Scandal in Spring

by Lisa Kleypas

  “My lord,” Daisy whispered, “will they succeed in extraditing Matthew?”

  Westcliff’s features hardened in arrogant certainty. “Absolutely not.”

  Daisy let out a huff of unsteady laughter. “Well,” she said, “I am willing to take your word, my lord, even if Mr. Waring is not.”

  “By the time I’m finished with Waring…” Westcliff muttered, and shook his head. “Pardon. I will tell the servants to ready my carriage.”

  As the earl strode away, Daisy stared up into Matthew’s face. “There’s so much I understand now,” she said. “Why you didn’t want to tell me.”

  “Yes, I—” His voice was hoarse. “I knew it was wrong. I knew I would lose you when you found out.”

  “You didn’t think I would understand?” Daisy asked gravely.

  “You don’t know how it was before. No one would believe me. The facts didn’t matter. And having gone through that, I couldn’t believe anyone would ever have faith in my innocence.”

  “Matthew,” she said simply, “I will always believe everything you tell me.”

  “Why?” he whispered.

  “Because I love you.”

  The words devastated him. “You don’t have to say that. You don’t—”

  “I love you,” Daisy insisted, gripping his waistcoat in her hands. “I should have said it before—I wanted to wait until you trusted me enough to stop hiding your past from me. But now that I know the worst—” She paused with a wry smile. “This is the worst, isn’t it? There’s nothing else you want to confess?”

  Matthew nodded dazedly. “Yes. No. This is it.”

  Her expression turned shy. “Aren’t you going to say you love me, too?”

  “I haven’t the right,” he said. “Not until this is resolved. Not until my name is—”

  “Tell me,” Daisy said, jerking his coat a little.

  “I love you,” Matthew muttered. Holy hell, it felt good to say it to her.

  She tugged again, this time as a gesture of possession, an assertion. Matthew resisted, his hands coming to her elbows, feeling the heat of her skin through the damp fabric of her dress. Despite the inappropriateness of the situation, his body pulsed with desire. Daisy, I don’t want to leave you…

  “I’m coming to London too,” he heard her murmur.

  “No. Stay here with your sister. I don’t want you to be part of this.”

  “A bit late for that now, isn’t it? As your fiancée I have more than a passing interest in the outcome.”

  Matthew lowered his head over hers, his mouth lightly touching her hair. “It will be more difficult for me if you’re there,” he said quietly. “I need to know you’re safe here in Hampshire.” Taking her hands from his waistcoat, he brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them ardently. “Go to the well for me tomorrow,” he whispered. “I’m going to need another five-dollar wish.”

  Her fingers tightened on his. “I’d better make it ten.”

  Matthew turned as he became aware of someone approaching from behind. It was the pair of constables, looking disgruntled. “It’s procedure for lawbreakers to wear ’and cuffs while they’re being transported to Bow Street,” one of them said. He gave Daisy an accusing glance. “Pardon, miss, but what did you do with the cuffs that was removed from Mr. Phelan?”

  Daisy looked back at him innocently. “I gave them to a maidservant. I’m afraid she’s very forgetful. She probably misplaced them.”

  “Where should we start looking?” the officer asked with a puff of impatience.

  Her expression did not change as she replied, “I would suggest a thorough search of all the chamberpots.”

  Chapter 19

  Because of the hasty nature of their departure, Marcus and Bowman brought few personal effects aside from a quickly packed change of clothes and the most basic toiletries. Sitting in opposite seats of the family carriage, they engaged in very little conversation. Wind and rain battered the vehicle, and Marcus thought with concern about the driver and horses.

  It was foolhardy to travel in this weather, but Marcus was damned if he would let Matthew Swift…Phaelan…be whisked away from Stony Cross with no protection whatsoever. And it was obvious that Wendell Waring’s quest for vengeance had reached an irrational extreme.

  Daisy had been astute in her remarks to Waring, that making someone else pay for the crime that Harry had committed would neither bring his son back nor serve his memory. But in Waring’s mind this was the last thing he could do for his son. And perhaps he had convinced himself that putting Matthew in prison would prove Harry’s innocence.

