by Lisa Kleypas
Marcus, Lord Westcliff in a rage was an impressive sight. Matthew doubted that even Wendell Waring, who was friends with presidents and men of influence, had encountered a man with more natural command. The two constables looked uneasily between the two men.
Waring did not look at Matthew as he replied, as if the sight of him was too repulsive to tolerate. “You all know the man sitting before you as Matthew Swift. He has deceived and betrayed everyone he has ever chanced to meet. The world will be well served when he is exterminated like so much vermin. On that day—”
“Pardon, sir,” Daisy interrupted with a politeness that bordered on mockery, “but I for one would prefer to receive the unembellished version. I have no interest in your opinions of Mr. Swift’s character.”
“His last name is Phaelan, not Swift,” Waring retorted. “He is the son of an Irish drunkard. He was brought to the Charles River orphanage as an infant after the mother had died in childbirth. I had the misfortune of becoming acquainted with Matthew Phaelan when I purchased him at the age of eleven to act as companion and valet to my son Harry.”
“You purchased him?” Daisy repeated acidly. “I wasn’t aware orphans could be bought and sold.”
“Hired, then,” Waring said, his gaze swerving to her. “Who are you, brazen miss, that you dare to interrupt your elders?”
Suddenly Thomas Bowman entered the discussion, his mustache twitching angrily. “She is my daughter,” he roared, “and she may speak as she wishes!”
Surprised by her father’s defense of her, Daisy smiled at him briefly, then returned her attention to Waring. “How long was Mr. Phaelan in your employ?” she prompted.
“For a period of seven years. He attended my son Harry at boarding school, did his errands, cared for his personal effects, and came home with him on the holidays.” His gaze rushed to Matthew, the eyes suddenly glazed with weary accusation.
Now that his quarry had been secured, some of Waring’s fury faded to grim resolution. He seemed like a man who had carried a heavy burden for far too long. “Little did we know we were harboring a serpent in our midst. On one of Harry’s holidays at home, a fortune in cash and jewelry was stolen from the family safe. One of the items was a diamond necklace that had belonged to the Warings for a century. My great-grandfather had acquired it from the estate of the Archduchess of Austria. The theft could only have been accomplished by someone in the family, or by a trusted servant who had access to the safe key. All the evidence pointed to one person. Matthew Phaelan.”
Matthew sat quietly. Stillness outside, chaos within. He contained it with fierce effort, knowing he would gain nothing by letting go.
“How do you know the lock wasn’t picked by a thief?” he heard Lillian ask coolly.
“The safe was fitted with a detector lock,” Waring replied, “which stops working if the lever tumblers are manipulated by a lock pick. Only a regulator key or the original key will open it. And Phaelan knew where the key was. From time to time he was sent to fetch money or personal possessions from the safe.”
“He’s not a thief!” Matthew heard Daisy burst out angrily, defending him before he could defend himself. “He would never be capable of stealing anything from anyone.”
“A jury of twelve men did not agree with that assessment,” Waring barked, his anger reinvigorated. “Phaelan was convicted of grand larceny and sentenced to the state prison for fifteen years. He escaped before they could deliver him, and he disappeared.”
Having assumed Daisy would withdraw from him now, Matthew was astonished to realize she had come to stand beside his chair. The light pressure of her hand settled on his shoulder. He didn’t respond outwardly to her touch, but his senses hungrily absorbed the weight of her fingers.
“How did you find me?” Matthew asked hoarsely, forcing himself to look at Waring. Time had changed the man in subtle ways. The creases on his face were a little deeper, his bones more prominent.
“I’ve had men looking for years,” Waring said with a touch of sneering melodrama that his fellow Bostonians would surely have found excessive. “I knew you couldn’t remain hidden forever. There was a large anonymous donation made to Charles River Orphanage—I suspected you were behind it, but it was impossible to break through the armament of lawyers and sham business fronts. Then it struck me that you might have taken it upon yourself to find the father who had abandoned you so long ago. We tracked him down, and for the price of a few drinks he told us everything we wanted to know—your assumed name, your address in New York.” Waring’s contempt scattered through the air like a swarm of black flies as he added, “You were sold for the equivalent of five gills of whisky.”
