“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.”