For Your Arms Only (20 page)

“I don’t know.” He had a few suspicions, but that was all. Alec couldn’t bring himself to share those suspicions, biased as they no doubt were by his years of living among liars and cheats and every other stripe of villain. The most likely excuse for Turner’s disappearance was still misadventure or abandonment. If any of his suspicions proved correct, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell her, but in the absence of proof…he didn’t see the necessity.

Her shoulders sagged. “I wonder if we’ll ever know what happened to him. Or much else about him, really. It seems so much of my perception has been wrong.”

“I have not given up,” he said. “Not yet.”

She looked at him as a tremulous smile curved her lips. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Your confidence gives me comfort.”

Alec knew what she meant. In the days after Waterloo, only James Peterbury had known he was alive and had believed him innocent. Having one defender, just one, had mattered a great deal, even if Peterbury had had to proceed painfully slowly and with such caution it seemed nothing would ever improve. For months Alec had lived a grim, dark existence, with Peterbury’s steadfast support one of the few rays of light. And now Cressida Turner was standing beside him, trusting him, comforted by his presence and looking up at him with glowing eyes. It was strange for Alec to think himself a comfort to anyone, but the feeling it inspired inside him was not pride or unease, but a fearsome swell of satisfaction that he
could
comfort her.

He extended one hand and she grasped it at once, still wearing that shaky little smile. He took a step toward her. “You are welcome to stay,” he said. “When your sister goes. If you wish to stay.”

Her lips parted. The pulse in her throat was a flutter of motion. She looked at him, half yearning, half uncertain.

“I would like you to stay,” he added. She ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip, his undoing. He took the last step, until there was nothing more separating them. Her head fell back and she swayed toward him in invitation. Alec lowered his head until his lips almost brushed hers. “Stay,” he breathed. What would he do if she left? “Please.”

“Yes,” she whispered, and he kissed her.

Cressida hardly dared breathe as his lips met hers. Every muscle she had felt stiff and taut as she tried not to shiver apart into a thousand pieces while he kissed her, gently, reverently. He still held her hand lightly in his, the only other contact between them, but something far stronger than that held her in place. It wasn’t certainty; Cressida had no idea what lay ahead. She might be galloping headlong toward another broken heart, even more shattering than the last. But as his lips moved on hers, she could only think of Papa’s dearest maxim, usually reserved for cards but strangely applicable to her mood today:

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

July 1815
Forest of the Soignes, Belgium

I
t took Alec a few days to recover from the setback his trip into Brussels had cost him. James Peterbury hired a cart to drive him back to the farm, and left with a promise to come back as soon as he learned anything. He seemed to be reserving judgment, at least for the moment, and was still willing to help. It was small comfort, but better than none.

Alec’s wound had reopened, and Widow Gustave shook her head over him, muttering unintelligibly as she wrapped him up tighter than before. He was sure the widow was ready for him to heal and be gone as much as he was ready to go, but there was nowhere for him to go now. Instead of being on his way back to England, or even lodged in Brussels to recuperate, he couldn’t leave the forest for fear of being recognized by the wrong person—namely, anyone but Peterbury. He had little to do except ruminate on the shocking news that he was considered a traitor to England. All James had mentioned in the way of proof was some papers, allegedly found in Alec’s baggage after the battle. Either it was all a terrible mistake and would be sorted out as soon as someone read the papers and realized they were not his, or someone had put them in his things with this intent. His thoughts ran dark and murderous as he contemplated who must have planted them there, and why. It was the only explanation he could see, and it would be easy enough to do in the chaos after the battle.

He knew he was known as a bit of a hell-raiser in the Dragoons, with a certain fearlessness in battle that endeared him to his men and generally impressed his superiors. But the army had its own hierarchy, and no shortage of vanity or short tempers. The path to advancement was paved with the good opinion of commanding officers; a note of praise in the dispatches was invaluable. And even then a man could not be promoted until an opening appeared in the ranks above him. Alec didn’t think any of his junior officers would go so far to secure a majority, but as the days marched on and James didn’t return, he began to wonder.