Matthew’s breath caught. Yes, he had found his father, and had decided against all reason or caution to trust him. The need for connection with someone, something, had been too overpowering. His father was a wreck of a human being—there had been painfully little Matthew had been able to do for him aside from finding a place for him to live and paying for his upkeep.
Whenever Matthew had managed to visit in secret, there had been bottles piled everywhere. “If you ever need me,” he had told his father, pressing a folded note into his hand, “send for me at this address. Don’t share it with anyone, understand?” His father, childlike in his dependency, had said yes, he understood.
If you ever need me…Matthew had wanted desperately to be needed by someone.
This was the price for that self-indulgence.
“Swift,” Thomas Bowman asked, “are Waring’s claims true?” The familiar bluster was tempered with a note of appeal.
“Not entirely.” Matthew allowed himself a cautious survey of the room. The things he had expected to see on their faces—accusation, fear, anger—were not there. Even Mercedes Bowman, who was not exactly what anyone would call a compassionate woman, was regarding him with what he could almost swear was kindliness.
Suddenly he realized he was in a different position than he had been all those years ago, when he had been poor and friendless. He had been armed only with the truth, which had proved a poor weapon indeed. Now he had money and influence of his own, not to mention powerful allies. And most of all Daisy, who was still standing at his shoulder, her touch feeding strength and comfort into his veins.
Matthew’s eyes narrowed in defiance as he met Wendell Waring’s accusing stare. Whether he liked it or not, Waring would have to listen to the truth.
Chapter 18
“I was Harry Waring’s servant,” Matthew began gruffly. “And a good one, even though I knew he regarded me as something less than a human being. In his view servants were like dogs. I existed only for his convenience. My job was to assume blame for his misdeeds, take his punishments, repair what he broke, fetch what he needed. Even at an early age Harry was an arrogant wastrel who thought he could get away with anything short of murder because of his family’s name—”
“I won’t have him maligned!” Waring burst out furiously.
“You’ve had your turn,” Thomas Bowman bellowed. “Now I want to hear Swift.”
“His name isn’t—”
“Let him speak,” Westcliff said, his cold voice settling the rising ferment.
Matthew gave the earl a short nod of thanks. His attention was diverted as Daisy resumed her place in the nearby chair. She inched the piece of furniture closer until his right leg was half-concealed in the folds of her skirts.
“I went with Harry to Boston Latin,” Matthew continued, “and then to Harvard. I slept in the servants’ quarters in the basement. I studied his friends’ lecture notes for the classes Harry had missed and I wrote papers for him—”
“That’s a lie!” Waring cried. “You, who had been educated by ancient nuns at an orphanage—you’re mad to think anyone would believe you.”
Matthew allowed himself one mocking smile. “I learned more from those ancient nuns than Harry did from a string of private tutors. Harry said he didn’t need an education since he had a name and money. But I had n
either, and my only chance was to learn as much as possible in the hopes of climbing up some day.”
“Climb up to where?” Waring asked in patent disdain. “You were a servant—an Irish servant—you had no hope of becoming a gentleman.”
A curious half-smile crossed Daisy’s face. “But that is precisely what he did in New York, Mr. Waring. Matthew earned a place for himself in business and society—and he most certainly became a gentleman.”
“Under the guise of a false identity,” Waring shot back. “He’s a fraud, don’t you see?”
“No,” Daisy replied, looking straight at Matthew, her eyes bright and dark. “I see a gentleman.”
