For Your Arms Only (14 page)

“I never said you must come with me,” he corrected her, avoiding the thrust of her question. “There was really no need for you to meet the rat.”

“I want to help,” she protested. “He’s my father.”

“Your sister doesn’t ask to come along.”

“No.” She looked down at her lap. “Callie wouldn’t.”

She hadn’t eaten more than a few bites, and now looked rather woebegone. Alec thought of the lithographs—nothing he hadn’t seen a hundred times before, but it wasn’t his beloved father making them. She was doing her best, answering his questions and going along with his actions even when she didn’t understand and he wouldn’t explain. He sighed and poured more wine into both their glasses. “When I was in the army, I gathered intelligence. It’s not quite the same, but one learns tactics for discovering important information. Prenner wasn’t giving me answers, so I decided to search for them myself.”

“Gathering intelligence,” she repeated. “Like a spy?”

Alec choked on a mouthful of wine, then laughed ruefully as he set the glass down. “No. Well, yes, I suppose in some ways. I mostly spent my time riding about the countryside, asking people if they’d seen any Frenchmen go by.” She raised her eyebrows, waiting for more. “Sometimes they wouldn’t tell me, and I had to persuade them.”

“With your fist?”

“With my great charm,” he said, and finally she laughed. Alec grinned. “The rules of fair play do not apply in love and war, Miss Turner.”

“Your sister tells me you had a knack for achieving the impossible,” she said. “All this is forming a very colorful image of you, sir, quite unlike the one you have given me yourself.”

“Oh?” He leaned back in his chair. “What is the image you had formed?”

She became absorbed in tilting her glass back and forth, watching the wine swirl. “Not very colorful. Quite dark, in fact. You frightened me.”

“I could tell,” he said dryly. “I’d never been shot by a woman before.”

“You still haven’t been, to my knowledge.” But she smiled again. “Are you certain nothing would happen to Papa for those drawings?”

He considered a moment before replying. “Can I swear it? No. I don’t think he would be sent to prison or tried for libel, but if he offended the wrong person…” He stopped as her expression grew tense. “It’s highly unlikely.”

“But he disappeared after coming to London,” she said. “He might have come to see Mr. Prenner as well as Lord Hastings.”

“He might have done. But there’s no record in Prenner’s ledger of a payment around that time.” She looked at him steadily. They both knew that meant nothing. Alec sat forward in his chair, trying to change the subject. He wasn’t used to light conversation, especially not with women. “A colorful image, you say. Dare I ask?”

Her eyes dropped, and she sipped her wine. “Better not. I daresay much of it is exaggerated.”

“Really. You tease my curiosity unbearably.”

“You?” She raised her eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe.”

“That I have curiosity, or that you tease me?”

The color was rising in her cheeks again. “I do not tease you.” He just tilted his head to one side and studied her. The pink deepened to dusky rose. “I do
not
.”

“Right.” He poured more wine. “Now I shall be awake all night, worrying about your opinion of me.”

“Oh, really,” she exclaimed. “By now you must have such an opinion of me that it could hardly matter what I say to you.”

“My opinion of you,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Would you like to know it? I think you are the head of your family, even when your father is about. It must be wearing, to feel such responsibility. But you’re practical, and willing to do what needs doing. Loyal to those you love, ready to defend them against all harm, and wary of outsiders. But you’re not intractable in either instance and will listen to reason.” He paused; there was more to his opinion of her, but he sensed this was the main point. “I suspect you want to be more trusting, but have been burned by it in the past.”

“Who hasn’t?” she said with a forced smile.

“I understand.”

She shook her head. “No, you couldn’t. My sister…She was married to an absolute devil. He was older, handsome and respectable and rich—rich in our eyes, at least. Callie was only eighteen, and the most beautiful girl in town. When Mr. Phillips came calling on her, we were all so delighted; Papa was very pleased, and Granny was beside herself at the thought of Callie snaring such a fine gentleman. He spoke to Papa and they were married almost immediately, but then…” She paused, then went on in a flat voice, “I think he beat her. She never would admit it, but I saw the marks on her arms and shoulders. Papa had gone back to his regiment and Granny refused to believe it, for Mr. Phillips was always very charming to her. But my sister stopped laughing and looked ten years older than she was, and there was nothing I could do for her.”

Ah. Alec felt another piece of the puzzle slip into place. Not the puzzle of George Turner’s disappearance, but of Cressida herself. Somehow he found himself far more interested in investigating that one tonight.

She drained her wineglass, as if telling him her sister’s dark secret had finished her. “And now that Papa’s gone, someone has to look out for my family. Callie is too gentle, and Granny is too delicate.”

“What of Mr. Webb?”

“Tom?” Her voice rose in surprise. “Tom was in the army with my father. He came home with Papa on furlough…oh, many years ago, and has just been here ever since. He said he hasn’t got a family of his own to go home to, so he’s adopted us.”