Finally, James Peterbury came back, a full week later. Alec was stacking cordwood a neighboring farmer had split for the widow in return for her spinning his wool. It was hard work, but Alec was determined to make himself well. The French saber had slid up his ribs before catching on his collarbone. The muscles burned with pain every time he raised his arm, but he forced himself to lift another log, and another. He refused to be left an invalid by this. But when he heard the horse approaching, he stopped stacking logs with as much relief for the rest as he had hope for the tidings.

Peterbury tied his horse to a tree, taking just long enough that Alec knew the news was bad. He turned away, ducking his head to wipe the sweat from his face with the tail of his shirt. Good God. He had really believed James would find the mistake, easily discovered and promptly believed. If not—if it couldn’t be proven or, worse, was simply not believed—what would he do?

Footsteps sounded behind him. “How goes it?” he asked without turning.

There was a pause. “Not as well as we hoped, I’m afraid.”

Alec nodded. “I suspected as much.”

“The papers…” James paused again, as if picking each word carefully. “They are apparently quite an extensive correspondence with a French colonel, over some years’ time.”

“Is there anything at all to identify the recipient?”

“I don’t know,” came James’s low answer. “I didn’t read them.” Alec jerked around then, incredulous. James held up his hands. “I tried—repeatedly. It took a devilishly long time to find someone who had actually seen the letters himself, and even longer to get anything but vitriol from him. Everyone thinks it does not matter now, as you are supposed dead.” He tried a weak smile, more gruesome than reassuring. “That is the good news. Since everyone thinks you’re dead, no one is looking for you or making a great fuss over the charges. There are whispers, but nothing more. The victory has crowded out most other talk.”

“That’s the good news,” Alec repeated. He lowered himself onto the woodpile. “At least there is some.”

James looked at the ground. “It’s more valuable than you think.”

“Believe me, I know.” Alec ran one hand over his face. “You said Will Lacey is dead.” He had hardly been able to think about his oldest, dearest friend lying cold and broken on the field, never again to flash his wry grin over a commanding officer’s tantrum or quietly lend a hand to a wounded soldier. Alec’s heart twisted with grief for the loss, not just to himself but to Will’s family, his proud, strict father and his newly widowed wife, not to mention the child who would never know him.

James sat on the woodpile beside him. “He died heroically. Ponsonby sent him to direct a squadron of dragoons to charge, and just as he was relaying the order, an artillery shell made a direct hit on the commander, cleaving him in two. They say Lacey seized the sword from the commander’s hand and led the charge himself, into deadly French fire. The fighting was fierce, but he pushed onward, and captured the enemy’s colors before being cut down.”

A true hero’s death. Alec bowed his head for a moment. “His wife? She was in Brussels.”

“I do not know. There are many widows in Brussels.”

He shoved himself to his feet. “Find her, if she’s still there. Do all that you can for her. I gave Lacey my word I would see to her security, but now…”

Peterbury understood. He jumped up and saluted crisply. “I will, sir.” Then he blinked and looked uncertain. “What will you do?”

Alec glanced around the little clearing about the house. Widow Gustave was ready for him to leave, and he would go mad if he had to stay much longer. “I can’t stay here.”

“Where will you go?”

That was a damned good question. Where, indeed? He stared at his hands, flexing his fingers until his knuckles strained white. “I will disprove this,” he said instead of answering James. “I will.” His hands curled into fists. “Somehow.”

After a moment James extended his hand, palm open. “I know,” he said. “You have my help.”

Alec laughed grimly. “You don’t need to promise me anything. Aiding a traitor isn’t in your best interest.”

“I’m not aiding a traitor, I am aiding a friend in need.” His hand hadn’t wavered. “And I pledge my help whether you shake my hand or not. I’ll find those letters and track down the true recipient, and expose this man as both a traitor and a liar. No one is served by the wrong man being punished; it makes a fool of the entire army.”

He took a deep breath. James was younger than he, but no green boy. He was a staff officer, albeit a very junior one, and he had always had a knack for talking people into seeing things his way. And now, he was the only friend Alec had. He clasped James’s hand in his. “Thank you.”

“Well, there’s something,” James said with a short chuckle. “The hard-charging Major Hayes has accepted my advice and aid.”