  Harry Waring had tried to sacrifice Matthew to cover up his own corruption. Marcus wasn’t about to allow Wendell Waring to succeed where his son had failed.

  “Do you doubt him?” Thomas Bowman asked suddenly. He looked more troubled than Marcus had ever seen him. No doubt this was acutely painful for Bowman, who loved Matthew Swift like a son. Possibly even more than his own sons. It was no wonder the two had formed a strong bond—Swift, a fatherless young man, and Bowman, in need of someone to guide and mentor.

  “Are you asking if I doubt Swift? Not in the slightest. I found his version infinitely more believable than Waring’s.”

  “So did I. And I know Swift’s character. I can assure you that in all my dealings with him, he has always been principled and honest to a fault.”

  Marcus smiled slightly. “Can one be honest to a fault?”

  Bowman shrugged, and his mustache twitched with reluctant amusement. “Well…extreme honesty can sometimes be a business liability.”

  A crack of lighting came uncomfortably close, causing Marcus’s nape to prickle in warning. “This is madness,” he muttered. “They’ll have to stop at a tavern soon, if they can even make it past the Hampshire border. A few of the local creeks are stronger than some rivers. Given enough headwater surge, the roads will be impassable.”

  “God, I hope so,” Thomas Bowman said fervently. “Nothing would delight me more than to see Waring and those two bumbling idiots being forced to return to Stony Cross Manor with Swift.”

  The carriage slowed and came to an abrupt halt, the rain pounding like fists against the lacquered exterior.

  “What’s this?” Bowman lifted the curtain to peer outside the window, but could see nothing except blackness and water pouring down the glass.

  “Damn it,” Marcus said.

  A panicked thumping at the door, and it was wrenched open. The driver’s white face appeared. With his black top hat and cloak blending into the gloom, he looked like a disembodied head. “Milord,” he gasped, “there’s been an accident ahead—ye must come see—”

  Marcus sprang out of the carriage, a shock of cold rain striking him with stunning force. He yanked the carriage lantern from its holder and followed the driver to a creek crossing just ahead.

  “Christ,” Marcus whispered.

  The carriage carrying Waring and Matthew had stopped on a simple wooden beam bridge, one side of which had twisted away from the bank and was now angled diagonally across the creek. The force of the raging current had collapsed part of the bridge, leaving the carriage’s back wheels half-submerged in the water while the team of horses struggled in vain to pull it out. Swaying back and forth in the water like a child’s toy, the bridge threatened to detach from the other bank.

  There was no way to reach the stranded carriage. The bridge had broken away on the side closest to them, and it would be suicidal to try and cross the current.

  “My God, no,” he heard Thomas Bowman exclaim in horror.

  They could only watch helplessly as the driver of Waring’s carriage fought to save the team, frantically unbuckling straps from carriage shafts.

  At the same time, the uppermost door of the sinking carriage was pushed open, and a figure began to crawl out with obvious difficulty.

  “Is it Swift?” Bowman demanded, going as close to the bank as he dared. “Swift!” But his bellow was swallowed in the crash of the sto
rm and the roar of the current, and the angry creaks of the disintegrating bridge.

  Then everything seemed to happen at once. The horses stumbled off the bridge to the safety of the bank. Movement on the bridge, a dark figure or two, and with a chilling, almost majestic slowness the heavy carriage eased into the water. It half-sank, retaining marginal buoyancy for a few moments…but then the carriage lanterns were extinguished, and the vehicle drifted sideways as the raging current swept it downstream.

  Daisy had slept only fitfully, unable to stop her racing thoughts. She had woken repeatedly in the night, wondering what would happen to Matthew. She was afraid for his well-being. Only the knowledge that Westcliff was with him—or at least close by—kept her reasonably calm.

  She kept reliving the moments in the parlor when Matthew had finally revealed the secrets of his past. How vulnerable and alone he had looked. What a burden he had carried all these years…and what courage and imagination it had taken for him to reinvent himself.