“Then he and your father are friends?”

“Not…Not precisely,” she said slowly. “Papa doesn’t really have friends. He has companions and admirers. He’s the sort of man who can readily charm people into buying him a round at the pub, and have them all roaring with laughter late into the night. Tom is a quieter sort.”

“May I ask why Tom never went searching for your father before you wrote to Hastings? You must have worried much sooner.”

She hesitated again. “He offered, once. We didn’t want him to go.”

Alec added Tom Webb to the list of people who had reason to wish George Turner gone. How very curious that Miss Turner would describe her father so, admitting it wasn’t a personal bond between two soldiers that kept Webb at Brighampton. Perhaps his motives were innocent enough, but Turner had two attractive daughters. Alec wondered which one Webb fancied, guessing it was Mrs. Phillips and then reining in that thought. If Webb fancied Miss Turner, he probably wouldn’t have seen the two of them off to London without protest, but the man hadn’t said a word. Perhaps Turner didn’t think Webb good enough for his daughters, or perhaps Webb grew desperate and wanted to make the lady more in need of a husband. And there was likely more to the story than Cressida had just told him. He tucked the thought away for future investigation.

“Thank you,” she said. “For coming to our aid.”

Alec felt that echo of awareness vibrate across his skin again as he met her open, unguarded gaze. Cressida Turner had the oddest effect on him. She smiled at him and his blood raced. She frowned at him and his stomach tightened. She thanked him for doing his job and he wanted to lay her down before the fire and do all manner of wicked things to raise that fine pink flush over all her skin. He was a bloody fool, and suspected he would be a bigger one before he was done with her, but he blessed John Stafford all the same for sending him into her life. “It was my pleasure,” he replied.

More than you’ll ever know.

A
fter the trip into London, there seemed to be little trace of Papa anywhere. The major—Alec—said he would begin asking in Marston. Cressida doubted he would learn much there but kept it to herself; hadn’t he already done more than she expected just in locating Papa’s journal and ledger?

She started tinkering with the journal in earnest. Alec had asked her about it on the way home from London, and she was ashamed to admit she hadn’t made much progress. Now she got it out every day and covered page after page with notes. Papa had written the dates in English, which at first frustrated her. It would have helped to have a code whose translation she could easily guess, or at least narrow down to twelve possibilities. She tried the usual trick of counting the most frequent letters, which made little headway. But she worked on, looking for common characters and codes and comparing them to places of battles and persons mentioned in Papa’s letters home. Often it took just a few words solved to make the rest start to fall.

She didn’t know what the journal would lead to. It might be a complete waste of time when she had more immediately pressing concerns, like paying the bills. Tom sold most of the sheep to pay their debts, and she was quietly looking for a new place to live. The horses would go back to Mr. Bickford’s stable as soon as they had moved house. With a little time, they might make it through this tight spot well enough after all. And if she solved the journal, they might even locate Papa as well.

She was scribbling more notes when she heard a horse in the lane a few days after the London excursion. Thinking it might be Alec, she hurried into the hall. The visitor was just lifting his hand to knock when she opened the door.

The stranger doffed his hat. “Miss Turner?”

“Yes,” she said warily. A terrible chill skittered down her spine. This was not a social call.

“Walter Clarke, ma’am.” He bowed, but his expression was not cheerful. It was businesslike and firm. Cressida bobbed a slight curtsey, bracing herself. “Is Sergeant Turner at home?”

“No, I’m afraid he is not. I am his daughter.”

“Ah.” He didn’t even offer to wait until Papa returned. Cressida knew what was coming before he said it. “Then I must inform you in his stead. I am the agent for the owner of this property, and he has leased it to new tenants. Your removal is desired by no later than tomorrow noon.”

“What?” she gasped. “The rent was due but yesterday!”

“Yes, and you did not pay it.”

“No, but—”

“I am afraid your lease would not have been renewed in any event. It expires tomorrow, and the owner has already, as I have said, taken new tenants.” He smiled politely.

Cressida pressed one trembling hand to her heart, which was pounding painfully. She had known they must move soon, but in a few hours’ time? “Without even a chance to renew? My father…”

“Sergeant Turner did not pay the rent. I am sorry, Miss Turner, but I am only doing as my employer asked.”

Vividly but silently, she cursed her father. If only he were here, surely he would be able to persuade this unctuous fellow to let them stay another week. Or perhaps he might have even paid the rent when it was due. “This is very little warning,” she protested. “I am not sure we will be ready.”

“I have orders to see the house is cleared by tomorrow at noon. I am sorry, Miss Turner.” He said it gravely, but Cressida thought bitterly that it was very easy for him. He had a home to return to.

She went numbly into the house before Mr. Clarke was even down the lane. They must pack at once—and go where? “Callie? Callie!”