Alec held up one hand. He supposed this possibility had been fermenting at the back of his mind all along, that he would need a second plan of action if the allegations couldn’t be easily dismissed, because now there was no hesitation when he spoke. “Not Major Hayes. From now on I shall be Alec Brandon.” The name just appeared on his lips, his nickname and his mother’s family name. “Alexander Hayes is dead.”

1820

I
f Alec had feared his confession would cause even more upheaval, he was happily disappointed. In fact, the household seemed to grow more peaceful—although perhaps that was due to his own apprehensions being eased by Cressida’s compassion. He had dreaded anyone knowing; no matter who employed him, no matter what he hoped to achieve in return, Alec couldn’t shake the thought that a spy was a spy, and he had a particular reason for abhorring the very word.

But Cressida didn’t. A spy’s talents had come to her aid, and then she had looked past them to see him. That went deeper to his heart than anything had in years. He might never be able to prove his innocence, but she didn’t ask him to.

He explained to Mrs. Phillips what he had told Cressida, that he could find no trace of her father. Mrs. Phillips’s new fiancé, Tom Webb, hovered unsmiling and protective in the background as he spoke, but Alec set the thought aside. He also saw how Webb looked at Mrs. Phillips, and remembered what Cressida had told him. Webb had a powerful motive to want Turner to vanish, but even had Alec had evidence or proof of that, he wasn’t so sure bringing it to light would benefit anyone. In fact, as the newly engaged couple made plans for their wedding and removal to Portsmouth, there seemed a quiet acceptance that George Turner was gone forever.

His cousin John was preparing to leave, and Alec finally began taking on his estate responsibilities. He might never feel truly comfortable with the mantle, but as he rode with John, it managed to drift down onto his shoulders more lightly than expected. He began to feel the love for Penford that his father and Frederick had had creep into his soul. And after roaming the land—his land—it felt natural to return to the house. To his family. To Cressida. To the realization that the rolling lands of Penford might not be the only love growing in his heart.

For the first time, Alec could envision a life here. He had a duty to Penford, and he had his family to look after, but most of these visions came to involve Cressida Turner. Since the day he invited—asked—her to stay, he had only become more intrigued. When he first met her, Alec had thought her striking, but not beautiful; now he found it hard to take his eyes off her, especially when she wrinkled up her nose to laugh at something her sister said, or sucked on her lower lip as she concentrated on something, or just turned her face up to the sun, eyes closed in a peaceful expression. He wanted more than a chaste kiss from her. He wanted to see her with her hair down in the moonlight again, her nightdress soft and thin in his hands as he slid it over her shoulders and down her hips. He wanted her eyes to burn when he touched her. He wanted
her
—and now that his assignment from Stafford had drawn to an end, he finally might be free to pursue her.

But of course nothing ever ended that easily. One hazy afternoon, he was returning from the estate manager’s office when a smart phaeton turned in the drive, followed by a cloud of dust from the dry road. He paused, and watched for a moment before realizing what had caught his eye. The woman in the carriage was Angelique Martand, another of Stafford’s agents.

He crossed the gravel to meet her as the carriage drew up to the house. “Angelique,” he said, helping her down and taking her hand to his lips. “Ian.” The driver, also Stafford’s man, tipped his hat and winked. “What brings you to Hertfordshire?”

Ian Wallace laughed. “The fine weather,” he said in his broad Scots accent. “Doesn’t everyone flee the city when it’s hot?”

Alec smiled, but kept one eye on Angelique. He had never really got on well with Ian, a tall, lanky fellow with lusty appetites and a booming laugh, both of which tended to attract too many women and too much trouble. He also had a deft touch with horses and was absolutely deadly in a fight, traits that made him invaluable to Stafford’s schemes despite the women and trouble. “I’m not sure you’ve come to the right place,” he said. “It’s bloody hot here, too.”

Ian laughed again before snapping the reins and driving on where a stable boy was waving to him. Alec turned back to Angelique.

She smiled her dimpled smile. Alec had marveled out loud the first time he realized she could smile either with or without dimples.
“Alors,
we have come to see you,” she said, “to see how you get on in the fresh country air. Major Hayes,
non
? I shall have to remember not to call you Brandon.” She sank into a curtsey.

Alec dropped her hand. “Stop.”

