He saw Daisy walking ahead of him, her face lifting as Westcliff murmured something to her. She gave the earl a quick nod, seeming to take reassurance from him.

Matthew dropped his gaze to the floor. The sight of her caused a sharp pain in his throat, as if it had been pierced with a stiletto. He willed the blanketing numbness to come back, and mercifully it did.

They entered the parlor. Matthew felt like the damned on judgment day as he saw Thomas, Mercedes, and Lillian. His gaze swept the room, just as he heard a man’s voice bark, “That’s him!”

All at once there was a bright burst of pain in his head, and his legs collapsed as if they had turned to sand. The brightness shrank like an imploding star, darkness closing in, but his mind pushed at it in bewilderment, struggling feebly for consciousness.

Matthew became dimly aware that he was on the floor—he felt the scratchy wool pile of the carpet beneath his cheek. Wetness trickled from his mouth. He swallowed against a salty taste. A soft groan vibrated in his throat. As he concentrated on the pain, he identified its source at the back of his head. He had been struck, clubbed, by some hard object.

Sizzling light streaked across his vision as he felt himself being hauled upward, his arms jerked forward. Someone was shouting…men bellowing, a woman’s sharp cry…Matthew blinked to clear his eyes, but they wouldn’t stop watering against the biting pain. His wrists were compressed in a heavy iron loop. Handcuffs, he realized, and the familiar-awful heft of them filled him with dull panic.

Gradually the voices became recognizable to his buzzing ears. There was Westcliff raging—

“…dare to come into my home and assault one of my guests…do you know who I am? Remove those now, or I’ll see you all rotting in Newgate!”

And a new voice—

“Not after all these years. I won’t chance the possibility of his escape.”

The speaker was Mr. Wendell Waring, the patriarch of a wealthy New England family. The man Matthew despised second-most in the world, the first one being Waring’s son Harry.

It was strange how a sound or a scent could bring back the past so damn easily, no matter how Matthew would have liked to forget it.

“Just where,” Westcliff asked acidly, “do you expect him to flee to?”

“I have permission to secure the fugitive by any means of my choosing. You have no right to object.”

It would have been a massive understatement to say Wescliff was unaccustomed to being told by anyone that he had no right to do something, especially in his own home. It would have been an even greater understatement to say that Westcliff was enraged.

The argument thundered more violently than the storm outside, but Matthew lost track as he felt a gentle touch on his face. He jerked backward and heard Daisy’s quiet murmur.

“No. Be still.”

She was wiping his face with a dry cloth, clearing his eyes and mouth, pushing his damp hair back. He sat with his manacled hands in his lap, fighting to suppress a howl of misery as he looked at her.

Daisy’s face was white but remarkably calm. Distress had brought crimson flags to the crests of her cheeks, the color standing out in stark relief against her pale skin. She lowered herself to her knees on the carpet beside his chair to examine the metal cuffs on his hands. A single iron band was closed around his wrist and fastened with a lock-case attached to another, larger loop that a constable would use to lead him.

Lifting his head, Matthew registered the presence of two oversized officers dressed in the standard uniform of white summer trousers, black high-collared tailcoats, and hardened top hats. They stood by in grim silence while Wendell Waring, Westcliff, and Thomas Bowman argued heatedly.

Daisy was fumbling with the lock case of the cuffs. Matthew’s heart twisted painfully as he saw that she was prying at it with a hair pin. The Bowman sisters’ lock-picking skills were infamous, garnered over years of their parents’ foiled attempts at discipline. But Daisy’s hands were trembling too badly for her to manage the unfamiliar lock—and it was obviously pointless to try and free him. God, if only he could spirit her away from this ugliness, from the wreck of his past…from himself. “No,” Matthew said softly. “It’s not worth it. Daisy, please—”

“Here, now,” one of the officers said as he saw Daisy’s meddling. “Step away from the prisoner, miss.” Realizing she was ignoring him, the constable stepped forward with his hands half-raised. “Miss, I told you—”

“Don’t you touch her,” Lillian snapped, her voice containing a ferocity that caused a temporary silence in the room. Even Westcliff and Waring paused in momentary surprise.

Glaring at the dumbfounded constable, Lillian went to Daisy and nudged her aside. She spoke to the constables with stinging scorn. “Before you take a step in my direction, I’d advise you to consider what it will do to your careers when it is made known that you manhandled the Countess of Westcliff in her own home.” She extracted a pin from her own hair and took Daisy’s place, kneeling before Matthew. In a matter of seconds the lock clicked open and the loop fell from his wrists.

Before Matthew could thank her, Lillian stood and continued her tirade against the constables. “A fine pair you are, taking orders from an ill-bred Yankee to abuse the household that offered you shelter from a storm. Obviously you are too dull-witted to be aware of all the financial and political support my husband has given the New Police. With a lift of his finger, he could have the Home Secretary and the chief magistrate of Bow Street replaced within a matter of days. So if I were you—”

“Beg pardon, but we ‘as no choice, milady,” one of the beefy constables protested. “We’re under orders to bring Mr. Phaelan to Bow Street.”

“Who the bloody hell is Mr. Phaelan?” Lillian demanded.

Appearing awestruck by the countess’s fluent swearing, the constable said, “That one, there.” He pointed at Matthew.

Conscious that all eyes were on him, Matthew made his face expressionless.

Daisy was the first one in the room to move. She took the jangling handcuffs from Matthew’s lap and went to the door, where a small coterie of curious servants had gathered. After a quick whispered exchange she returned to occupy a chair near Matthew’s.

“And to think I predicted it would be a dull evening at home,” Lillian said dryly, taking a chair on Matthew’s other side as if to help defend him.

Daisy spoke gently to Matthew. “Is that your name? Matthew Phaelan?”

He couldn’t answer, every muscle of his body tensing in rejection of the sound.

“It is,” Wendell Waring shrilled. Waring was one of those unfortunate men whose high-pitched voices were inadequate to match their lofty physical proportions. Other than that, Waring was distinguished in bearing and appearance, with a thick ruff of silver hair, perfectly groomed side whiskers and an impenetrable white beard. He reeked of Old Boston, with his old-fashioned tailoring and expensive but well-worn tweed coat, and the air of self-assurance that could only have been produced in a family boasting generations of Harvard scholars. His eyes were like unfaceted quartz stones, hard and light and completely without luster.

Striding to Westcliff, Waring thrust a handful of papers at him. “Proof of my authority,” he said venomously. “There you have a copy of a diplomatic requisition of provisional arrest from the American Secretary of State. A copy of an order from the British Home Secretary Sir James Graham to the chief magistrate at Bow Street, to issue a warrant for the arrest of Matthew Phaelan, alias Matthew Swift. Copies of sworn information attesting to—”

“Mr. Waring,” Westcliff interrupted with a softness that in no way mitigated the danger in his tone, “you may bury me where I stand with copies of everything from arrest warrants to the Gutenberg Bible. That does not mean I will surrender this man to you.”

“You have no choice! He is a convicted criminal who will be extradited to the United States, regardless of anyone’s objections.

“No choice?” Westcliff’s dark eyes widened, and a flush worked over his face. “By God, my patience has seldom been tested to its limit as it is now! This property you are standing on has been in my family’s possession for five centuries, and on this land, in this house, I am the authority. Now, you will proceed to tell me in the most deferential manner you can manage, what grievance you have with this man.”

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.