Matthew wanted to kiss her feet. Instead he dragged his gaze away from her and continued. “I did everything I could to keep Harry at Harvard, while he seemed hell-bent on earning expulsion. The drinking and gaming and…”
Matthew hesitated as he reminded himself that there were ladies present. “…other things,” he continued, “became worse. The monthly expenditures far outstripped his allowance, and the gambling debt grew to such unmanageable proportions that even Harry began to worry. He was afraid of the repercussions he would face once his father learned the extent of his trouble. Being Harry, he looked for the easy way out. Which explains the holiday at home when the safe was robbed. I knew at once Harry had done it.”
“Poisonous lies,” Waring spat.
“Harry pointed the finger at me,” Matthew said, “rather than admit he had robbed the safe to take care of his debts. He had decided I would have to be sacrificed so he could save his own skin. Naturally the family took their son’s word over mine.”
“Your guilt was proven in court,” Waring said harshly.
“Nothing was proven.” Anger bolted through Matthew, and his breath deepened as he struggled for control. He felt Daisy’s hand seeking his, and he took it. His grip was too tight, but he couldn’t seem to moderate it.
“The trial was a farce,” Matthew said. “It was rushed to keep the papers from reporting too closely on the case. My court-appointed lawyer literally slept through most of it. There was no evidence to connect me to the theft. A servant of one of Harry’s classmates had come forward with the claim that he’d overheard Harry and two friends plotting to incriminate me, but he was too afraid to testify.”
Seeing that Daisy’s fingers were turning white from the pressure of his, Matthew forced his hand to loosen. His thumb brushed gently over the points of her knuckles. “I had a stroke of luck,” he continued more quietly, “when a reporter for the Daily Advertiser wrote an article exposing Harry’s past gambling debts, and revealing that those same debts had coincidentally been cleared right after the robbery. As a result of the article there was a growing public outcry at the obvious travesty of the proceedings.”
“And yet you were still convicted?” Lillian asked in outrage.
Matthew smiled wryly. “Justice may be blind,” he said, “but it loves the sound of money. The Warings were too powerful, and I was a penniless servant.”
“How did you escape?” Daisy asked.
The shadow of a bitter smile lingered. “That was as much a surprise to me as it was to everyone else. I had been loaded in the prison wagon—it left for the state prison before the sun had come up. The wagon stopped on an empty stretch of road. Suddenly the door was unlocked, and I was pulled outside by a half-dozen men. I assumed I was going to be lynched. But they said they were sympathetic citizens determined to right a wrong. They set me free—the guards of the prison wagon put up no resistance—and I was given a horse. I made it to New York, sold the horse, and started a new life.”
“Why did you choose the name Swift?” Daisy asked.
“By that time I had learned the power of a well-respected name. And the Swifts are a large family with many branches, which I thought would make it easier to get by without close scrutiny.”
Thomas Bowman spoke then, threatened pride cutting him to the quick. “Why did you come to me for a position? Did you think to make a dupe of me?”
Matthew looked directly at him, remembering his first impression of Thomas Bowman…a powerful man willing to give him a chance, too preoccupied with his business to ask probing questions. Canny, bull-headed, flawed, single-minded…the most influential masculine figure in Matthew’s life.
“Never,” Matthew said sincerely. “I admired what you had accomplished. I wanted to learn from you. And I…” His throat tightened. “…I came to regard you with respect and gratitude, and the greatest affection.”
Bowman’s face reddened with relief, and he nodded slightly, his eyes glittering.
Waring had the look of a man undone, his composure shattering like cheap glass. He glared at Matthew with quivering hatred. “You’re trying to soil my son’s memory with your lies,” he said. “I won’t allow it. You assumed if you came to a foreign country no one would—”
“His memory?” Matthew looked up alertly, stunned. “Harry is dead?”
“Because of you! After the trial there were rumors, lies, doubts that never disappeared. Harry’s friends avoided him. The stain on his honor—it ruined his life. If you had admitted your guilt—if you had served the time you owed—Harry would still be with me. But people’s filthy suspicions built over time, and living in that shadow caused Harry to drink and live recklessly.”
“From all appearances,” Lillian said sardonically, “your son was already doing that before the trial.”
