Seeing that Daisy’s fingers were turning white from the pressure of his, Matthew forced his hand to loosen. His thumb brushed gently over the points of her knuckles. “I had a stroke of luck,” he continued more quietly, “when a reporter for the Daily Advertiser wrote an article exposing Harry’s past gambling debts, and revealing that those same debts had coincidentally been cleared right after the robbery. As a result of the article there was a growing public outcry at the obvious travesty of the proceedings.”

“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 StonyCrossPark 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.