beautiful, she never had been, and grief had ravaged her face until there was no color in it at all. Her hair was all but invisible under the hat, but the little one could see was dark. Her forehead was high, her brows level and well marked, her eyes large. She stared straight ahead of her with intelligence and dignity, but there was a tightness in her, especially about the mouth. Considering her total bereavement, and this fearful accusation on top of it, the fact that she had any composure at all was to her credit. If she were tense while facing a woman who was so passionately her enemy, who could be surprised or critical?

After that one gesture to the gallery, she took her seat at the plaintiff’s table without looking left or right, and markedly avoided letting her eyes stray anywhere near Rathbone or Zorah.

The crowd was so fascinated they barely noticed Ashley Harvester as he followed and took his place. He had sat down before Rathbone looked at him. And yet it was Harvester who was his adversary, Harvester’s skill he would have to try to counter. Rathbone had not faced him in court before, but he knew his reputation. He was a man of intense convictions, prepared to fight any battle for a principle in which he believed and ready to take on any foe. He sat now with his long, lean face set in an expression of concentration which made him look extremely severe. His nose was straight, his eyes deep-socketed and pale, his lips thin. Whether he had the slightest shred of humor Rathbone had yet to learn.

The judge was an elderly man with a curious appearance. The flesh covering his bones seemed so slight one was unusually aware of the skull beneath, and yet it was the least frightening of countenances. At first glance one might have thought him weak, perhaps a man holding office more by privilege of birth than any skill or intelligence of his own. In a gentle voice, he called for order and he obtained it instantly—not so much by authority as from the fact that no one in that packed room wished to miss a word of what was said by the protagonists in this extraordinary case.

Rathbone looked across at the jury. As he had said to his father, they were, by definition, men of property—it was a qualification for selection. They were dressed in their best dark suits, stiff white collars, sober waistcoats, high-buttoned coats. After all, there was royalty present, even if of a dubious and disowned nature. And there was certainly a great deal of noble blood and ancient lineage, either here in the court or to be called. They looked as solemn as became the occasion, expressions grave, hair and whiskers combed. Every one of them faced forward, barely blinking.

In the gallery, reporters for the press sat with their pencils poised, blank pages in front of them. No one moved.

The hearing commenced.

Ashley Harvester rose to his feet.

“My lord, gentlemen of the jury.” His voice was precise, with a faint accent from somewhere in the Midlands. He had done his best to school it out, but it lingered in certain vowels. “On the face of it, this case is not a dramatic or distressing one. No one has received a grievous injury to his or her person.” He spoke quietly and without gestures. “There is no bloodstained corpse, no mangled survivor of assault to obtain your pity. There is not even anyone robbed of life’s savings or of prosperity. There is no business failed, no home in smoldering ruins.” He gave a very slight shrug of his lean shoulders, as if the matter held some kind of irony. “All we are dealing with is a matter of words.” He stopped, his back to Rathbone.

There was silence in the room.

In the gallery, a woman caught her breath and started to cough.

A juror blinked several times.

Harvester smiled mirthlessly. “But then the Lord’s Prayer is only words, is it not? The Coronation Oath is words … and the marriage ceremony.” He was talking to the jury. “Do you regard these things as light matters?” He did not wait for any kind of reply. He saw all he needed in their faces. “A man’s honor may rest in the words he speaks, or a woman’s. All we are going to use in this court today, and in the days that follow, are words. My learned friend”—he lifted his head a little towards Rathbone—“and I shall do battle here, and we shall have no weapons but words and the memory of those words. We shall not raise our fists to each other.”

Someone gave a nervous giggle and instantly choked it off.

“We shall not carry swords or pistols,” he continued. “And yet on the outcome of such struggles as these have hung the lives of men, their fame, their honor and their fortunes.”

He turned slowly so he was half facing the jury, half the gallery.

“It is not lightly that the New Testament of Our Lord states that ’In the beginning was the Word—and the Word was with God—and the Word was God.’ Nor is it by chance that to take the name of God in vain is the unutterable sin of blasphemy.” His voice altered suddenly until it was grating with anger, cutting across the silence of the room. “To take any man’s or woman’s name in vain, to bear false witness, to spread lies, is a crime that cries out for justice and for reparation!”

It was the opening Rathbone would have used had he been conducting Gisela’s case himself. He applauded it grimly in his mind.

“To steal another’s good name is worse than to steal his house, or his money, or his clothes,” Harvester went on. “To say of another what has been said of my client is beyond understanding, and for many, beyond forgiveness. When you have heard the evidence, you will feel as outraged as I do—of that, I have no doubt whatever.”

He swung back to the judge.

“My lord, I call my first witness, Lord Wellborough.”

There was a murmur in the gallery, and several scores of people craned their necks to watch as Lord Wellborough came through the doors from the outer chamber where he had been waiting. He was not immediately an imposing figure because he was of fractionally less than average height and his hair and eyes were pale. But he carried himself well, and his clothes spoke of money and assurance.

He mounted the steps to the witness stand and took the oath. He kept his eyes on Harvester, not looking at the judge—nor at Zorah, sitting beside Rathbone. He seemed grave but not in the least anxious.

“Lord Wellborough,” Harvester began as he walked out into the small space of open floor in front of the witness stand and up its several steps, almost like a pulpit. He was obliged to look upward. “Are you acquainted with both the plaintiff and the defendant in this case?”

“Yes sir, I am.”

“Were they both guests in your home in Berkshire at the time of the tragic accident and subsequent death of Prince Friedrich, the plaintiff’s late husband?”

“They were.”

“Have you seen the plaintiff since she left your home shortly after that event?”

“No sir. Prince Friedrich’s funeral was held in Wellborough. There was a memorial service in Venice, where the Prince and Princess spent most of their time, so I believe, but I was unable to travel.”

“Have you seen the defendant since that time?” Harvester’s voice was mild, as if the questions were of no more than social interest.

“Yes sir, I have, on several occasions,” Wellborough replied, his voice sharpening with sudden anger.

In the gallery, several people sat a little more uprightly.

“Can you tell me what happened at the first of these occasions, Lord Wellborough?” Harvester prompted. “Please do describe it with a modicum of detail, sufficient so that the gentlemen of the jury, who were naturally not present, may perceive the situation, but not so much as to distract them from what is germane to the case.”

“Most certainly.” Wellborough turned to face the jury.

The judge’s face so far wore an expression of unemotional interest.

“It was a dinner party given by Lady Easton,” Wellborough told the jurors. “There were about two dozen of us at the table. It had been a very agreeable occasion and we were in good spirits until someone, I forget who, reminded us of the death of Prince Friedrich some six months earlier. Immediately we all became a trifle somber. It was an event which had saddened us all. I and several others spoke of our sorrow, and some of us also spoke of our grief for the widowed Princess. They expressed concern for her, both her devastating loss, knowing how deeply and utterly they had cared for each other, and also for her welfare, now that she was completely alone in the world.”

