“Neither am I.”

“Yes you are,” he murmured, making her blush. He smiled at the sight of her face peeking out from the folds of the coat, like a little owl in the woods. “You’re wearing the coat,” he said. “It’s just a few yards to the door.”

There came a hasty knock, and the carriage opened to reveal a footman struggling manfully with an umbrella. A gust of wind snapped it inside-out. As Matthew jumped out of the carriage, he was immediately soaked by the pounding rain. He clapped the footman on the shoulders. “Go inside,” he shouted over the storm. “I’ll help Miss Bowman in.”

The footman nodded and retreated hastily to the manor.

Turning back to the carriage, Matthew reached inside, plucked Daisy out, and set her carefully on the ground. He guided her along the puddled ground and up the front steps, not stopping until they had crossed the threshold.

The warmth and light of the entrance hall surrounded them. Wet shirt fabric clung to Matthew’s shoulders, and a pleasant shiver chased through him at the thought of sitting before a hearth fire.

“Oh, dear,” Daisy said, smiling as she reached up to push a swath of dripping hair off his forehead. “You’re soaked through.”

A housemaid hurried to them with an armload of fresh toweling. Nodding to her in thanks, Matthew scrubbed his hair roughly and blotted the water from his face. He bent his head to let Daisy smooth his hair as best she could with her fingers.

Becoming aware of someone’s approach, Matthew glanced over his shoulder. Westcliff had come into the entrance hall. His expression was austere, but there was something in his eyes, a touch of frowning concern, that sent a chill of apprehension through Matthew’s veins.

“Swift,” the earl said quietly, “we’ve received unexpected visitors this evening. They have not yet revealed their purpose in coming to the estate unannounced—other than to say it is some business involving you.”

The chill intensified until it seemed ice crystals had formed in his muscles and bones. “Who are they?” Matthew asked.

“A Mr. Wendell Waring, of Boston…and a pair of Bow Street constables.”

Matthew did not move or react as he silently absorbed the news. A sickening wave of despair went through him.

Christ, he thought. How had Waring found him here in England? How…oh Christ, it didn’t matter, it was all over. All these years he had stolen from fate…now fate would have its reckoning. His heart thumped with an insane urge to run. But there was no place to run to, and even if there was—he was weary of living in dread of this day.

He felt Daisy’s small hand slip into his, but he didn’t return the pressure of her fingers. He stared at Westcliff’s face. Whatever was in his eyes caused the earl to sigh heavily.

“Damn,” Westcliff murmured. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

Matthew could only manage a single nod. He pulled his hand from Daisy’s. She did not try to touch him again, her bewilderment almost tangible.

After a long moment of contemplation, Westcliff squared his shoulders. “Well, then,” he said decisively, “let’s go and sort this out. Whatever comes of it, I will stand by as your friend.”

A brief, incredulous laugh escaped Matthew’s lips. “You don’t even know what it is.”

“I don’t make idle promises. Come. They’re in the large parlor.”

Matthew nodded, drymouthed and resolute. He was surprised that he was functioning as if nothing was happening, as if his entire world wasn’t about to be blown apart. It seemed almost as if he was watching from outside himself. Fear had never done that to him before. But maybe that was because he’d never had this much to lose.

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!”