“Force would be a different matter,” Rathbone continued. “Rape is a crime, no matter who the victim is, although society would bother little if the woman were of questionable virtue anyway. Unless there were a great deal of violence involved. Is that the case?”

“Rupert has a temper,” Cardew said almost under his breath, his voice cracking with emotional tension, “but so far as I am aware, his quarrels were always with other men.”

“Violent?” Rathbone pressed.

Cardew hesitated. “Yes … sometimes. I don’t know what they were about. I preferred not to.”

“But they were not justified?”

“Justified? How can beating a man nearly senseless be justified?”

“Self-defense … or defense of someone else weaker, already injured, or in some other way helpless.”

“I wish I could believe it was as excusable as that.”

“Is that all—just fighting?”

“Is that not enough?” Cardew said miserably. “The use of prostitutes, drunkenness, brawling until you injure a man for the rest of his life? Good God, Rathbone, Rupert was brought up as a gentleman. He is heir to all I have, the privileges and the responsibilities. How can I ever allow him to marry a decent woman? I couldn’t do that to another man’s daughter.”

Rathbone had seen scores of men sit in this chair in his quiet office, so racked with fear and pain that it filled the room like a charge of electricity. But none deeper than this, perhaps the worse because Cardew’s pain was not for himself but for someone he loved. Had Rupert any idea of the hell he was inflicting? If he could even imagine it, then he was close to inexcusable.

Rathbone thought of Arthur Ballinger, and how loyal his children were, especially Margaret. To torture him like this would have been unthinkable.

How worthless Rupert Cardew was in comparison. What utter selfishness governed him?

Rathbone thought of his own father. Their friendship was perhaps the most precious thing in his life because it was the bedrock on which all else rested. He could not remember a time when Henry Rathbone had not been there to advise, to share a problem, to encourage, and at times to praise.

Would he and Margaret have sons one day, and would he be as good a father?

What had Lord Cardew done, or omitted to do, that had led to this tragedy? Bought his son’s love with a leniency that in the end corroded both of them? Averted the pain of confrontation, the loneliness of the turning away, even if only fleetingly? Rathbone understood it so easily, but as he looked at Cardew’s haunted face, he could also imagine the price.

Was that the guilt that Cardew felt, that somehow he should have prevented this? A word, a silence, a decision carried through, and it might all have been different?

There was nothing left to do now but try to help.