Several of the jurors nodded. One pursed his lips.

There was a murmur of commiseration from the gallery.

Harvester glanced at Gisela, who sat motionless. She had removed her gloves, and her hands lay on the table in front of her, bare but for the gold wedding ring on her right hand and the black mourning ring on the left. Her hands were small and strong, rather square.

“Proceed,” Harvester said softly.

“The Countess Zorah Rostova was also present among the dinner guests,” Wellborough said, his voice thick with distaste, and there flickered across his eyes and mouth something which could have been anxiety.

Rathbone thought of Monk’s last trip to Wellborough, and wondered precisely how he had elicited Wellborough’s cooperation, almost fruitless though it had proved.

Harvester waited.

The room was silent except for the slight whispers of breathing. A woman’s whalebone corset creaked.

“Countess Rostova said that she had no doubt that Princess Gisela would be well provided for and that the grief would be assuaged in time,” Wellborough continued. His mouth tightened. “I thought it a tasteless remark, and I believe that someone else passed a comment to that effect. To which she replied that considering Gisela had murdered Friedrich, the remark was really very mild.”

He was prevented from going any further by the gasps and murmurs from the body of the court.

The judge did not intervene but allowed the reaction to run its course.

Rathbone found his muscles clenching. It was going to be every bit as hard as he had feared. He looked sideways at Zorah’s powerful profile, her long nose, eyes too widely spaced, subtle, sensitive mouth. She was insane, she must be. It was the only answer. Was insanity a plea in cases of slander? Of course not. It was a civil case, not a criminal one.

He did not mean to look at Harvester, least of all to catch his eye, but he found himself doing it. He saw what he thought was a flash of rueful humor, but perhaps it was only pity and knowledge of his own unassailable case.

“And what was the reaction around the table to this statement. Lord Wellborough?” Harvester asked when the noise had subsided sufficiently.

“Horror, of course,” Wellborough answered with anxiety. “There were those who chose to assume she must mean it in some kind of bizarre humor, and they laughed. I daresay they were so embarrassed they had no idea what else to do.”

“Did the Countess Rostova explain herself?” Harvester raised his eyebrows. “Did she offer a mitigation as to why she had said such an outrageous thing?”

“No, she did not.”

“Not even to Lady Easton, her hostess?”

“No. Poor Lady Easton was mortified. She hardly knew what to say or do to cover the situation. Everyone was acutely uncomfortable.”

“I should imagine so,” Harvester agreed. “You are quite sure the Countess did not apologize?”

“Far from it,” Wellborough said angrily, his hands gripping the edge of the railing of the box as he leaned forward on it. “She said it again.”

“In your hearing, Lord Wellborough?”

“Of course in my hearing!” Wellborough said. “I know better than to repeat something in court which I do not know for myself.”

Harvester’s composure was unruffled. “Are you referring to that same dinner party or to some other occasion?”

“Both …” Wellborough straightened up. “She made the statement again that evening when Sir Gerald Bretherton remonstrated with her, protesting that she surely could not mean such a thing. She assured him that she did—”

“And what was the reaction to her charge?” Harvester interrupted. “Did anyone argue with her, or did they dismiss it as bad behavior, possibly the act of someone overwrought or who had indulged too much?”

“They tried to do that,” Wellborough agreed. “Then she made the same charge again about a week later, at a theater party. The play was a drama. I cannot remember the title, but she said again that the Princess Gisela had murdered Prince Friedrich. It was an appalling scene. People tried to pretend they had not heard, or that it had been somehow a wretched joke, but it was perfectly apparent that she meant precisely what she said.”

“Are you aware, Lord Wellborough, of whether anyone gave the charge the slightest credence?” Harvester spoke softly, but his words fell with great deliberation and clarity, and he glanced towards the jury and then back again at the witness stand. “Please be most careful how you answer.”

“I shall be.” Wellborough did not take his eyes off Harvester’s face. “I heard several people say it was the most malicious nonsense they had ever heard, and of course there could be no question of there being an atom of truth to it.”

“Hear, hear!” a man called from the gallery, and was met with immediate applause.

The judge gave the audience a warning look, but he did not intervene.

Rathbone’s jaw tightened. His best hope might have been a strong and subtle judge. But perhaps he was being foolish to believe he had a hope at all. The Lord Chancellor’s words rang in his ears. Was this discretion or simply absolute surrender?

Beside him, Zorah was impassive. Maybe she still did not realize her position.

“From those who knew her, of course,” Wellborough said, still answering the question. “And from a great many who did not. But there were those who repeated it, and the ignorant began to question. There were servants who spread tittle-tattle. It caused much distress.”

“To whom?” Harvester said quietly.

“To many people, but the Princess Gisela in particular,” Wellborough said slowly.

“Did you meet anyone personally for whom her reputation had suffered?” Harvester pressed.

Wellborough shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Yes, I did. I heard ugly remarks on several occasions, and when the Princess wished to return to England for a short stay, it became impossible to employ acceptable staff to look after a small house for her.”

“How very unpleasant,” Harvester sympathized. “Have you reason to believe this occurred as a result of these accusations by the Countess Rostova?”

“I am quite sure it did,” Wellborough replied coldly. “My butler attempted to employ a household so she could stay peacefully for a few months during the summer, to get away from the heat of Venice. She wished to retire here away from public life, quite naturally in the circumstances. This fearful business has made it impossible. We were unable to obtain a satisfactory staff. Rumor had already spread by word of mouth of the ignorant.”

There was a murmur of sympathy from the gallery.

“How distressing.” Harvester shook his head. “So the Princess was unable to come?”

“She was obliged to stay with friends, which did not offer her either the privacy or the seclusion which she had desired in her bereavement.”

“Thank you, Lord Wellborough. If you could remain where you are, my learned friend may have questions to ask you.”

Rathbone rose to his feet. He could almost feel the tension crackle in the air around him. He had racked his brain to think of anything to say to Wellborough, but everything that came to his tongue could only have made matters worse.

The judge looked at him inquiringly.

“No questions, thank you, my lord,” he said with a dry mouth, and resumed his seat.

Lord Wellborough moved down the steps, walked smartly to the door and went out.

Harvester called Lady Wellborough.

She took the stand nervously. She was dressed in a mixture of dark brown and black, as if she could not make up her mind whether she should be in mourning or not. A death was being discussed, a murder was being denied.

“Lady Wellborough,” Harvester began gently, “I do not have many questions to ask you, and they all concern what may have been said by Countess Rostova and what effect it had.”

“I understand,” she replied in a small voice. She stood with her hands folded in front of her and her eyes wandering to Gisela, then to Zorah. She did not look at the jury.

“Very well. May I begin by taking your mind back to the dinner party you and Lord Wellborough attended at Lady Easton’s house in London? Do you recall that occasion?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Did you hear the Countess Rostova make the reference to Princess Gisela and Prince Friedrich’s death?”

