Ballinger looked at her with a smile. “You know nothing of such men, my dear. Rupert Cardew is a wastrel, a womanizer, flattering and deceiving even married women, whom one would imagine to have more judgment and more sense.”

Margaret looked uncomfortable. She met Rathbone’s eyes, and then deliberately avoided them.

“Perhaps his grief sent him a little mad?” Gwen suggested. “It can do so. Were they close?”

“I have no idea,” Ballinger replied, regarding her with slight surprise. “I don’t think so. And Rupert was wild and selfish long before Charles’s death. It is generous of you to try to excuse him, but I’m afraid his behavior is far worse than you imagine.”

Gwen would not let it go. “Really? Lots of young men drink a little too much, Papa. Most of us know that. We only pretend not to.”

“We have to pretend a lot of things,” Celia added. “It is very foolish to admit to everything you know. You can make life impossible for yourself.”

“Really, Celia!” George remonstrated, no amusement in his face whatever.

Rathbone turned to Margaret and saw the humor in her eyes. It was a moment of understanding where words were unnecessary. He found himself looking forward to the journey home, when they would be alone in the carriage, and then even more so to arriving.

“I’m surprised if you haven’t heard word, one place or another, Oliver.” Ballinger lingered a moment before continuing. “Poor Cardew has had to bail Rupert out of more than one scandal that would have blackened the family name if he hadn’t.”

“I thought that was what you were referring to,” Gwen said ruefully.

“I’m afraid Rupert Cardew went a great deal further than that,” Ballinger told her. “He has an ungovernable temper when he is roused. He has beaten people very badly. It is only his father’s intervention that has saved him from prison.” His voice dropped. “And yet he loves the boy, as fathers do love their children, no matter what sins they commit.” He looked at Margaret, then at Gwen, and finally at Celia.

He sat quite still, a large man, heavy-shouldered, powerful, his thick-featured face benign, until one tried to read the heavy-lidded eyes, as black as coal under their drooping lids.

No one spoke. There was an intensity of emotion at the table into which speech would have been intrusive, even clumsy.

Rathbone knew that Hester had been accepting considerable donations of money from Rupert for the financing of the clinic. Would she have taken them were she aware of his darker nature, so different from the sunny charm he presented to her?