by Lisa Kleypas
“Making a wish had nothing to do with it,” he said. “I only did that to get your attention.”
Daisy laughed. “And so you did. But—” she glanced at him significantly, “—your wish came true, didn’t it?” Taking the shilling, she transferred it to the fortune-teller. “What is your method of divination?” she asked the woman blithely. “Do you have a crystal ball? Do you use tarot cards or read palms?”
For an answer, the woman took a silver-backed looking glass from the waist of her skirts and handed it to Daisy. “Look at your reflection,” she intoned solemnly. “It is the gateway to the world of spirits. Keep staring—don’t look away.”
Matthew sighed and raised his gaze heavenward.
Obediently Daisy stared at her own expectant reflection, seeing the torchlight flicker across her features. “Are you going to stare into it too?” she asked.
“No,” the fortune teller replied. “I only need to see your eyes.”
Then…silence. Farther along the street, people sung May carols and beat drums. Staring into her own eyes, Daisy saw tiny gold glints of reflected light, like sparks wafting upward from a bonfire. If she looked hard enough, long enough, she could half-convince herself the silvered glass really was the gateway to some mystical world. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she could actually feel the intensity of the fortune-teller’s concentration.
With an abruptness that startled Daisy, the woman took the looking glass from her hands. “No good,” she said tersely. “I can see nothing. I will give your shilling back.”
“No need,” Daisy replied in bemusement. “It’s not your fault if my spirit is opaque.”
Matthew’s voice was so dry one could light a match off it. “We’ll be just as happy if you’d make up something,” he told the woman.
“She can’t make up something,” Daisy protested. “That would be abusing her gift.”
Studying the fortune-teller’s corrugated features, Daisy thought she seemed sincerely disgruntled. She must have seen or thought something that had bothered her. Which was probably a good indication to leave well enough alone. But if she didn’t find out what it was, Daisy knew herself well enough to be certain the curiosity would drive her mad.
“We don’t want the shilling back,” she said. “Please, you must tell me something. If it’s bad news, I would be better off knowing, wouldn’t I?”
“Not always,” the woman said darkly.
Daisy drew closer to her, until she could smell a sweet odor of figs, and some herbal essence…bay leaves? Basil? “I want to know,” she insisted.
The fortune-teller gave her a long, considering glance. Finally she spoke with great reluctance. “Sweet the night a heart was given, bitter turns the day. A promise made in April…a broken heart in May.”
A broken heart? Daisy didn’t like the sound of that.
She felt Matthew come up behind her, one hand settling at Daisy’s waist. Although she couldn’t see his expression, she knew it was sardonic. “Will two shillings inspire something a little more optimistic?” he asked.
The fortune-teller ignored him. Tucking the handle of the looking glass at her waist, she said to Daisy, “Make a charm of cloves tied in cloth. He must carry it for protection.”
“Against what?” Daisy asked anxiously.
The woman was already striding away from them. Her opulently hued skirts moved like river reeds as she headed to the crowd at the end of the street in search of more business.
Turning to Matthew, Daisy glanced up at his impassive face. “What could you need protection from?”
“The weather.” He held his hand palm upward, and Daisy realized that a few fat, cold raindrops had splashed on her head and shoulders.
“You were right,” she said, brooding over the ominous fortune. “I should have gone for the smoked chub instead.”
“Daisy…” His free hand slid behind the nape of her neck. “You didn’t believe that load of nonsense, did you? That crone has memorized a few verses, any one of which she’ll recite for a shilling. The only reason she gave us an ill omen was because I didn’t pretend to believe in her magic looking-glass.”
“Yes, but…she seemed genuinely sorry.”
“There was nothing genuine about her, or anything she said.” Matthew drew her closer, regardless of who might see them. As Daisy looked up at him, a raindrop spattered on her cheek, and another near the corner of her mouth. “It wasn’t real,” Matthew said softly, his eyes like blue midnight. He kissed her strongly, urgently, right there on the public street with the taste of rain absorbed between their lips. “This is real,” he whispered.
Daisy pressed against him eagerly, standing on her toes to fit her body against the firm contours of his. The jumble of packages threatened to fall, and Matthew fought to retain them while his mouth consumed Daisy’s. She broke the kiss with a sudden chuckle. A vigorous rumble of thunder caused the ground to vibrate beneath their feet.