  Daisy knew she wasn’t going to be able to wait in Hampshire for very long. She wanted desperately to see Matthew, to reassure him, to defend him against the world if necessary.

  Earlier in the evening Mercedes had asked Daisy if the revelations about Matthew had affected her decision to marry him.

  “Yes,” Daisy had replied. “It’s made me even more determined than before.”

  Lillian had joined the conversation, admitting that she was far more predisposed to like Matthew Swift after what they had learned about him. “Although,” she had added, “it would be rather nice to know what your future married name is going to be.”

  “Oh, what’s in a name?” Daisy had quoted, pulling a piece of paper from a lap desk and fidgeting with it.

  “What are you doing?” Lillian had asked. “Don’t say you’re going to write a letter now?”

  “I don’t know what to do,” Daisy had admitted. “I think I should send word to Annabelle and Evie.”

  “They’ll find out soon enough from Westcliff,” Lillian said. “And they won’t be one bit surprised.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “With your fondness for stories with dramatic twists and characters with mysterious pasts, it’s a foregone conclusion you wouldn’t have a quiet, ordinary courtship.”

  “Be that as it may,” Daisy had replied wryly, “a quiet, ordinary courtship sounds very appealing at the moment.”

  After a restless sleep, Daisy awakened in the morning as someone entered the room. At first she assumed it was the maid come to light the grate, but it was too early. Daybreak had not yet arrived, and the rain had slowed to a sullen drizzle.

  It was her sister.

  “Good morning,” Daisy croaked, sitting up and stretching. “Why are you up so early? Is the baby fretful?”

  “No, she’s resting.” Lillian’s voice was husky. Wearing a heavy velvet robe, her hair in a loose braid, she came to the bed with a steaming cup of tea in hand. “Here, take this.”

  Daisy frowned and obeyed, watching as Lillian levered herself onto the edge of the mattress. This was not the usual pattern of things.

  Something had happened.

  “What is it?” she asked, a feeling of dread crawling down her spine.

  Lillian nodded toward the tea cup. “It can wait until you’re a bit more awake.”

  It was too soon for any news to have come from London, Daisy reflected. This couldn’t have anything to do with Matthew. Maybe their mother had taken ill. Maybe something dreadful had happened in the village.

  After downing a few swallows of tea, Daisy leaned over to set the cup on the bedside table. She returned her attention to her sister. “This is as awake as I’m going to get today,” she said. “Tell me now.”

  Clearing her throat roughly, Lillian spoke in a thick voice. “Westcliff and Father are back.”

  “What?” Daisy stared at her in bewilderment. “Why aren’t they in London with Matthew?”

  “He’s not in London either.”

  “Then they’re all back?”

  Lillian gave a stiff little shake of her head. “No. I’m sorry. I’m explaining badly. I…I’ll just be blunt. Not long after Westcliff and Father left Stony Cross, their carriage had to stop because of an accident ahead at the bridge. You know that creaky old bridge you have to cross to stay on the main road?”

  “The one that spans the little creek?”

  “Yes. Well, the creek isn’t little right now. Thanks to the storm, it’s a big rushing river. And apparently the bridge was weakened by the current, and when Mr. Waring’s carriage tried to cross, it collapsed.”

  Daisy froze in confusion. The bridge collapsed. She repeated the words to herself, but they seemed as impossible to interpret as some ancient forgotten language. With an effort, she gathered her wits. “Was everyone saved?” she heard herself ask.

  “Everyone but Matthew.” Lillian’s voice shook. “He was trapped in the carriage as it was swept downstream.”

  “He’s all right,” Daisy said automatically, her heart beginning to thrash like a caged wild animal. “He can swim. He probably ended up downstream on one of the banks—someone has to look for him—”

  “They’re searching everywhere,” Lillian said. “Westcliff is organizing a full-scale effort. He spent most of the night searching and returned a little while ago. The carriage broke into pieces as it went downstream. No sign of Matthew. But Daisy, one of the constables admitted to Westcliff…” She stopped and her brown eyes sparkled with furious tears. “…admitted…” She continued with effort. “…that Matthew’s hands were tied.”