“Yes. She said that the Princess had murdered him.”

Rathbone looked across to where Gisela sat. He tried to read the expression in her face and found himself unable to. She appeared unmoved, almost as if she did not understand what was being said. Or perhaps it was that she did not care. Everything that had passion or meaning for her was already irretrievably in the past, had died with the only man she had loved. What was being played out in the courtroom barely impinged on her consciousness—a farce with no reality.

“Did she say it once or several times?” Harvester’s voice brought Rathbone’s attention back.

“She repeated it again on at least three other occasions that I know of,” Lady Wellborough answered. “I heard it all over London, so heaven knows how many times she said it altogether.”

“You mean it became a subject of discussion—of gossip, if you like?” Harvester prompted.

Her eyes widened. “Of course. You can hardly hear something like that and not react to it.”

“So people repeated it whether they believed it or not?”

“Yes … yes, I don’t think anyone believed it. I mean … of course they didn’t.” She colored. “It’s preposterous!”

“But they still repeated it?” he insisted.

“Well … yes.”

“Do you know where the Princess was at the time, Lady Wellborough?”

“Yes, she was in Venice.”

“Was she aware of what was being said about her?”

She colored faintly. “Yes … I … I wrote and told her. I felt she should know.” She bit her lip. “I hated doing it. It took me over an hour to compose a letter, but I could not allow this to be said and go uncontested. I could defend her by denying it, but I could not initiate any proceedings.” She stared at Harvester as she said it, a slight frown on her brow.

Rathbone thought she seemed very concerned that Harvester should understand her reasons, and it occurred to him that perhaps he had coached her to give this answer, and she was watching him to see if she had done so correctly. But it was a fact that was of no use. There was nothing he could make of it to help Zorah.

“You gave her the opportunity to defend herself in law,” Harvester concluded. “Which she is now taking. Did you receive a reply to your letter?”

“Yes, I did.”

There was a murmur of approval from the gallery. One of the jurors nodded gravely.

Harvester produced a piece of pale blue paper and offered it to the usher.

“My lord, may I place this letter into evidence and ask the witness to identify it?”

“You may,” the judge agreed.

Lady Wellborough said that it was the letter she had received, and in a slightly husky voice, she read it aloud to the court, quoting the date and the plantiff’s address in Venice. She glanced at Gisela only once and met with the merest acknowledgment.

“ ’My dear Emma,’ ” she began in an uncertain voice “ ’Your letter shocked and grieved me beyond words. I hardly knew how to set pen to paper to write you a sensible answer.’ ”

She stopped and cleared her throat without looking up from the paper.

“ ’First may I thank you for being such a true friend to me as to tell me this terrible news. It cannot have been easy even to think how to say it. Sometimes the cruelty of life seems beyond bearing.

“ ’I thought when my beloved Friedrich died there was nothing else left to hope or fear. For me it was the end of everything that was happy or beautiful or precious in any way. I truly did not think any other blow could wound me. How very wrong I was. I cannot begin to describe how this hurts. To imagine that anyone at all, any human being with a heart or a soul, could think that I could have injured the man who was the love and core of my life, is a pain I do not think I can bear. I am beside myself with grief.

“ ’If she does not withdraw absolutely, and confess she was intoxicated or mad, I shall have to take her to court. I shall loathe every second of it, but I have no choice. I will not have Friedrich spoken of so—I will not have our love defiled. To my everlasting grief and loneliness, I could not save his life, but I will save his reputation as the man I loved and adored above all others. I will not, I will not have the world suppose I betrayed him.

“ ’I remain your indebted friend, Gisela.’ ”

She let the paper rest on the railing and looked up at Harvester, her face white, struggling to keep her composure.

No one was looking at her; almost every eye was on Gisela, even if all they could see was her profile. Several women in the gallery sniffed audibly, and one juror sat staring fixedly and blinking rapidly. Another blew his nose unnecessarily hard.

Harvester cleared his throat.

“I think we can safely assume that Princess Gisela was deeply distressed by this turn of events, and it caused her even greater pain above that which she already suffered in her bereavement.”

Lady Wellborough nodded.

Harvester invited Rathbone to question the witness.

Rathbone declined. He heard the rustle of surprise from the gallery, and his eye caught the movement of a juror and the disbelief in his face. But there was nothing at all he could do. In such a desperate situation anything he said would only give Lady Wellborough the opportunity to repeat her evidence.

The judge adjourned the court for luncheon, and Rathbone strode past Harvester and went immediately to the private room where he could speak to Zorah alone, almost dragging her with him, leaving the ugly mutters or grumbles of the crowd as the gallery was cleared.

“Gisela did not kill Friedrich,” he said the moment the door was closed. “I have no evidence to make your charge even seem reasonable, let alone true! For heaven’s sake, withdraw now. Admit you spoke out of emotion and were mistaken—”

“I was not mistaken,” she said flatly, her green eyes calm and perfectly level. “I will not abandon the truth simply because it has become uncomfortable. I am surprised that you think I might. Is this the courage in the face of fire which earned you an empire?”

“Charging into the enemy’s guns may make you a name in history,” he said acidly. “But it is an idiotic sacrifice of life. It’s all very poetic, but the reality is death, agony, crippled bodies and widows weeping at home, mothers who never see their sons again. It is more than time you stopped dreaming and looked at life as it is.” He heard his voice growing higher and louder and he could not help it. He was clenching his fists until his muscles ached, and without being aware of it, he chopped his hand up and down in the air. “Did you not hear that letter? Didn’t you look at the jurors’ faces? Gisela is a heroine, the ideal of their romantic imagination! You have attacked her with a charge you cannot prove, and that makes you a villain. Nothing I can say is going to change that. If I counterattack it will make it worse.”

She stood quite still, her face pale, her shoulders squared, her voice low and a little shaky.

“You give up too easily. We have barely begun. No sensible person makes a decision when he has heard only one side of a story. And sensible or not, the jury is obliged to wait and hear us as well. Is that not what the law is for, to allow both sides to put forward their case?”

“You have no case!” he shouted, then instantly regretted losing his self-control. It was undignified and served no purpose whatever. He should never have allowed himself to become so uncontrolled. “You have no case,” he repeated in a calmer voice. ’The very best we can do is present evidence indicating that Friedrich was murdered by someone, but we cannot possibly prove it was Gisela! You will have to withdraw and apologize sooner or later, or suffer the full punishment the law may decide, and it may be very high indeed. You will lose your reputation …”

“Reputation.” She laughed a little nervously. “Do you not think I have lost that already, Sir Oliver? All I have left now is what little money my family settled on me, and if she takes that, she is welcome. She cannot take my integrity or wit, or my beliefs.”

Rathbone opened his mouth to argue, and then conceded the total pointlessness of it. She was not listening. Maybe she had never really listened to him.

