Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers #4)(77)

“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.