Livia looked as if Rathbone had struck her. The blush faded from her face, leaving her ash pale, struggling to catch her breath. “Michael wouldn’t kill her!” she gasped. “He wouldn’t!” But it sounded more like a plea than an assurance.

“No, Miss Baltimore,” Rathbone agreed loudly and very clearly. “Of course he wouldn’t. He had no cause to wish her harm, merely to desire that she leave him alone to pursue a more fitting bride. Did you ever see her in your home after the time Mr. Dalgarno began to court you?”

She shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears.

“No,” Rathbone repeated for her. “Or in any public place, seeking to embarrass or pursue Mr. Dalgarno?”

“No,” she whispered.

“In fact, you were unaware of her interest in him at all?”

“Yes . . . I was.”

“Thank you, Miss Baltimore. That is all I have to ask you.”

Fowler shook his head. “This is irrelevant, my lord. We are chasing ghosts. All my learned friend has demonstrated is Dalgarno’s abandonment of his commitment to a relatively poor woman when a richer one gave him hope that he might woo her successfully.”

“No, my lord,” Rathbone contradicted him. “I am showing the court that Miss Harcus had every reason to feel desperately betrayed by a man she loved, and whom she had sincerely believed loved her. That, with other facts I shall also bring witnesses and documents to prove, will explain what happened on the night of her death, and why. And it will show that Mr. Dalgarno had no intentional hand in it. He is guilty of no more than abusing a woman’s love, which I regret to say is something many men have done and walked away from. It is regarded by most of us as contemptible, but not as criminal.”

“Then do so, Sir Oliver,” the judge instructed. “You have still some way to go.”

“Yes, my lord,” Rathbone said obediently.

He was bluffing, Hester knew it with certainty. A coldness gripped her.

“A witness, if you please, Sir Oliver,” the judge said plaintively. “Let us proceed. We still have at least an hour before we may reasonably adjourn.”

“Yes, my lord. I call Mr. Wilbur Garstang.”

“We have already heard from Mr. Garstang . . . at some length!” Fowler protested.

“We have already heard from everybody at some length, yourself included,” the judge retorted. “Please keep your interruptions to the minimum, Mr. Fowler. Sir Oliver, is there really anything Mr. Garstang can do beyond fill the time?”

“Yes, my lord, I believe so,” Rathbone answered, although there was surely more truth in the judge’s comment than he could afford to admit.

“Call Wilbur Garstang,” the judge said wearily.

Mr. Garstang climbed the steps and was advised by the judge that he was still under oath. He was a precise little man with a carping attitude and an inclination to pick fault.