“Then …” he began, and realized that what he was about to suggest was futile also.

“Yes?” she inquired.

He had been going to advise her to keep her bearing modest, but that would no doubt be a wasted request. It was not in her nature.

The first witness of the afternoon was Florent Barberini. Rathbone was curious to see him. He was extremely handsome in a Latin fashion, somewhat melodramatic for Rathbone’s taste. He was inclined not to like the man.

“Were you at Wellborough Hall at the time of Prince Friedrich’s death, Mr. Barberini?” Harvester began quite casually. He chose to use an English form of address, rather than the Italian or German forms.

“Yes, I was,” Florent replied.

“Did you remain in England afterwards for some time?”

“No, I returned to Venice for Prince Friedrich’s memorial service. I did not come back to England for about six months.”

“You were devoted to Prince Friedrich?”

“I am Venetian. It is my home,” he corrected.

Harvester was unruffled.

“But you did return to England?”

“Yes.”

“Why, if Venice is your home?”

“Because I had heard word that the Countess Rostova had made an accusation of murder against Princess Gisela. I wished to know if that were so, and if it was, to persuade her to withdraw it immediately.”

“I see.” Harvester folded his hands behind his back. “And when you arrived in London, what did you hear?”

Florent looked down, his brow furrowed. He must have expected the question, but obviously it made him unhappy.

“That apparently the Countess Rostova had quite openly made the charge of which I had heard,” he answered.

“Once?” Harvester pressed, moving a step or two to face the witness from a slightly different direction. “Several times? Did you hear her make it yourself, or only hear of it from others?”

“I heard her myself,” Florent admitted. He looked up, his eyes wide and dark. “But I did not meet anyone who believed it.”

“How do you know that, Mr. Barberini?” Harvester raised his eyebrows.

“They said so.”

“And you are sure that was the truth?” Harvester sounded incredulous but still polite, if only just. “They disclaimed in public, as is only civil, perhaps only to be expected. But are you as sure they still thought the same in private? Did not the vaguest of doubts enter their minds?”

“I know only what they said,” Florent replied.

Rathbone rose to his feet.

“Yes, yes,” the judge agreed before he spoke. “Mr. Harvester, your questions are rhetorical, and this is not the place for them. You contradict yourself, as you know perfectly well. Mr. Barberini has no possible way of knowing what people thought other than as they expressed it. He has said all those whom he knew spoke their disbelief. If you wish us to suppose they thought otherwise, then you will have to demonstrate that for us.”

“My lord, I am about to do so.” Harvester was not in the least disconcerted. Neither would Rathbone have been in his place. He had every card in the game, and he knew it.

Harvester turned with a smile to Florent.

“Mr. Barberini, do you have any knowledge of injury this accusation may have caused the Princess Gisela, apart from emotional distress?”

Florent hesitated.

“Mr. Barberini?” Harvester prompted.

Florent raised his head.

“When I returned to Venice I heard the rumors repeated there—” He stopped again.

“And were they equally disbelieved in Venice, Mr. Barberini?” Harvester said softly.

Again Florent hesitated.

The judge leaned forward. “You must answer, sir, to the best of your knowledge. Say only what you know. You are not required to guess—indeed, you must not speculate.”

“No,” Florent said very quietly, so the jurors were obliged to lean forward a little and every sound ceased in the gallery.

“I beg your pardon?” Harvester said clearly.

“No,” Florent repeated. “There were those in Venice who openly wondered if it could be true. But they were very few, perhaps two or three. In any society there are the credulous and the spiteful. The Princess Gisela has lived there for some years. Naturally, as a woman leading in society she has made enemies as well as friends. I doubt anyone truly believed it, but they took the opportunity to repeat it to her discredit.”

“It did her harm, Mr. Barberini?”

“It was unpleasant.”

“It did her harm?” Suddenly Harvester’s voice rose sharply. He was a lean figure, leaning a little backwards to stare up at the witness, but there was no mistaking the authority in him. “Do not be evasive, sir! Did she cease to be invited to certain houses?” He spread his hands. “Were people rude to her? Were they slighting or offensive? Was she insulted? Did she find it embarrassing in certain public places or among her social equals?”

Florent smiled. It took more than even the best barrister to shake his nerve. “You seem to have very slight understanding of the situation, sir,” he answered. “She went into deep mourning as soon as the service of remembrance was over. She remained in her palazzo, seldom receiving visitors or even being seen at the windows. She went out nowhere, accepted no invitations and was seen in no public places. I do not know whether fewer people sent her flowers or letters than would have otherwise. And if they did, one can only guess the reasons. It could have been any of a hundred things. I know what was said, nothing more. Whatever the rumor, there will always be someone to repeat it.” His expression did not change at all. “Ugo Casselli started a story of having seen a mermaid sitting on the steps of the Santa Maria Maggiore in the full moon,” he added. “Some idiot repeated that, too!”

There was a titter of laughter around the gallery which died away instantly as Harvester glared at them.

But Rathbone saw with a sudden, reasonless lift of his heart that the judge was smiling.

“You find the matter humorous?” Harvester said icily to Florent.

Florent knew what he meant, but he chose to misunderstand.

“Hilarious,” he said with wide eyes. “There were two hundred people out in the lagoon next full moon. Business was marvelous. I think it might have been a gondolier who started it.”

Harvester was too clever to allow his temper to mar his performance.

“Most entertaining.” He forced a dry smile. “But a harmless fiction. This fiction of the Countess Rostova’s was anything but harmless, don’t you agree, even if as absurd and as untrue?”

“If you want to be literal,” Florent argued, “it is not of equal absurdity, in my opinion. I do not believe in mermaids, even in Venice. Tragically, women do sometimes murder their husbands.”

Harvester’s face darkened, and he swung around as if to retaliate.

But the rumble of fury from the gallery robbed him of the necessity. A man called out “Shame!” Two or three half rose to their feet. One of them raised his fist.

Several jurors shook their heads, faces tight and hard, lips pursed.

Beside Rathbone, Zorah put up her hands to cover her face, and he saw her shoulders quiver with laughter.

Harvester relaxed. He had no need to fight, and he knew it. He turned to Rathbone.

“Your witness, Sir Oliver.”

Rathbone rose to his feet. He must say something. He had to begin, at least to show that he was in the battle. He had fought without weapons before, and with stakes as high. The judge would know he was playing for time, so would Harvester, but the jury would not. And Florent was almost a friendly witness. He was obviously disposed to make light of the offense. He had once glanced at Zorah with, if not a smile, a kind of softness.

But what could he ask? Zorah was wrong, and she was the only one who did not accept it.

“Mr. Barberini,” he began, sounding far more confident than he felt. He moved slowly onto the floor, anything to give him a moment’s time—although all the time in the world would not help. “Mr. Barberini, you say that, to your knowledge, no one believed this charge the Countess Rostova made?”

“So far as I know,” Florent said guardedly.