Her sister came running, but stopped when she saw Cressida’s face. “Oh dear. What is it?”

“We must pack,” she said in a hollow voice. “We must be out of the house tomorrow.”

Callie’s eyes grew wide. She ran to the door and evidently saw Mr. Clarke departing. “Oh dear,” she breathed again. “Where shall we go?”

Cressida pressed the heels of her hands to her temples. “Marston, I suppose. We have little other choice.”

Her sister’s face paled. Without another word they hurried in search of Tom, to fetch the boxes and crates.

By mid-morning next day they had packed as much as they could. Granny was growing hysterical, fretting that Papa would never know where to find them, and he would be so upset at them for leaving Brighampton without his permission. Granny’s grasp of the reality of their situation was tenuous at best, thought Cressida, replacing another box that her grandmother had tried to take from the carriage before Callie led her back into the house.

Julia Hayes came cantering up the lane. “Are you really turned out?” she cried as she leaped from the horse’s back. “So suddenly?”

A flush of humiliation burned Cressida’s cheeks. “Yes.”

Julia’s eyes flashed. “How draconian. How unchristian. How—” She stopped. “I have come to take you to Penford. You must stay with us until you take a new house.”

“Oh…” It was a godsend, and yet…“Julia, that is too generous. But your family will not want us—”

“They don’t want you to be cast out into the lane like vagabonds. My mother is fond of you and your sister, and she is in full agreement that I invite you. Mrs. Turner,” she said, turning to Granny, who had wandered out of the house again. “Won’t you be our guests until you take another house?”

“Well, that is very kind of you, but I don’t know, my dear.” Granny cast a reproachful glance at Cressida. “We are expecting Sergeant Turner at any moment. He may have other plans.”

“All the more reason to stay close to Brighampton. And you must not worry about a thing; I shall have Farley send someone with a wagon for your things within the hour. Oh, how nice it will be to have you all at Penford!” Julia beamed at Granny, who brightened up and smiled back. Apparently being invited to Penford canceled her objections to moving without Papa’s permission.

Cressida breathed a sigh of relief. It was humiliating to have Julia see them evicted so abruptly, but the tense fear that had gripped her heart since yesterday loosened. It was charity, but from a friend, and honestly given. It didn’t matter that Alec would be there. She had gotten over her worst discomfort at his presence, and surely with a little more time, her pulse would stop leaping whenever he crossed her path. She sent Granny back to tell Callie, and drew Julia aside.

“Thank you, Julia. We would be very grateful to stay at Penford.”

Her friend laughed. “It will be a delight to have you!”

“It is especially kind of Major Hayes, after he has already done so much for us.” Julia’s mouth puckered, but then she just smiled again and turned to lead her horse to the block. “Your brother does know, doesn’t he?”

Julia patted her arm with one hand as she gathered her skirt to mount her horse. “Alec isn’t even at home most of the time. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“He—He does know you invited us, doesn’t he?” she asked again, more anxiously. Julia stepped onto the block and swung into her saddle. Cressida automatically helped tug her skirt into position. “Julia?”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Turner,” Julia called, raising one hand to Granny and completely ignoring Cressida’s question. She wheeled the mare around and grinned down at Cressida. “Good-bye for now. I will see you soon!”

Cressida sighed as Julia cantered away. She closed her eyes and said a quick prayer for patience. Penford belonged to Alec, and Julia wouldn’t dare invite them without knowing he would approve. Surely not. And she had already gone and accepted; they had no real choice, anyway. She would just be very careful not to trouble him much, and look for another lodging as fast as she possibly could.

And God save her until then.

From his bedchamber window, Alec saw Julia ride back up the drive, looking victorious. Quietly he strolled down the corridor to the top of the stairs, in time to overhear her talking with the housekeeper, directing Mrs. Smythe to prepare rooms for the Turner ladies. Then Julia hurried off, calling to their mother. Her voice rang with confidence and delight. They were coming.

He didn’t want to think too closely about what had happened. Alec was not sure his actions, let alone his motives, would stand up to any sort of scrutiny. It was mere chance that he’d overheard a man in Marston mention the new tenants of Brighampton arriving soon, displacing the poor, indebted Turners. It was simple indignation that he’d felt on behalf of a family about to be tossed from their home when they quite likely had no other place to go. But it was something less noble that led to his mentioning those facts in his sister’s hearing, guessing what her reaction would be, and it was something entirely unthinkable that fed the fire in his blood at the thought of Cressida Turner in his house, smiling at him across the dinner table and wrinkling her nose at him in the garden. He might see her a dozen times every day…and night.

But not for nothing had he learned to control his impulses. She would be a guest in his home, and he would treat her as such. It would make his work easier, in fact, if she was close by to help his search and answer his queries. He spent most of his days away from Penford as it was. She would no doubt be looking to take another house soon, and the sooner he located her father, the easier that would be for her.

But God help him until then.