Read Blind Justice: A William Monk Novel for Free Online Page A

and his very considerable reputation, spoke of a person who never acted rashly. As a lawyer he had taken wise cases, never crusading ones. His political views were discreet. His two sons appeared to be cut from the same cloth: solid, intelligent, but without fire.
    Beata York did not in any way fit with that conception. She was older than Margaret—at least in her late forties—but she had a far more turbulent face. Her gray eyes were wide and burning with intelligence. Her hair was surprisingly fair, gold so pale as to be almost silver. At first Rathbone thought that she was truly beautiful, then thought the impression must be due to her gown; she was exquisitely dressed in some soft color that was neither gray nor cream. Then she smiled at him and moved forward to greet him, and he knew he had been right to begin with: she was beautiful.
    “Good evening, Sir Oliver.” Her voice was low, even a little husky. “I was so glad you were able to come. It would seem incomplete to celebrate without you.” If she had expected his wife, there was no hint of it in her expression.
    “Thank you for having me,” he answered, meeting her gaze. “It would be a poor celebration alone. And I believe the verdict was absolutely right; he was a man much in need of being removed from society and prevented from doing further damage.”
    “I’m told it was a very complicated case,” she went on. “How on earth do you remember all the details? Do you take a great many notes?When I write in a hurry I can never read it afterward.” She gave a little grimace of self-mockery, and then laughed lightly.
    “Neither can I,” he agreed. “I write only a word or two, and hope to remember the rest. I don’t have to make the decisions, thank goodness, only see that the game is fair.”
    “Is fair always the same as right, do you think?” she asked with sudden grave interest.
    He was caught off guard. It was far more profound a question than he had expected. It demanded an honest answer, not a trivial one. “Perhaps it is my duty to make it so,” he said quietly.
    She smiled at him, meeting his eyes, and turned to greet Bertrand Allan and his wife. They had just arrived and were talking to York closer to the door into the hall.
    Introductions were made and Rathbone found himself with Mrs. Allan. She was a woman of very ordinary features, a little too thin, but agreeable enough.
    “Congratulations, Sir Oliver,” she said courteously. “My husband says that it was an unusually difficult case that he did not expect to win so convincingly. It must take great skill to disentangle all the threads of evidence and summarize them so the jury understands their meaning and weight.”
    “Thank you,” he accepted. “Your husband presented his arguments very clearly, which made it a great deal easier for all of us.”
    She smiled her acknowledgment. “I dare say you will be pleased to have a change to something a little less complicated for your next case. Or do you enjoy the challenge?” She did not look truly curious, just mildly interested.
    He had no idea how to answer. He wished he could go back and speak to Beata York instead, but the moment with her was one that could not be caught again.
    “I accept the challenge, as I have to. I have no control over the cases I am given, though,” he replied. “Perhaps that is just as well.”
    Dinner was announced and they went into the dining room. Thistoo was exquisite. A long table was set with silver and crystal, which sparkled in the lights. Swaths of pale flowers twined down the center of the table: pear blossom, late narcissus, white hyacinth, every petal perfect. They sent up the faintest of delicate perfumes, a few dark green leaves stark against the white linen.
    The carpet was dark blue, the curtains ivory and blue. The walls were ivory with a delicate gold beading at the edges of the panels. Over the mantel was a huge painting of a seascape after the Dutch School, its cool colors