“I do not mean to tease you.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “Not too much, that is. We have come to see how you progress with Stafford’s work, of course. He grows curious without word.”

His eyes swept over the grounds, the limestone house, the well-kept lawns, the neat gravel drive, and knew how it would all look to Angelique. “I’ve made some progress, but not much worth reporting.”

“Are you in need of help?”

“No.”

Angelique arched an eyebrow. “Either you make progress, or you require help. It is not like you to muddle along.”

He thought about what to tell her; what did he want Stafford to know? Nothing much, he admitted. But Angelique was no fool, and she had worked with him before. The urge to talk through the problem with someone else was extremely tempting. “What did Stafford tell you about this assignment?” he asked abruptly.

She fluttered her fingers. “A missing man. A favor for a politician. He has dozens of these little favors that need doing.”

“Do you recall our last job?”

Her face grew tight. “All too well. What of it?”

Alec hesitated. His theory about George Turner, still somewhat nebulous, was only that: a theory. He, of all people, balked at staining the name of an honest man. Saying the words out loud seemed an irreversible condemnation, even if he only said it to Angelique. But the mere fact that he suspected as much gave him pause. He had worked four years now for Stafford and never once questioned his employer’s motives. Been on his guard, yes; watched his own back, always; but never doubted the basic information he had been given. But Stafford hadn’t always repaid him well. Not two months past he had been caught in a scheme that was not what Stafford had told him, and it could have killed him. Lying in a narrow servant’s cot, waiting for his wounds to heal, he had reflected on one basic truth: Stafford had lied to them all and sent them into a dangerous situation without being honest about the most likely source of the trouble. And no doubt that was due to one of those little favors for a politician Angelique mentioned. Stafford worked for the Home Secretary, Lord Sidmouth, and the last thing Sidmouth would want was Stafford’s agents poking around the affairs of other politicians—or at least, getting caught at it. Anything Stafford meant to hide would be dangerous to expose. He had better be sure before he drew Angelique into the web.

He sighed. “We should talk later. What am I supposed to tell everyone about your sudden appearance—with Ian, no less?”

She still watched him thoughtfully. “He is my husband. We are dear friends of yours from London, stopping by for a short visit on our way north.”

That should make for an entertaining evening. Not just Angelique, with her foreign looks and secretive manner, but Ian as well. Marianne might faint at the sight of him. “Your husband, eh? And why are you being punished?”

Angelique laughed. “It is not so unbearable. I shall be able to keep him in line.”

There was no doubt of that. Alec shook his head. “You have walked into a hornet’s nest here.” She laughed again and he put up his hand. “You should let me explain before you laugh. I presume your, er, husband will be seeing to the carriage?”

She raised her eyes to the sky and made a soft noise of despair. “Of course. If there is a choice between a horse and a woman, Ian will choose the horse every time.”

He chuckled and escorted her into the house. The housekeeper seemed mesmerized by Angelique, staring at her with unveiled astonishment before hurrying off to prepare rooms. Ian came in from the stable yard, and after they assured him they would rather talk before resting or refreshing themselves, Alec led them both to his study.

“Done right well, Brandon,” said Ian, looking around. “Far sight better than your last quarters, I must say.”

Alec repressed his annoyance. “Thank you,” he said evenly. He rang for tea, and bade his guests sit.

He walked to the fireplace. Someone had relocated Will Lacey’s carved wooden horse to the mantelpiece there. Somehow it had become a lodestar to him, a relic of the friend he had lost. Will would have known how to have this conversation, while Alec didn’t look forward to it in the least. Not only did it draw him back into Stafford’s web, it would force him to name things he was not
sure
of. Alec hated not being sure, especially in serious matters.

“So,” said Angelique behind him. “You have found nothing worth reporting.” Angelique was the true leader here, not Ian. Ian, he suspected, was here because it pleased her more than because Stafford wanted Ian to be here.

Alec fiddled with the carved horse a moment before putting it firmly aside. He took the seat opposite her, and she turned an expectant face toward him. She might smile and tease, but Angelique’s mind was never far from her work. “There is something odd about this assignment,” he began. “I can hardly put my finger on what, precisely, is wrong, but there is something. And after the Doncaster affair, I find it hard to ignore the feeling.”