Harvester smiled, leaning back in his chair. He glanced at Gisela encouragingly, but she was staring ahead, seemingly unaware of him.

“What about the Countess herself?” Rathbone asked. “Have you any reason to suppose that she did not believe it to be the truth?”

Florent looked surprised. Obviously, it was not the question he had expected.

“None at all,” he answered. “I have no doubt that she believed it absolutely.”

“Why do you say that?” Rathbone was on very dangerous ground, but he had little to lose. It was always perilous to ask a question to which you did not know the answer. He had told enough juniors never to do it.

“Because I know Zorah—Countess Rostova,” Florent replied. “However absurd it is, she would not say it unless she firmly believed it herself.”

Harvester rose to his feet.

“My lord, belief of a truth of a slander is no defense. There are those who sincerely believe the world to be flat. The depth of their sincerity does not make it so, as I am sure my learned friend is aware.”

“I am also quite sure he is aware of it, Mr. Harvester,” the judge agreed, “although it does go to malice. If he should try to persuade the jury it is so, I shall inform them to the contrary, but he has not yet attempted such a thing. Proceed, Sir Oliver, if you have a point to make?”

There was another ripple of amusement in the gallery. Someone giggled.

“Only to establish that the Countess was speaking from conviction, as you have observed, my lord,” Rathbone replied. “And not from mischief or intent to cause damage for its own sake.” He could think of nothing to add to it. He inclined his head and retreated.

Harvester stood up again.

“Mr. Barberini, is this opinion of yours as to the Countess’s sincerity based upon knowledge? Do you know, for example, of some proof she may possess?” The question was sarcastic, but its tone was still just within the realm of politeness.

“If I knew of proof I should not be standing here with it,” Florent replied with a frown. “I should have taken it to the proper authorities immediately. I say only that I am sure she believed it. I don’t know why she did.”

Harvester turned and looked at Zorah, then back to Florent.

“Did you not ask her? Surely, as a friend, either of hers or the Princess’s, it would be the first thing you would do?”

Rathbone winced and went cold inside.

“Of course I asked her,” Florent said angrily. “She told me nothing.”

“Do you mean she told you she had nothing?” Harvester persisted. “Or that she said nothing in reply to you?”

“She said nothing in reply.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barberini. I have no more to ask you.”

The day finished with journalists scrambling to escape with their reports and seize the first hansoms available to race to Fleet Street. Outside, crowds filled the pavements, jostling and elbowing to see the chief protagonists. Cabs and carriages were brought to a halt in the street. Coachmen were shouting. Newsboys’ voices were lost in the general noise. No one wanted to hear news about the war in China, Mr. Gladstone’s financial proposals, or even Mr. Darwin’s blasphemous and heretical notions about the origins of man. There was a passionate human drama playing itself out a few yards away, love and hate, loyalty, sacrifice and an accusation of murder.

Gisela came out of the main entrance, escorted down the steps by Harvester on one side and a large footman on the other. Immediately, a cheer went up from the crowd. Several people threw flowers. Scarves fluttered in the brisk October air, and men waved their hats.

“God bless the Princess!” someone called out, and the cry was taken up by dozens, and then scores.

She stood still, a small, thin figure of immense dignity, her huge black skirt seeming almost to hold her up with its sweeping stiffness, as if it were solid. She waved back with a tiny gesture, then permitted herself to be assisted up to her carriage, plumed and creped in black and drawn by black horses, and moved slowly away.

Zorah’s departure was as different as could be. The crowds were still there, still pressing forward, eager for a glimpse of her, but their mood had changed to one of ugliness and abuse. Nothing was thrown, but Rathbone found himself clenching as if to dodge and instinctively placing himself between Zorah and the crowd.

He almost hustled her to the hansom, and climbed in after her rather than leave her alone, in case the crowd should bar the way and the cabby be unable to make a path into the clearway of the street.

But only one woman pushed forward, shouting unintelligibly, her voice shrill with hatred. The horse was startled and lunged forward, knocking her off balance. She shrieked.

“Get outta the way, yer stupid cow!” the cabby yelled, frightened and taken by surprise himself as the reins were all but yanked out of his grasp. “Sorry, ma’am,” he apologized to Zorah.

Inside the vehicle, Rathbone was jolted against the sides, and Zorah bumped into him and kept her balance only with difficulty.

A moment later they were moving smartly and the angry shouts were behind them. Zorah regained her composure swiftly. She looked straight ahead without rearranging her skirts, as though to do so would be to acknowledge a difficulty and she would not do that.

Rathbone thought of a dozen things to say, and changed his mind about all of them. He looked sideways at Zorah’s face. At first he was not sure if he could see fear in it or not. A dreadful thought occurred to him that perhaps she sought this. The rush of blood, the excitement, the danger might be intoxicants to her. She was the center of attention, albeit hatred, rage, a will to violence. There were some people, a very few, to whom any sort of fame is better than none. To be ignored is a type of death, and it terrifies, it is an engulfing darkness, an annihilation. Anything is better, even loathing.

Was she mad?

If she was, then it was his responsibility to make decisions for her, in her best interest, rather than to allow her to destroy herself, as one would govern a child too young to be answerable. One had a duty to the insane, a legal obligation apart from a humanitarian one. He had been treating her as someone capable of rational judgment, a person able to foresee the results of her actions. Perhaps she was not. Perhaps she was under a compulsion and he had been quite wrong to do so, remiss in his duty both as a lawyer and as a man.

He studied her face. Was that calm he saw in her an inability to understand what had happened and foresee it would get worse?

He opened his mouth to speak, and then did not know what he was going to say.

He looked down at her hands. They were clenched on her skirt, the leather gloves pulled shiny across the knuckles, both hands shaking. He looked up at her face again and knew that the eyes staring straight ahead, the set of the jaw, were not born of indifference or unawareness but were the manifestations of fear even deeper than his own—and a very good knowledge that what was to come would be both ugly and painful.

He sat back and looked ahead, even more confused than before and more confounded as to what he should do.

He had been at home for over two hours when his servant announced that Miss Hester Latterly had called to see him. For a second he was delighted, then his spirits sank again as he realized how little he could tell her that was good, or even clear enough in his mind to be put into words.

“Ask her to come in,” he said rather sharply. It was a cold night. She should not be kept waiting.

“Hester!” he said eagerly when she entered. She looked lovelier than he had remembered. There was color in her cheeks and a gentleness in her eyes, a depth of concern which smoothed out the tension in him and even made the fears recede for a space. “Come in,” he went on warmly. He had already dined, and he assumed she would have also. “May I offer you a glass of wine, perhaps Port?”

“Not yet, thank you,” she declined. “How are you? How is Countess Rostova? I saw how ugly it was when you were leaving the court.”

“You were there? I didn’t see you.” He moved aside so that she might warm herself by the fire. It was only after he had done so that he realized what an extraordinary action it was for him. He would never consciously have yielded a place by the fire to a woman, least of all his own fire. It was a mark of the turmoil in his mind.

