Alec recognized all that still in his sister, even as he knew it had been hammered out of him. On his first mission for Stafford, he had lost his temper and been drawn into a brawl. When it was over, a man was dead—the man Alec had been assigned to befriend for information about a group plotting an armed uprising. After the brawl Alec was too notorious in that town to continue; all his work had been for naught, and Stafford’s deputy, Phipps, had cursed a blue streak at him and threatened to give him the sack.
Chastened and furious, he had vowed never again to lose control of himself that way. All his daring and courage mattered little if he couldn’t mind his tongue and temper. Ruthlessly he repressed that part of himself, becoming a silent, unnoticeable watcher instead of a brazen imposter mingling with the targets of his mission. Other agents took those parts, and Alec faded into the background as a servant or a beggar or a common tradesman, nobody worthy of note. He was used to that now; he was comfortable with it. And so he said nothing in response to Julia’s icy remark.
His silence seemed to increase his sister’s anger. Her expression grew stormy. “I wish you would speak to Mother,” she said suddenly.
“About what?”
“The party she’s planning.”
Alec had barely listened to his mother’s hopeful plans. “And what should I say to her about it?”
“You can’t tell me you want her to throw a party in your honor!” Julia exclaimed.
“I never asked her to, no.”
Her face was bright pink. “I don’t understand.”
“It was entirely her idea, and she didn’t ask my opinion of it, if that’s what you mean.”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” She twisted in her seat to face him, making the gig rock. “I don’t understand anything about you anymore.”
Alec thought of all the ways he could answer that plea. He wondered what his sister would think if he told her he had been a spy, guilty of deceit and impersonation. He wondered what she would think of his reasons for wanting to be supposed dead for so long, or his reasons for coming back as he did. Most of all he wondered what she wanted him to be. “Perhaps it’s best that way,” he murmured at last.
Julia inhaled loudly, then turned forward again. “You can make sure of that. You can keep your secrets and leave the rest of us to wonder and be forced to offer excuses for you, and there’s nothing we can do to compel you. Such a pleasure it is to have you home again.”
“So I should tell Mother to cancel her party?” he retorted. “I should tell her that I don’t want her to be happy? I don’t care tuppence for the happiness or good opinion of her guests, but I see no reason to crush her own joy.”
“Oh, this will be a marvelous party,” Julia replied. “The host glowering at everyone in sullen silence, and the poor hostess pitied by everyone else because of it.”
Alec pulled up the horse before he lost his temper. He handed the reins to his sister and jumped down. It was a quiet horse, she would have no trouble with him.
“What are you doing?” she cried as he started off down the road.
“I think I’d better walk.”
“Why?” She started the horse. The gig drew alongside him and kept to his pace. “Why won’t you tell me anything? What are you hiding, Alec? I assure you, it can’t be worse than what everyone thinks you’ve done.”
“Do you?” He kept his eyes forward. “Do you believe it?”
“You give me nothing else to believe!”
He stopped and looked at her. Julia was practically hanging out of the gig, her face screwed up in frustration. For a moment he was buoyed by it. Perhaps he should explain everything, and she would be reassured…
He couldn’t. He wanted to; Alec saw the hope in his sister’s eyes and knew she wanted to believe him. But Julia was expecting him to tell her something honorable, or at least pardonable. That he had become entangled with a woman who incriminated him, perhaps, and then fled England in shame. That he had committed some error on the battlefield and been made a scapegoat by his superiors. Something, anything that would explain why he had disappeared for so long. What would she think of the truth, especially when even he didn’t know the complete truth?
Alec sighed. That was the trouble. Without the complete truth, his story didn’t sound much better than the rumors. He could all too easily picture Julia flying into a temper at someone in town, responding to someone’s sly comments about him, and bursting out that he had been a spy, but for England. The gossips would pounce on it. It would only make things worse, for his family and for him. He was still Stafford’s man, in fact if no longer in full, and he knew exactly how well the general public would take that news. Another of Stafford’s agents had taken a terrible beating just a fortnight ago after being discovered working as a serving wench in a tavern in Cheapside, and barely survived. Announcing himself a spy for the Home Office wouldn’t have the exculpatory affect Julia might expect.
“I can’t, Julia,” he said quietly. “Not yet. There are too many things I don’t know myself. I swear to you I never dealt with the French. But the rest of it…” He lifted one hand and let it fall. “It might not comfort you as much as you think.”
Her face grew wooden. “No,” she said, her voice tight and clipped. “I see that now. Forgive me for prying into your affairs.” She snapped the reins and the horse leaped forward.
Alec watched her go. Perhaps that had been the wrong decision. He felt as though he had been boxed into several of them lately. Or perhaps there were no more right decisions for him anymore. Perhaps it was no longer possible for him to be anything but a spy, keeping his troubles to himself and fading from sight when his job was done. But Stafford had sent him home, thrusting his true name and old disgrace back upon him, and he no longer had the luxury of fading from sight.
With a sigh he started after Julia and the gig. There was no other direction to go.
Chapter 8
June 1816
London, England
The man he had come to meet was late.
Alec Brandon took a swallow of ale and let his eyes wander around the room. This fellow, Mr. Phipps, was supposed to be here by seven o’clock. Alec had arrived half an hour before that, and waited close to an hour now. If he hadn’t been reduced to desperate measures, he would have been gone before the clock finished striking the hour.
He sighed and gazed into his tankard. That was a lie. If he weren’t in this position, he wouldn’t have come here at all, let alone still be waiting for a man who might have nothing to offer him. He didn’t even know what the offer would be, since James Peterbury had told him little when he arranged this meeting.
“Just listen to him,” James had urged. “I think he could help us.”
