Stephen about that night. As he talked, Stephen sat down opposite, his attention never wavering from Matthew’s face. When he had finished, Stephen leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled.
‘So, Father sent you off to India. Why did you not write?’
The past had begun to reform into a coherent picture. Father and Claverley had not told the rest of the family where he had gone. He had been bundled on board ship and dismissed from their minds. Disowned.
‘I wrote. Many times. No one—none of you—replied.’
Stephen’s grey eyes searched Matthew’s face.
‘They never arrived,’ he growled. ‘Father must have made sure of it.’
‘He was too ashamed to acknowledge I even existed after he disowned me.’ Matthew could hear the sharp bitterness in his own voice. ‘I did not do those things—cheat, or attack Henson.’
‘He did try to clear your name. After you left.’
‘I did not leave willingly.’
‘I know that now. At the time, it seemed as though you had run away. It seemed like an admission of guilt.’
‘You said he tried to clear my name. Did he discover the truth?’ Knowing Father had at least tried kindled a tiny glow in his heart.
Stephen rose to pace the room. ‘About the cheating, no. About the attack and the robbery, yes.’
‘I already have the proof about the attack, thanks to Uncle Percy...although I suppose he and Father must have been in contact about that, which is how he knew. But the cheating...’ Matthew had relived that night so many times, wondering what had happened, what he might have done differently. ‘I know that extra card did not come from me. I have long thought about it. Henson was next to me and losing deep. He was already on the rocks before that night, according to the gossip. I think he meant to palm that king and he fumbled it. When the card fell on the floor, he immediately accused me. I’d been winning—it was an easy accusation to make stick. Have the other men at the game never said anything about that night?’
Stephen stopped pacing. ‘I was never even told who was present that night. Father made certain it was all hushed up and forbade any of us to discuss it—or you—again. You know his views on codes of honour and gentlemanly behaviour. Of course, Claverley would never go against Father’s decree, but Mother, Sarah and I—and Caro, now she is older—have talked about you and what had become of you. I’ve never heard the slightest whisper to suggest the accusation of cheating is common knowledge.’
That news was welcome. When he began to use his family name there would be no immediate scandal to taint Eleanor, unless any of those men returned to London. He would deal with that problem when it arose. He needed to speak to at least one of them, to try to uncover the truth of that night.
‘You said you had no intention of making contact with any of us,’ Stephen said. ‘What changed your mind?’
‘I’m a merchant, Stephen. I make my living through trade. This world...the world I grew up in...holds no lure for me.’ That wasn’t entirely true. Not any more. Eleanor’s face materialised in his mind’s eye. Was she safe? He needed to get back to her, to make sure. ‘And neither would that world accept me. I don’t belong any more.’
‘You still haven’t told me why you are here.’
Matthew leaned forward, under the pretence of stoking the fire. ‘I have lived and worked with the name Matthew Thomas since I was eighteen. It is now my intention to revert to my real name. Damerel.’
Matthew Thomas Damerel. His birth name, his family name. He could not move around in society without acknowledging it. He could not protect Eleanor without using it. He could not clear his name without reclaiming it.
‘Why?’
Matthew shrugged. ‘I will not live my life ashamed of something I did not do. I intend to clear my name. I will find proof.’
Stephen grinned suddenly, and thrust out his hand. ‘Welcome home, little brother. Let me know how I can help.’
Eleanor sat at the table in her first-floor drawing room, writing a guest list for a soirée she was planning. It was difficult to concentrate. Her mind kept wandering to Matthew Thomas. He was annoyingly evasive. It was three days now since he had accompanied them to James’s house and, since then, not a word. Although...she tapped the end of her quill pen absently against her cheek...there had been a time or two she had caught sight of him. Or thought she had.
In the distance.
Watching.
As soon as she noticed him, however, he had melted into the crowd and she was left wondering if it was the product of an over-active imagination. Or wishful thinking. Was it his way of ensuring she was safe, despite her rejection of his offer? Did he feel obligated to watch over her? Some masculine notion of honour...having once taken responsibility for her safety, did he feel unable to walk away?
If only he would call. She missed him. He had become a friend. One she could talk to. One she felt comfortable with. Unlike the men who had hovered around her like wasps around a ripe plum when she attended her first ball. Since then, there had been a procession of male callers, presenting her with flowers, reciting poetry, generally making cakes of themselves. She had learnt to bite her tongue, but she found herself wishing Matthew was there to share the joke.
And the others: the prowlers, the dangerous ones, the rakes. She shivered at the memory of some of those looks of dark determination. Thank goodness for Aunt Lucy, who was alert to their wiles and gave them all short shrift. Thoroughly distracted, she gazed from the window, overlooking the street. And frowned. Surely...that man...had she not seen him before? The man in question—medium height, slight build, unremarkable other than a pointed nose—paced slowly past on the opposite pavement. As Eleanor watched, trying to place where she might have seen him, he glanced at the house, perusing the frontage from top to bottom. Then his pace quickened and he soon disappeared from view.
Had he seen her watching him? Who was he? He was dressed like a clerk, in a nondescript brown suit. Where had she seen him before? She searched her memories.
The door opened.
‘Mr Thomas has called, my lady.’
Her heart stuttered, then raced.
‘Thank you, Pacey. Please show him up and inform Lady Rothley.’
Matthew...an image flashed into Eleanor’s mind. The last time she had seen him, before he had disappeared around the corner. He had stopped and spoken to someone: the same man Eleanor had just seen outside.
* * *
Matthew followed Pacey up the staircase, mentally rehearsing the words to reveal his true identity to Eleanor. She would not be pleased at being misled. He knew her well enough to know that.
‘Good morning, Lady Ashby. I trust you are well?’
He knew she was. He had been watching over her, making certain of