Lillian had a singular talent for pushing people over the edge. Waring was no exception.
“He’s a convicted criminal!” Waring charged toward her. “How dare you believe him over me!”
Westcliff reached them in three strides, but Matthew had already moved in front of Lillian, protecting her from Waring’s wrath.
“Mr. Waring,” Daisy said in the tumult, “please collect yourself. Surely you can see that you’re doing your own cause no good with this behavior.” Her calm lucidity seemed to reach through his fury.
Waring gave Daisy an oddly beseeching stare. “My son is dead. Phaelan is to blame.”
“This won’t bring him back,” she said quietly. “It won’t serve his memory.”
“It will bring me peace,” Waring cried.
Daisy’s expression was grave, her gaze pitying. “Are you certain of that?”
They could all see it didn’t matter. He was beyond reason.
“I’ve waited many years and traveled thousands of miles for this moment,” Waring said. “I won’t be denied. You’ve seen the papers, Westcliff. Even you are not above the law. The constables are under orders to use force if necessary. You will surrender him to me now, tonight.”
“I don’t think so.” Westcliff’s eyes were as hard as rock. “It would be madness to travel on a night like this. Spring storms in Hampshire can be violent and unpredictable. You will stay the night at Stony Cross Park while I consider what is to be done.”
The constables looked vaguely relieved at this suggestion, as no sensible man would want to venture into the deluge.
“And give Phaelan the opportunity to escape once again?” Waring asked contemptuously. “No. You will hand him into my custody.”
“You have my word he will not flee,” Westcliff said readily.
“Your word is useless to me,” Waring retorted. “It is obvious you have taken his side.”
An English gentleman’s word was everything. It was the highest possible insult to distrust it. Matthew was surprised Westcliff didn’t detonate on the spot. His taut cheeks vibrated with outrage.
“Now you’ve done it,” Lillian muttered, sounding rather awestruck. Even in her worst arguments with her husband, she had never dared to impugn his honor.
“You will remove this man,” Westcliff told Waring in a lethal tone, “over my dead body.”
In that moment Matthew realized the situation had gone far enough. He saw Waring’s hand dip into his coat pocket, the fabric sagging with some heavy object, and he saw the butt
of a pistol. Of course. A gun was sound insurance in the event the constables proved ineffective.
“Wait,” Matthew said. He would say or do whatever was necessary to keep the pistol from being brought out. Once that happened, the confrontation would escalate to a degree of danger from which it would be impossible for anyone to back down. “I’ll go with you.” He stared at Waring, willing him to relax. “The process has been set in motion. God knows I can’t avoid it.”
“No,” Daisy cried, throwing her arms around his neck. “You won’t be safe with him.”
“We’ll leave right now,” Matthew told Waring, while he carefully disengaged Daisy’s grasp and pushed her behind the shield of his body.
“I can’t allow—” Westcliff began.
Matthew interrupted firmly. “It’s better this way.” He wanted the half-crazed Waring and the two constables away from Stony Cross Park. “I’ll go with them, and everything will be resolved in London. This isn’t the time or place for dispute.”
The earl swore quietly. An able tactician, Westcliff understood that for the moment he did not have the upper hand. This was not a battle that could be won by brute force. It would require money, legalities, and political wire-pulling.
“I’m coming to London with you,” Westcliff said curtly.
“Impossible,” Waring replied. “The carriage seats four. It will accommodate only myself, the constables, and the prisoner.”
“I will follow in my carriage.”
“I will accompany you,” Thomas Bowman said decisively.
Westcliff pulled Matthew aside, keeping his hand on his shoulder in a brotherly clasp as he spoke quietly. “I know the Bow Street magistrate quite well. I will see that you are brought before him as soon as we reach London—and at my request you will be discharged at once. We will stay at my private residence while we wait for a formal requisition from the American ambassador. In the meantime I will assemble a regiment of lawyers and every bit of political influence at my disposal.”
Matthew could barely trust himself to speak. “Thank you,” he managed.