“Hardly surprising,” she said with a rueful smile. “We were crammed in like matches in a box. Who can you call to help? Has Monk found anything even remotely useful? What on earth is he doing?”

As if in answer to her question, the manservant returned to announce that Monk also had arrived, only instead of waiting in the hall or the morning room, he was following hard on the man’s heels so that the servant all but bumped into Monk when he turned.

Monk’s overcoat was wet across the shoulders, and he handed a wet hat to the manservant before he withdrew.

Hester retained her place closest to the fire, moving her skirts slightly aside so some of the warmth could reach him. But she did not bother with pleasantries.

“What have you learned in Wellborough?” she said immediately.

Monk’s face pinched with irritation. “Only substantiation of what we already assume,” he said a trifle tersely. “The more I think of it, the more likely does it seem that Gisela was the intended victim.”

Hester stared at him, consternation mixing with anger in her face.

“Can you prove it?” she challenged.

“Of course I can’t prove it! If I could, I wouldn’t have said ’I think,’ I would simply have stated that it was so.” He moved closer to the fire.

“Well, you must have a reason,” she argued. “What is it? Why do you think it was Gisela? Who did it?”

“Either Rolf, the Queen’s brother, or possibly Brigitte,” he replied. “They both had excellent reason. She was the one thing standing between Friedrich and his return home to lead the independence party. He wouldn’t have gone without her, and the Queen would not have had her back.”

“Why not?” she said immediately. “If she was so determined to fight for independence, why not have Gisela back? She might dislike her, but that’s absurd. Queens don’t murder people just out of dislike—not these days. And you’ll never get a jury to believe that. It’s preposterous.”

“An heir,” Monk replied tersely. “If he put Gisela aside … or she was dead, he could marry again, preferably to a woman from a rich and popular family who would unite the country, give him children, and strengthen the royal house rather than weaken it. I don’t know—maybe she has designs on the throne of all Germany. She has the gall—”

“Oh …” Hester fell silent, the magnitude of it suddenly striking her. She turned to Rathbone, her face furrowed with anxiety. Unconsciously, she moved a little closer to him, as if to support or protect. Then she lifted her chin and stared at Monk. “How has Zorah got caught up in it? Did she stumble on the plot?”

“Don’t be fatuous,” Monk said crossly. “She’s a patriot, all for independence. She was probably part of it.”

“Oh, I’m sure!” Now Hester was sarcastic. “That’s why when it all went wrong and Friedrich died instead, she started to draw everyone’s attention to the fact that it was murder, not natural death, as everyone had been quite happy to believe until then. She wants to commit suicide but hasn’t the nerve to pull the trigger herself. Or has she changed sides, and now she wants the whole thing exposed?” Her eyebrows rose. Her voice was growing harsher with every word, carrying her own pain. “Or better still—she’s a double agent. She’s changed sides. Now she wants to ruin the independence party by committing a murder in their name and then being hanged for it.”

Monk looked at her with intense dislike.

Rathbone turned sharply, an idea bursting in his mind.

“Perhaps that is not so lunatic as it sounds,” he said with urgency. “Perhaps it did all go wrong. Perhaps that is why Zorah is making a charge she knows she cannot prove. To force an examination of the whole affair so the truth can come out, and perhaps she is now prepared to sacrifice herself for it, if she believes it is for her country.” He was talking more and more rapidly. “Maybe she sees a fight for independence as a battle that cannot be won but can only lead to war, destruction, terrible loss of life, and in the end assimilation not as an ally but as a beaten rebel, to be subjugated, and her own customs and culture wiped out.” The idea seemed cleaner and more rational with every moment. “Isn’t she the sort of idealist who might do exactly that?” He stared at Monk, demanding the answer from him.

“Why?” Monk said slowly. “Friedrich is dead. He can’t go back now, whatever happens. If she, or one of the unification party, murdered him to prevent him going back, she has accomplished her aim. Why this? Why not simply accept victory?”

“Because someone else could take up the torch,” Rathbone replied. “There must be someone else, not as good, maybe, but adequate. This could discredit the party for as long as matters. By the time a new party can be forged and the disgrace overcome, unification could be a fait accompli.”

Hester looked from one to the other of them. “But was he going back?”

Rathbone looked at Monk. “Was he?”

“I don’t know.” He faced the two of them, standing unconsciously close together—and, incidentally, entirely blocking the fire. “But if you are even remotely close to the truth, then if you do your job with competence, let alone skill, it will emerge. Someone, perhaps Zorah herself, will make certain it does.”

But Rathbone was far from comforted when he entered court the next day. If Zorah were harboring some secret knowledge which would bring about her purposes, whatever they were, there was no sign of it in her pale, set face.

Zorah had taken her seat, but Rathbone was still standing a few yards from the table when Harvester approached him. When he was not actually in front of a jury his face was more benign. In fact, had Rathbone not known better, he would have judged it quite mild, the leanness of bone simply a trick of nature.

“Morning, Sir Oliver,” he said quietly. “Still in for the fight?” It was not a challenge, rather more a commiseration.

“Good morning,” Rathbone replied. He forced himself to smile. “Isn’t over yet.”

“Yes, it is.” Harvester shook his head, smiling back. “I’ll stand you the best dinner in London afterwards. What the devil possessed you to take such a case?” He walked away to his own seat, and a moment later Gisela came in wearing a different but equally exquisite black dress with tiered skirts and tight bodice, fur trim at the throat and wrists. Not once did she glance towards Zorah. She might not have known who she was for any sign of recognition in her totally impassive face.

The shadow of a smile flickered across Zorah’s mouth and disappeared.

The judge brought the court to order.

Harvester rose and called his first witness, the Baroness Evelyn von Seidlitz. She took the stand gracefully in a swish of decorous pewter-gray skirts trimmed with black. She managed to look as if she were decently serious, not quite in mourning, and yet utterly feminine. It was a great skill to offend no one and yet be anything but colorless or self-effacing. Rathbone thought she was quite lovely, and was very soon aware that every juror in the box thought so too. He could see it written plainly in their faces as they watched her, listening to and believing every word.

She told how she too had heard the accusation repeated as far away as both Venice and Felzburg.

Harvester did not press the issue of reaction in Venice, except that it was at times given a certain credence. Not everyone dismissed it as nonsense. He proceeded quite quickly to reactions in Felzburg.

“Of course it was repeated,” Evelyn said, looking at him with wide, lovely eyes. “A piece of gossip like that is not going to be buried.”

“Naturally,” Harvester agreed wryly. “When it was repeated, Baroness, with what emotion was it said? Did anyone, for example, consider for an instant that it could be true?” He caught Rathbone’s movement out of the corner of his eye and smiled thinly. “Perhaps I had better phrase that a little differently. Did you hear anyone express a belief that the accusation was true, or see anyone behave in such a manner as to make it apparent that they did?”