“What did he tell you?” As usual, she cut straight to the point.

Alec flipped one hand in irritation. “That a man was missing. His family was worried, and someone in the government asked Stafford to look into it. I asked who the man really was; Stafford said he was just an ordinary sergeant on half pay. Fine. Perhaps the man got involved in a pub brawl on his way home and met an ignominious end. Perhaps he got caught in the arms of a woman between London and here. Perhaps he ran off to escape debts. There are a hundred ways an ordinary man can go missing.”

“Is this an explanation of why you have made no progress?”

He growled at her. “His family was not expecting me; they did not know someone would come. Another minor point, but again, if Hastings took such trouble to set Stafford on the case, why not write and inform the family?”

“Hastings…” Ian repeated, an arrested look creeping over his face. “Augustus Hastings?”

“Yes.” He leaned forward. “Why?”

Ian shrugged. “Perhaps nothing. Eh, go on—I’ll tell you after.”

Another little mystery. Alec didn’t like the way they were accumulating. He went on with his tale. “Turner’s daughters told me he often goes off—expeditions, he calls them, and normally he comes back in a few weeks or even months, often with no other word. The man sounds a veritable vagabond, but he’s always come home to his family, and flush with funds when he does.

“This time he expressly said he would return in a fortnight, and he left them no money. Whatever else he’s done, so far he has provided for them, including moving house here to Marston a year ago, into a modest cottage with some good farmland attached. And here’s where the story grows interesting.”

Angelique’s expression sharpened. Ian frowned again.

“There was no ledger in his things. We finally located one, hidden behind a wall panel.”

“Ah,” said Ian quietly.

Alec nodded. “It took some deciphering, but he’s received payments from a printer in London. A little investigation turned up a good bit of money from the printer, most likely for drawings mocking the King and his ministers.”

“You think Stafford wants him found for these drawings?” Angelique asked.

He shrugged. “Perhaps. But why didn’t he set me on the printer from the beginning? It’s much easier to trace a printer than an anonymous artist.”

She acknowledged that with a quick nod.

“With the ledger there was a journal, written in code. Cressida tells me her father was in Spain with Wellington and heard about Bonaparte’s diplomatic cipher, so decided to create his own. The entire journal is written in it. What sort of simple sergeant takes the time and effort to create his own cipher for a private journal?”

The ringing silence was answer enough. Angelique sat forward in her chair. “What is it you think of this simple sergeant?” she asked, ignoring the rest without a word.

“I think he’s not so simple. Even with the printer’s money, his income isn’t enough to support his family in the style he preferred. The man’s got debts all over town, and more in other towns. Cressida admitted he does that; she says he’s got the devil’s own charm and manages to talk his way around everyone. But the ledger indicates the debts were usually paid, eventually. The money just seemed to…appear. There are no entries indicating how he got it, just that he paid it out.”

“I see you have talked your way around this daughter,” Angelique said slyly. “Perhaps you have other motives for finding this sergeant, perhaps an important question you desire to ask him.”

Alec stiffened. “That would be none of your concern, if it was true, and either way it has no bearing on anything I’ve told you.”

She retreated at once, although a wicked smile still curved her lips. “Of course, of course! I only meant to tease. You are always so serious. One must find amusement in this business from time to time.”

Alec waved it away. He hadn’t seen much amusing in this assignment, and he did not want to be teased about his intentions toward Cressida. He leaned back in his seat and drummed his fingers on his knee. He wouldn’t mention this possibility to Cressida, but he needed to tell someone. It was beginning to eat at him, for a multitude of reasons, but perhaps Angelique could see a flaw in the idea. He devoutly wished she would. “I wonder if Turner might be blackmailing people,” he said abruptly.

The smile vanished from Angelique’s face. She tilted her head, studying him closely. “Have you proof?”

“No.”

Her eyebrow arched. “It is a large accusation to make.”

“I know.” Alec dug his fingers into the tight muscles at the back of his neck. “I would have suspected bribes, but Turner has no authority or power that would invite them. I suppose it could be theft, undertaken on his various expeditions, or forgery. He seems too memorable a personage to manage those, though; by all accounts he stands out in a crowd.”