Book # 9 in the William Monk series, 1998

Oliver Rathbone leaned backin his chair and let out a sigh of satisfaction. He had just successfully completed a long and tedious case. He had won most substantial damages for his client over a wrongful accusation. The man's name was completely cleared and he was grateful. He had told Rathbone that he was brilliant, and Rathbone had accepted the compliment with grace and appropriate humility, brushing it aside as more a courtesy than truth. But he had worked very hard and had exercised excellent judgment. He had once again used the skills which had made him one of the finest barristers in London, if not in England.

He found himself smiling in anticipation of a most pleasant evening at Lady Hardesty's ball. Miss Annabelle Hardesty had been presented to the Queen, and had even earned anagreeable comment from Prince Albeit. She was launched upon society. It was an evening in which all manner of victories might be celebrated. It would be a charming affair.

There was a knock on the door, interrupting his reverie.

"Yes?" He sat up straight. He was not expecting anyone. He had rather thought he would go home early, perhaps take a short walk in the park and enjoy the late-spring air, see the chestnuts coming into bloom.

The door opened and Simms, his chief clerk, looked in.

"What is it?" Rathbone asked with a frown.

"A young gentleman to see you, Sir Oliver," Simms replied very seriously. "He has no appointment, but seems extremely worried." His brow puckered with concern and he looked at Rathbone intently. "He's quite a young gentleman, sir, and although he's doing his best to hide it, I think he is more than a little afraid."