Evelyn looked very grave. “I heard a number of people greet it with relish and then repeat it to others in a less speculative way, as if it were not slander but a fact. Stories grow in the telling, especially if the people concerned are enemies. And the Princess’s enemies have certainly received great pleasure from all this.”

“You are speaking of people in Felzburg, Baroness?”

“Yes, of course.”

“But the Princess has not lived in Felzburg for over twelve years and is hardly likely ever to do so again,” Harvester pointed out.

“People have long memories, sir. There are those who have never forgiven her for taking Prince Friedrich’s love—and, in their eyes, for having induced him to leave his country and his duty. She is like all people who have risen to great heights; there are those who are jealous and would be only too delighted to see her fall.”

Harvester glanced at Zorah, hesitated as if he were considering asking something further, then changed his mind. His meaning was abundantly clear, and yet Rathbone could not object. Nothing had been said.

Harvester looked up at the stand. “So this appalling charge has a possibility of causing great harm to the Princess through the agency of the envious and the bitter, who have long disliked her for their own reasons,” he concluded. “This has put a weapon into their hands, so to speak, now of all times, when the Princess is alone and at her most vulnerable?”

“Yes.” Evelyn nodded. “Yes, it has.”

“Thank you, Baroness. If you would remain where you are. Sir Oliver may have a question or two to ask you.”

Rathbone rose, simply not to allow the whole issue to go by default. His mind was racing over the thoughts that had come to him the previous evening. But how could he raise them with a witness with whom Harvester had been so circumspect? All he had was the right to cross-examine, not to open new and entirely speculative political territory.

“Baroness von Seidlitz,” he began thoughtfully, looking up at her grave and charming face. “These enemies of the Princess Gisela that you speak of, are they people with power?”

She looked surprised, uncertain how to answer.

He smiled at her. “At least in England, and I believe in most places,” he explained, “we are inclined to be very romantic about people involved in a great love story.” He must be extremely careful. Anything the jury saw as an attack on Gisela would instantly prejudice them against him. “We may wish we were in their place. We may even envy them their worldly good fortune, but only those who have actually been personally in love with the other party bear them real ill will. Is that not so in your country as well? And certainly I could believe it true in Venice, where the Princess has lived most of the time since her marriage.”

“Well … yes,” she conceded, her brow furrowed. “Of course we love a lover …” She laughed a little uncertainly. “All the world does, doesn’t it? We are no exception. But there is still resentment among a few that Prince Friedrich should have abdicated. That is different.”

“In Venice, Baroness?” he said with surprise. “Do the Venetians really care?”

“No … of course they …”

Harvester rose to his feet. “My lord, is there really some point to my learned friend’s questions? I fail to see it.”

The judge looked regretfully at Rathbone.

“Sir Oliver, you are presently eliciting information already within our knowledge. Please proceed to something new, if you have it.”

“Yes, my lord.” Rathbone plunged on. As before, he had so little to lose. The risk was worth it. “The enemies you referred to who might in some way harm the Princess Gisela, you said they were in Felzburg, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Because in Venice they do not care. Venice is, if you will pardon me, full of royalty no longer possessing thrones or crowns for one reason or another. Socially, a princess is still a princess. You said yourself that people of any worth did not believe it there. And anyway, the Princess is in retirement, and one invitation or another will make no difference to her. Her friends, which is all she will care about, are totally loyal to her.”

“Yes …” Evelyn was still at a loss for his meaning. It was clear in her face.

“Would I be correct in supposing that these enemies, who are able to harm her, are not merely the odd disappointed past women admirers of Prince Friedrich, still holding a bitter envy, but people of some power and substance, able to command the respect of others?”

Evelyn stared at him wordlessly.

“Are you sure you wish this question answered, Sir Oliver?” the judge said anxiously.

Even Harvester looked puzzled. Rathbone would seem to be hurting Zorah rather than helping her.

“Yes, if you please, my lord,” Rathbone assured him.

“Baroness …” the judge prompted.

“Well …” She could not contradict herself. She looked at Harvester, then away again. She regarded Rathbone with open dislike. “Yes, some of them are people of power.”

“Perhaps political enemies?” Rathbone pressed. “People to whom the fate of their country is of the utmost importance? People who care desperately whether Felzburg remains independent or is absorbed into a unified and greater Germany, losing her individual identity and, of course, her individual monarchy?”

“I … I don’t know …”

“Really!” Harvester protested, rising again to his feet. “Is my learned friend now suggesting some kind of political assassination? This whole argument is nonsense! By whom? These imaginary political enemies of Princess Gisela? It is the Princess herself that his client has accused.” He waved his arm derisively at Zorah. “He is making confusion worse confounded.”

“Sir Oliver?” the judge said with a slight frown. “Precisely what is it you are seeking to draw from this witness?”

“The possibility, my lord, that there are grave political issues at stake in the charges and countercharges which are flying,” he answered. “And that it is the fate of a country which has fueled the emotions we see here today, and not simply a long-standing jealousy of two women who dislike each other.”

“That is a question the witness cannot possibly answer, my lord,” Harvester said. “She is not privy to the thoughts and motives of Countess Rostova. Indeed, I don’t think anyone is. With respect, perhaps not even Sir Oliver.”

“My lord,” Rathbone said quietly. “Baroness von Seidlitz is an intelligent woman of political astuteness who spends her time largely in Venice and Felzburg. Her husband has considerable interests in many parts of Germany and is aware of the aspirations of nationalism, the prospects for unification or independence. He is familiar with many of the powerful men of the country. The Baroness’s political opinions are informed and not to be dismissed lightly. I asked her if she believed a political motive possible, not if she knew the Countess Rostova’s mind.”

“You may answer the question, Baroness,” the judge directed. “In your opinion, is a political motive possible in this tragic affair? In other words, are there political issues which may be affected by the Prince’s death or by what happens in this court?”

Evelyn looked most uncomfortable, but without forswearing what she had already said, and appearing a fool, she could not deny it.

“Of course there are political issues,” she admitted. “Friedrich had abdicated, but he was still a prince of the royal house, and there were old loyalties.”

Rathbone dared not press it further.

“Thank you.” He smiled as if her admission meant something, and returned to his seat. He was aware of Harvester’s amusement, and of Zorah’s eyes on him with curiosity. The gallery was fidgeting, wanting more drama, more personal passion.

In the afternoon they were satisfied at last. Harvester called Gisela herself. The room was in such a state of expectancy the holding of breath was audible. No one spoke. No one intentionally moved as she rose, crossed the floor and mounted the steps to the stand. A bench creaked as a single person shifted weight. A corset bone snapped. Someone’s reticule slipped out of her hands and slithered to the floor with a clunk of coins.

One of the jurors sneezed.

Zorah looked at Rathbone, then away again. She did not speak.

