“I am in a difficult position, Oliver,” he began without preamble. “A long-standing client has asked a favor of me that I am loath to grant, and yet I feel I cannot refuse him. It is a business that frankly I would prefer to have nothing to do with, but I can see no honorable way of escape.” He gave a slight shrug, with one shoulder only. “And I suppose, to be honest, no legal way either. One cannot pick and choose in which matters you will act for people, and in which you will not. That would make a mockery of the entire concept of justice, which must be for all, or it is for no one.”

Rathbone was startled by such a speech; it suggested a lack of confidence quite uncharacteristic of Ballinger. Something had clearly disturbed him. “Can I be of help, without breaking your client's privilege of discretion?” he asked hopefully. It would please him to assist Margaret's father in a matter that was important to him. It would make Margaret herself happy, and it would draw him closer into the family, which was not a situation he found naturally easy. He had a deep instinct for privacy. Apart from an intense friendship with his own father, he had found few ties in his adult years. In some ways William Monk, of all people, was the truest friend he had. That excluded Hester, of course, but his feeling for her had been different: stronger, more intimate, and in ways more painful, he was not ready to examine it any more closely.

Ballinger relaxed a fraction more, at least outwardly, although he still concealed his hands in his lap, as if they might have given him away.

“It would break no confidences at all,” he said quickly. “I am seeking your professional skills to represent a case I fear you will find repellent, and have very little chance of winning. However you will, of course, be properly paid for your time and your skill, which I regard as unique.” He was wise enough not to overpraise.

Rathbone was confused. His profession was to represent clients in court; very occasionally he prosecuted for the crown, but not as a habit. Why was Ballinger nervous about this, as undoubtedly he was? Why come to Rathbone at home, and not in his office, as would be far more usual? What was so different about this case? He had defended people accused of murder, arson, blackmail, theft, almost every crime one could think of, even rape.

“What is your client accused of?” he asked. Could it be something as contentious as treason? Against whom? The queen?

Ballinger gave a slight shrug. “Murder. But he is an unpopular man, unsympathetic to a jury. He will not appear well,” he hastened to explain. He must have seen the doubt in Rathbone's face. He leaned forward a little. “But that is not the problem, Oliver. I know you have represented all manner of people, on charges that have had no public sympathy at all. Although I deplore everything about this particular case, it is the issue of justice that is paramount in my client's mind.”

Rathbone found a wry irony in the remark. Few accused men phrased their attempts to be defended successfully in such general and rather pompous terms.

Ballinger's eyes flickered and something altered in the set of his features.

“I have not explained myself fully,” he went on. “My client wishes to pay your fees to defend another person entirely He has no relationship to the man accused, and no personal stake in the outcome, only the matter of justice, impartial, clear of all gain or loss to himself He fears that this man will appear so vile to average jurors that without the best defense in the country, he will be found guilty and hanged on emotion, not on the facts.”

“Very altruistic,” Rathbone remarked, although there was a sudden lift of excitement inside him, as if he had glimpsed something beautiful, a battle with all the passion and commitment he could give it. But it was only a glimpse, a flash of light gone before he was sure he had seen it at all. “Who is he?” he asked.

Ballinger smiled, a small bleak movement of the mouth. “That I cannot disclose. He wishes to remain anonymous. He has not told me his reasons, but I have to respect his wish.” From his expression and the peculiar, hunched angle of his shoulders, it was clear that this was the moment of decision, the trial in which he was afraid he might fail.

Rathbone was taken aback. Why would a man in so noble an endeavor wish to remain anonymous even from his attorney? From the public was easy enough to understand. They might well assume that he had some sympathy for the accused, and it would be only too clear to see why he would avoid that. “If I am bound to secrecy, I shall observe it,” Rathbone said gently. “Surely you told him that?”

“Of course I did,” Ballinger said quickly “However, he is adamant. I cannot move him on the subject. As far as you are concerned, I shall represent the accused man to you, and act on his behalf. All you need to know is that you will be paid in full, by a man of the utmost honor and probity, and that the money is earned by his own skills, which are in every way above suspicion. I will swear to that.” He sat motionless, staring earnestly at Rathbone. In a man of less composure it might even have been thought imploringly.

Rathbone felt uncomfortable that his own father-in-law should have to plead for the professional assistance he had always been willing to give, even to strangers and men he profoundly disliked, because it was his calling. He was an advocate; his job was to speak on behalf of those who were not equipped to speak for themselves, and who would suffer injustice if there were no one to take their part. The system of the law was adversarial. The sides must be equal in skill and in dedication; otherwise the whole issue was a farce.

“Of course I will act for your client,” he said earnestly. “Give me the necessary papers and a retaining fee, and then all we say will be privileged.”

Ballinger relaxed fully at last. “Your word is good enough, Oliver. I shall have all that you need sent to your office in the morning. I am extremely grateful. I wish I could tell Margaret what an excellent man you are, but no doubt she is already perfectly aware. I am delighted now that she had enough sense not to allow her mother earlier to push her into a marriage of convenience, although I admit I was exasperated at the time.” He smiled ruefully. “If you are going to have a strong-minded woman in the house, it is better to have two, preferably of opposing views. Then you can back one or the other, and achieve the goal you wish.” He sighed, and there was a momentary sadness in his face, in spite of the relief. “I cannot say how much I appreciate you, Oliver.”

Rathbone did not know how to answer; he was even a trifle embarrassed by Ballinger's regard. He directed the conversation towards the practical. “Who am I to defend? You said the charge was murder?”

“Yes. Yes, regrettably so.”

“Who is he, and who was the victim?” He knew better than to warn Ballinger not to tell him of any confession, which would jeopardize his standing as an officer of the court.

“Jericho Phillips,” Ballinger replied, almost casually.

Rathbone suddenly became aware that Ballinger was watching him intently, but beneath his lashes, as if he could conceal the fact. “The man charged with killing the boy found down the river at Greenwich?” he asked. He had read a little about it, and already he was unaccountably chilled.

“That's right,” Ballinger replied. “He denies it. Says the boy ran away, and he has no idea who killed him.”

“Then why is he charged? They must have some evidence. River Police, isn't it? Monk is not a fool.”

“Of course not,” Ballinger said smoothly. “I know he is a friend of yours, or at least he has been in the past. But even good men can make mistakes, especially when they are new to a job, and a little too eager to succeed.”

Rathbone felt more stung on Monk's behalf than he would have expected to. “I haven't seen him lately. I have been busy and I imagine so has he, but I still regard him as a friend.”