  Daisy’s legs moved beneath the bedclothes, her knees bending, drawing up tight. Her body wanted to occupy as little physical space as possible, shrinking away from this new revelation.

  “But why?” she whispered. “There was no reason.”

  Lillian’s determined jaw quivered as she tried to regain control over her emotions. “Given Matthew’s history, they said there was a risk of escape. But I think Waring insisted on it out of spite.”

  Daisy felt lightheaded from the thunder of her own pulse. She was frightened, and yet at the same time part of her had become bizarrely detached. Briefly she summoned an image of Matthew, struggling in dark water, his hands bound and thrashing—

  “No,” she said, pressing her palms against the violent throb of her temples. It felt as if nails were being driven into her skull. She couldn’t breathe well. “He had no chance, did he?”

  Lillian shook her head and looked away. Drops of water fell from her face to the counterpane.

  How strange, Daisy thought, that she wasn’t crying too. Hot pressure built behind her eyes, deep in her head, making her skull ache. But it seemed her tears were waiting for some thought or word that would trigger their release.

  Daisy continued to hold her pounding temples, nearly blind from the pain in her head as she asked, “Are you crying for Matthew?”

  “Yes.” Lillian pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her robe and blew her nose roughly. “But mostly for you.” She leaned close enough to wrap her arms around Daisy, as if she could protect her from all harm. “I love you, Daisy.”

  “I love you, too,” Daisy said in a muffled voice, hurting and dry-eyed, and gasping for breath.

  The search continued all that day and the next night, but all the ordinary rituals, the times for sleeping and working and eating, had lost their meaning. Only one incident managed to reach through the numb weight that pressed at Daisy from all sides, and that was when Westcliff had refused to let her come help in the search.

  “You’ll be of no use to anyone,” Westcliff had told her, too exhausted and bedeviled to exercise his usual tact. “It’s dangerous and difficult out there with the water so high. At best you’ll be a distraction. At worst, you’ll get hurt.”

  Daisy had known he was right, but that didn’t stop a flare of outrage. The feeling, startling in its force, threatened to disintegrate her control, and so she had hurriedl
y withdrawn back into herself.

  Matthew’s body might never be found. That was too cruel to bear, the fate of having to reconcile herself to that. Somehow a disappearance was even worse than a death—it was as if he had never existed at all, leaving nothing to mourn over. She had never understood before why some people needed to see the body of a loved one after they had died. Now she did. It was the only way to end this waking nightmare and perhaps find the release of tears and pain.

  “I keep thinking I should know if he were dead,” she told Lillian as she sat on the floor next to the parlor hearth. An old shawl was wrapped around her, comforting in its time-worn softness. Despite the heat of the fire, the layers of her clothing, the mug of brandied tea in her hands, Daisy couldn’t seem to get warm. “I should feel it. But I can’t feel anything, it’s as if I’ve been frozen alive. I want to hide somewhere. I don’t want to bear this. I don’t want to strong.”

  “You don’t have to be,” Lillian said quietly.

  “Yes I do. Because the only other choice is to let myself break into a million pieces.”

  “I’ll hold you together. Every single piece.”

  A paper-thin smile touched Daisy’s lips as she stared into her sister’s concerned face. “Lillian,” she whispered. “What would I do without you?”

  “You’ll never have to find out.”

  It was only the prodding of her mother and sister that induced Daisy to take a few bites of supper. She drank a full glass of wine, hoping it would distract her from the endless circling of her mind.

  “Westcliff and Father should be back soon,” Lillian said tensely. “They’ve had no rest and likely nothing to eat.”

  “Let’s go to the parlor,” Mercedes suggested. “We can distract ourselves with cards, or perhaps you might read aloud from one of Daisy’s favorite books.”

  Daisy gave her an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry, I can’t. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to be alone upstairs.”

  After she had washed and changed into her nightclothes, Daisy glanced at the bed. Even though she was tipsy and weary, her mind rejected the notion of sleep.