Gisela faced them, and for the first time Rathbone was able to look at her without appearing to stare. In the box behind the rail, she looked even smaller, her shoulders more delicate, her head even a trifle large with its broad forehead and strong brows. No one could deny it was a face of remarkable character, and perhaps an illusion of beauty more meaningful than mere coloring or symmetry of features. She faced Harvester directly, unwaveringly, waiting for him to begin once she had sworn in a low, very pleasing voice as to her name. Her accent also was very slight, her use of English easy.

Harvester had obviously made the appropriate inquiries beforehand and knew better than to use her royal form of address. She had never been crown princess; such title as she had was courtesy.

“Madam,” he began, his tone respectful of her widowhood, her legendary love, if not her status. “We have heard testimony in this court that the Countess Zorah Rostova has on several occasions made a most vile and appalling accusation against you, and that she has done it repeatedly, in private and in public places. She herself has never denied it. We have heard from friends of yours that they were aware that very naturally it caused you great grief and distress.”

He glanced briefly towards the gallery. “We have heard Baroness von Seidlitz say that it has provided fuel for enemies you may have in your native country who still bear you envy and ill will because of your marriage to the Prince. Would you please tell the court how your husband died? I do not desire to harrow your emotions by raising what can only be devastating memories for you. The briefest description will serve.”

She gripped the railing with black-gloved hands as if to steady herself and stood silent for several seconds before summoning the strength to reply.

Rathbone groaned inwardly. It was worse than he had anticipated. The woman was perfect. She had dignity. Tragedy was on her side, and she knew not to play it too much. Perhaps it was Harvester’s advice, perhaps her own natural good taste.

“He fell from his horse while out riding,” she said quietly, but her voice was distinct, falling into the silence with all the burden of loss. Every word was perfectly audible throughout the room. “He was very seriously injured. His foot was caught in the stirrup iron, and he was dragged.” She took a deep breath and let it out softly. She lifted her strong, rather square chin. “At first we thought he was getting better. It is very difficult for even the best doctor to tell how serious an internal injury may be. Then suddenly he relapsed … and within hours he was dead.”

She stood absolutely immobile, her face a mask of hopelessness. She did not weep. She looked as if she were already exhausted by grief and had nothing left inside her but endless, gray pain, and ahead only an untold number of years of loneliness which no one could reach.

Harvester allowed the court to sense her tragedy, her utter bereavement, before he continued.

“And the doctor said the cause of death was his internal injuries?” he said very gently.

“Yes.”

“After the funeral you returned to Venice, to the home you had shared with him?”

“Yes.”

“How did you hear of the Countess Rostova’s extraordinary charge?”

She lifted her chin a little. Rathbone stared at her. It was a remarkable face; there was a unique serenity in it. She had been devastated by tragedy, and yet the longer he looked, the less did he see vulnerability in the line of her lips or the way she held herself. There was something in her which seemed almost untouchable.

“First, Lady Wellborough wrote and told me,” she answered Harvester. “Then other people also wrote. To begin with I assumed it was merely an aberration, perhaps spoken when … I do not wish to be uncharitable … but I have been left no choice … when she had taken too much wine.”

“What motive can you imagine Countess Rostova having to say such a thing?” Harvester asked with wide eyes.

“I should prefer not to answer that,” Gisela said with icy dignity. “Her reputation is well-known to many. I am not interested in it.”

Harvester did not pursue the point further. “And how did you feel when you heard of this, ma’am?”

She closed her eyes. “I had not thought after the loss of my beloved husband that life could offer me any blow which I should even feel,” she said very softly. “Zorah Rostova taught me my mistake. The pain of it was almost beyond bearing. My love for my husband was the core of my life. That anyone should blaspheme it in such a way is … beyond my ability to express.”

She hesitated a moment. Throughout the room there was utter silence. Not one person looked away from her face, nor did they seem to consider the word blaspheme out of place. “I shall prefer to not, and indeed I cannot, speak of it if I am to retain my composure, sir,” she said at last. “I will testify in this court, as I must, but I will not display my grief or my pain to be a spectacle for my enemies, or even for those who wish me well. It is indecent to ask it of me … of any woman. Permit me to mask my distress, sir.”

“Of course, ma’am.” Harvester bowed very slightly. “You have said quite enough for us to have no doubt as to the justice of your cause. We cannot ease your grief, but we offer you our sincerest sympathies and all the redress that English law allows.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“If you will remain there, ma’am, it is conceivable Sir Oliver may have some questions to ask you, although I cannot imagine what.”

Rathbone rose. He could feel the hatred of the court like electricity in the air, crackling, making the hairs on his neck stand on end. If he even remotely slighted her, was less than utterly sympathetic, he could ruin his own cause far more effectively than anything Harvester could achieve.

He faced Gisela’s steady, dark blue eyes and found them oddly unnerving. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of grief, but there was something dead about her gaze.

“You must have been stunned by such a devastating accusation, ma’am?” he said deferentially, trying not to sound too unctuous.

“Yes.” She did not elaborate.

He stood in the center of the floor looking up at her.

“I imagine you were not in the best of health after the shock of your bereavement,” he continued.

“I was not well,” she agreed. She stared at him coldly. She was waiting for an attack. After all, he represented the woman who had accused her of murder.

“In that season of shock and grief, did you have the time, or the heart, to consider the political happenings in Felzburg?”

“I was not in the least interested.” There was no surprise in her voice. “My world had ended with my husband’s death. I hardly know what I did. One day was exactly like the next … and the last. I saw no one.”

“Very natural,” Rathbone agreed. “I imagine we can all understand that. Anyone who has lost someone very dear knows the process of mourning, let alone a grief such as yours.”

The judge looked at Rathbone with a frown.

The jurors were growing restive.

He must reach the point soon or it would be too late. He knew Zorah was watching him. He could almost feel her eyes on his back.

“Had it ever occurred to you, ma’am, to wonder if your husband had been murdered for political reasons?” he asked. “Perhaps regarding your country’s fight to retain its independence?”

“No …” There was a lift of surprise in Gisela’s voice. She seemed about to add something else, then caught Harvester’s eye and changed her mind.

Rathbone forced a very slight smile of sympathy to his lips.

“But with a love as profound as yours, now that the possibility has been raised, I should not think you can allow the question to go unanswered, can you? Do you not care even more fervently than anyone else here that, if it was so, the culprit must be caught and pay the price for so heinous and terrible a crime?”

She stared at him wordlessly, her eyes huge.

For the first time there was a rumble of agreement from the court. Several of the jurors nodded gravely.

“Of course,” Rathbone said, answering his own question vehemently. “And I promise you, ma’am”—he waved his hand to encompass them all—“this court will do everything in its power to discover that truth, to the last detail, and expose it.” He bowed very slightly, as if she had indeed been royalty. “Thank you. I have no more questions.” He nodded to Harvester and then returned to his seat.