Scandal in Spring (31 page)

"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.

"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.