Her fingers tightened on his. “I’d better make it ten.”

Matthew turned as he became aware of someone approaching from behind. It was the pair of constables, looking disgruntled. “It’s procedure for lawbreakers to wear ‘and cuffs while they’re being transported to Bow Street,” one of them said. He gave Daisy an accusing glance. “Pardon, miss, but what did you do with the cuffs that was removed from Mr. Phelan?”

Daisy looked back at him innocently. “I gave them to a maidservant. I’m afraid she’s very forgetful. She probably misplaced them.”

“Where should we start looking?” the officer asked with a puff of impatience.

Her expression did not change as she replied, “I would suggest a thorough search of all the chamberpots.”

CHAPTER 19

Because of the hasty nature of their departure, Marcus and Bowman brought few personal effects aside from a quickly packed change of clothes and the most basic toiletries. Sitting in opposite seats of the family carriage, they engaged in very little conversation. Wind and rain battered the vehicle, and Marcus thought with concern about the driver and horses.

It was foolhardy to travel in this weather, but Marcus was damned if he would let Matthew Swift…Phaelan…be whisked away from Stony Cross with no protection whatsoever. And it was obvious that Wendell Waring’s quest for vengeance had reached an irrational extreme.

Daisy had been astute in her remarks to Waring, that making someone else pay for the crime that Harry had committed would neither bring his son back nor serve his memory. But in Waring’s mind this was the last thing he could do for his son. And perhaps he had convinced himself that putting Matthew in prison would prove Harry’s innocence.

Harry Waring had tried to sacrifice Matthew to cover up his own corruption. Marcus wasn’t about to allow Wendell Waring to succeed where his son had failed.

“Do you doubt him?” Thomas Bowman asked suddenly. He looked more troubled than Marcus had ever seen him. No doubt this was acutely painful for Bowman, who loved Matthew Swift like a son. Possibly even more than his own sons. It was no wonder the two had formed a strong bond—Swift, a fatherless young man, and Bowman, in need of someone to guide and mentor.

“Are you asking if I doubt Swift? Not in the slightest. I found his version infinitely more believable than Waring’s.”

“So did I. And I know Swift’s character. I can assure you that in all my dealings with him, he has always been principled and honest to a fault.”

Marcus smiled slightly. “Can one be honest to a fault?”

Bowman shrugged, and his mustache twitched with reluctant amusement. “Well…extreme honesty can sometimes be a business liability.”

A crack of lighting came uncomfortably close, causing Marcus’s nape to prickle in warning. “This is madness,” he muttered. “They’ll have to stop at a tavern soon, if they can even make it past the Hampshire border. A few of the local creeks are stronger than some rivers. Given enough headwater surge, the roads will be impassable.”

“God, I hope so,” Thomas Bowman said fervently. “Nothing would delight me more than to see Waring and those two bumbling idiots being forced to return to Stony Cross Manor with Swift.”

The carriage slowed and came to an abrupt halt, the rain pounding like fists against the lacquered exterior.

“What’s this?” Bowman lifted the curtain to peer outside the window, but could see nothing except blackness and water pouring down the glass.

“Damn it,” Marcus said.

A panicked thumping at the door, and it was wrenched open. The driver’s white face appeared. With his black top hat and cloak blending into the gloom, he looked like a disembodied head. “Milord,” he gasped, “there’s been an accident ahead—ye must come see—”

Marcus sprang out of the carriage, a shock of cold rain striking him with stunning force. He yanked the carriage lantern from its holder and followed the driver to a creek crossing just ahead.

“Christ,” Marcus whispered.

The carriage carrying Waring and Matthew had stopped on a simple wooden beam bridge, one side of which had twisted away from the bank and was now angled diagonally across the creek. The force of the raging current had collapsed part of the bridge, leaving the carriage’s back wheels half-submerged in the water while the team of horses struggled in vain to pull it out. Swaying back and forth in the water like a child’s toy, the bridge threatened to detach from the other bank.

There was no way to reach the stranded carriage. The bridge had broken away on the side closest to them, and it would be suicidal to try and cross the current.

“My God, no,” he heard Thomas Bowman exclaim in horror.

They could only watch helplessly as the driver of Waring’s carriage fought to save the team, frantically unbuckling straps from carriage shafts.

At the same time, the uppermost door of the sinking carriage was pushed open, and a figure began to crawl out with obvious difficulty.

“Is it Swift?” Bowman demanded, going as close to the bank as he dared. “Swift!” But his bellow was swallowed in the crash of the storm and the roar of the current, and the angry creaks of the disintegrating bridge.

Then everything seemed to happen at once. The horses stumbled off the bridge to the safety of the bank. Movement on the bridge, a dark figure or two, and with a chilling, almost majestic slowness the heavy carriage eased into the water. It half-sank, retaining marginal buoyancy for a few moments…but then the carriage lanterns were extinguished, and the vehicle drifted sideways as the raging current swept it downstream.