In the periphery of her vision, people were scattering to the coverage provided by shops and stalls. “I’ll race you to the carriage,” she told Matthew, and picked up her skirts as she broke into a full-bore run.
Chapter 17
By the time the carriage had reached the end of the graveled drive, rain was coming down in flat, heavy sheets, and wind battered the sides of the vehicle. Thinking of the revelers in the village, Matthew reflected with amusement that many amorous inclinations were surely being drowned in the downpour.
The carriage stopped, the vehicle’s roof roaring from the impact of relentless rain. Ordinarily a footman would come to the carriage door with an umbrella, but the strength of this deluge would whip the device right out of his hands.
Matthew removed his coat and wrapped it around Daisy, pulling it up until it covered her head and shoulders. It was hardly adequate protection, but it would shield her between the carriage and the front door of the manor.
“You’ll get wet,” Daisy protested, glancing at his shirtsleeves and waistcoat.
He began to laugh. “I’m not made of sugar.”
“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!”
And a new voice—
“Not after all these years. I won’t chance the possibility of his escape.”
The speaker was Mr. Wendell Waring, the patriarch of a wealthy New England family. The man Matthew despised second-most in the world, the first one being Waring’s son Harry.
It was strange how a sound or a scent could bring back the past so damn easily, no matter how Matthew would have liked to forget it.
“Just where,” Westcliff asked acidly, “do you expect him to flee to?”
“I have permission to secure the fugitive by any means of my choosing. You have no right to object.”
It would have been a massive understatement to say Wescliff was unaccustomed to being told by anyone that he had no right to do something, especially in his own home. It would have been an even greater understatement to say that Westcliff was enraged.
The argument thundered more violently than the storm outside, but Matthew lost track as he felt a gentle touch on his face. He jerked backward and heard Daisy’s quiet murmur.
“No. Be still.”
She was wiping his face with a dry cloth, clearing his eyes and mouth, pushing his damp hair back. He sat with his manacled hands in his lap, fighting to suppress a howl of misery as he looked at her.
Daisy’s face was white but remarkably calm. Distress had brought crimson flags to the crests of her cheeks, the color standing out in stark relief against her pale skin. She lowered herself to her knees on the carpet beside his chair to examine the metal cuffs on his hands. A single iron band was closed around his wrist and fastened with a lock-case attached to another, larger loop that a constable would use to lead him.
Lifting his head, Matthew registered the presence of two oversized officers dressed in the standard uniform of white summer trousers, black high-collared tailcoats, and hardened top hats. They stood by in grim silence while Wendell Waring, Westcliff, and Thomas Bowman argued heatedly.
Daisy was fumbling with the lock case of the cuffs. Matthew’s heart twisted painfully as he saw that she was prying at it with a hair pin. The Bowman sisters’ lock-picking skills were infamous, garnered over years of their parents’ foiled attempts at discipline. But Daisy’s hands were trembling too badly for her to manage the unfamiliar lock—and it was obviously pointless to try and free him. God, if only he could spirit her away from this ugliness, from the wreck of his past…from himself. “No,” Matthew said softly. “It’s not worth it. Daisy, please—”
“Here, now,” one of the officers said as he saw Daisy’s meddling. “Step away from the prisoner, miss.” Realizing she was ignoring him, the constable stepped forward with his hands half-raised. “Miss, I told you—”
“Don’t you touch her,” Lillian snapped, her voice containing a ferocity that caused a temporary silence in the room. Even Westcliff and Waring paused in momentary surprise.
Glaring at the dumbfounded constable, Lillian went to Daisy and nudged her aside. She spoke to the constables with stinging scorn. “Before you take a step in my direction, I’d advise you to consider what it will do to your careers when it is made known that you manhandled the Countess of Westcliff in her own home.” She extracted a pin from her own hair and took Daisy’s place, kneeling before Matthew. In a matter of seconds the lock clicked open and the loop fell from his wrists.
Before Matthew could thank her, Lillian stood and continued her tirade against the constables. “A fine pair you are, taking orders from an ill-bred Yankee to abuse the household that offered you shelter from a storm. Obviously you are too dull-witted to be aware of all the financial and political support my husband has given the New Police. With a lift of his finger, he could have the Home Secretary and the chief magistrate of Bow Street replaced within a matter of days. So if I were you—”
“Beg pardon, but we ’as no choice, milady,” one of the beefy constables protested. “We’re under orders to bring Mr. Phaelan to Bow Street.”
“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 h
ome,” 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.”