‘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 it. Timothy, Eleanor’s footman, had been most helpful in keeping him informed both about Eleanor’s outings and her increasing number of gentlemen callers. He had thrust aside his jealousy; whether he was Matthew Thomas or Matthew Damerel could make no difference to his eligibility. He was a third son, making his living in trade. He was proud of his achievements, but that same pride dictated he was not a suitable match for a wealthy peeress.
‘That day we visited James,’ Eleanor said.
Matthew felt his brows shoot up. ‘No greeting? No enquiry after your visitor’s health? Tut-tut, my lady.’
Eleanor flushed. ‘I apologise. But this is important.’ Her words tumbled out one after the other. ‘You spoke to a man, after you left Aunt Lucy and me. Who was he? Have you set him to watching me?’
‘What man?’ Matthew paused; racked his brains. ‘I left you and I walked back to Hill Street. I do not recall speaking to anyone. I had urgent business.’
Avoiding being seen by my brother.
Eleanor crossed the room to scrutinise his face. Her scent enveloped him, her tawny-brown eyes huge—and doubtful—in her dear face. Matthew clenched his fists to keep them by his sides, to stop himself cradling her cheeks and kissing those soft lips.
‘It was on the corner of Hill Street. Have you set anyone to watch me? A man in a brown suit with a pointed nose?’
‘Who is watching you, Ellie?’ Lady Rothley had come in and paled with fright. ‘Oh, do not say you have seen the villain who has tried to harm you.’
Eleanor’s words had sparked a memory in Matthew. ‘I do recall a man in brown, now you say that, but he was only asking for directions.’
Eleanor bit her lip. ‘I am sorry, Aunt. It was nothing. I thought I recognised a passer-by just now.