Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers #4)(78)

“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.

Matthew’s eyes narrowed in defiance as he met Wendell Waring’s accusing stare. Whether he liked it or not, Waring would have to listen to the truth.

CHAPTER 18

“I was Harry Waring’s servant,” Matthew began gruffly. “And a good one, even though I knew he regarded me as something less than a human being. In his view servants were like dogs. I existed only for his convenience. My job was to assume blame for his misdeeds, take his punishments, repair what he broke, fetch what he needed. Even at an early age Harry was an arrogant wastrel who thought he could get away with anything short of murder because of his family’s name—”

“I won’t have him maligned!” Waring burst out furiously.

“You’ve had your turn,” Thomas Bowman bellowed. “Now I want to hear Swift.”

“His name isn’t—”

“Let him speak,” Westcliff said, his cold voice settling the rising ferment.

Matthew gave the earl a short nod of thanks. His attention was diverted as Daisy resumed her place in the nearby chair. She inched the piece of furniture closer until his right leg was half-concealed in the folds of her skirts.

“I went with Harry to Boston Latin,” Matthew continued, “and then to Harvard. I slept in the servants’ quarters in the basement. I studied his friends’ lecture notes for the classes Harry had missed and I wrote papers for him—”

“That’s a lie!” Waring cried. “You, who had been educated by ancient nuns at an orphanage—you’re mad to think anyone would believe you.”

Matthew allowed himself one mocking smile. “I learned more from those ancient nuns than Harry did from a string of private tutors. Harry said he didn’t need an education since he had a name and money. But I had neither, and my only chance was to learn as much as possible in the hopes of climbing up some day.”