Alec hadn’t really believed it then, and he still didn’t. The anniversary of Waterloo, as the battle was now dubbed, had passed with a great fanfare of patriotic pride just last week. A year had gone by. A year in which Alec had learned precious little about his fall from grace, and all of it was bad. There were incriminating letters, found in his belongings and sent up the chain of command until Wellington himself saw them. The general had lost his famously sharp temper and declared Alec far better dead than alive. James Peterbury had tried to locate those letters, but without success; his every move, Alec realized, was hamstrung by the fact that no one else knew Alec had survived the battle. Everyone considered the matter closed, the less said about it the better.
But it was better that way, for now, although it made Alec a man without a name or a country. To some that would be an invitation to disappear for real. Many casualties in any battle were simply lost, their bodies dumped in unmarked graves and forgotten, particularly when looters had picked the corpse clean of identification. It would be all too easy to take advantage of that and leave the army and England and accusations of treason far behind, immigrate to the American wilderness and begin a new life.
But Alec couldn’t bring himself to do it, even though staying in England u
nder this cloud of suspicion risked a date with the hangman. He preferred to remain, but to remain presumed dead. Leaving the country would appear an admission of guilt. And Alec would go to his grave in truth before he gave in to that.
So he had spent the year in hiding, recuperating from his wounds, working odd jobs and moving around every few weeks. With Peterbury’s help he came back to England, and finally to London. As the peace settled on the land, the army contracted, disbanding regiments and furloughing officers. He was just one of many unemployed army men filling England’s towns and cities, all at loose ends now that their training was no longer needed. Alec felt their despair and anger and helplessness, both as one of them and as a gentleman who, in the normal scheme of things, might have made a small difference. He had promised to look after Will Lacey’s widow and child, but could not. He might have offered work on his family estate to some of his men, but could not return home. He couldn’t even contribute to the Compassionate Fund for widows and orphans, because he had no money. It had been a year of infuriating frustration.
The door slammed shut, and Alec took a quick glance. A bland, doughy little man stood there, a nobody of a fellow whose eyes flickered around the room in a second. Without hesitating he came directly toward the small corner table where Alec slouched.
“Brandon?” It was barely a question, but Alec nodded once. The colorless fellow pulled out the chair across the table and sat down, leaning forward on his elbows. “Phipps here. You know what I’ve come about?”
“Not precisely. Peterbury said you might have something of interest to offer me.”
“Perhaps.”
Alec shrugged. “Perhaps not.”
Mr. Phipps’s mouth pulled into a thin, straight line. “All I can offer is an opportunity. Should you accept, it would be up to you to distinguish yourself.”
“Is it legal?”
Phipps paused, his eyes narrowing.
“Never mind,” muttered Alec. “Go on.”
“It will require a great deal of discretion. Our first concern is success, and with as much honor as possible…but sometimes honor has no place in this business, as we are well-aware.”
“Morality is permitted. How refreshing.”
Phipps sat back. “Do I bore you? I begin to think this wastes my time and yours.”
Alec reined in his temper and forced himself to remember that James Peterbury had thought this a good offer, and that being churlish and impatient was never the way to accomplish anything. Who was he to talk of honor and morality anyway? “No,” he said. “Go on.”
Mr. Phipps tapped his fingers on the table. “Peterbury indicated you had…requirements.”
Alec leaned against the wall, tired of being coy. “What I need, you cannot give.”
“Perhaps not.” Phipps leaned forward. “I cannot give you back your good name, no; but I have it in my power to lend you another’s.”
“Oh?” Alec smiled faintly. “Whose would that be?”
“Lord Sidmouth’s.” The other man’s eyes gleamed as Alec’s face went slack with surprise in spite of himself. The Home Secretary’s name was possibly the last one he expected to hear. Who was this man Phipps? How had Peterbury come across him? And what exactly had Peterbury said about him? “His lordship is most appreciative, when he has cause to be,” Phipps added. “Do well for him, and he’ll do well for you.”
A squirrelly fellow, cagey and secretive, but with powerful connections and willing to take chances—that was how Peterbury had described Phipps. Alec dipped his head, thinking hard. “How well?”
Phipps’s smile was cold and calculated. Mephistopheles must have smiled just so when he struck his infamous bargain with Faust. “Very well.”
Very well. Sidmouth had power, even though he was far from popular among the people. He was a member of the Cabinet, certainly well-placed and well-connected enough to get what Alec wanted—if he chose to do so. “What does he require?”
He listened expressionlessly as the other man outlined what would be required. Disguise. Subterfuge. Lies. A willingness to set aside, or at least overlook, certain laws and morals in pursuit of his objectives. Although neither said the word aloud, Alec was under no illusion about what he was being asked to become. How cruelly ironic that his only chance at restoring his honor was to become wholly dishonorable, that to prove he hadn’t been a spy, he would become one in truth. If he failed, he would lose whatever shred of protest he had that he had never done anything wrong. But if he succeeded…If Phipps really could secure him a reference from the Home Secretary…If Phipps could locate those letters and deliver them into Alec’s hands…He felt strangely distant from the rancid little pub, as if he merely watched and heard the scene instead of being part of it. He could almost feel the specter of Faust at his side, as he contemplated selling his soul to this cold-eyed fellow for an ephemeral chance at regaining his name.
“I’ll consider it,” he said at the end.
“Consider it well.” Phipps leaned back in his seat. “You’d still be serving your King, you know. We’ve need of intelligent, capable men here at home. Having defended England so well overseas, I’m sure you’ll see the necessity of defending her in her own cities.”
Alec ran one hand along the table’s edge, studying the grain of the wood. It was dark and smooth, even the gouges worn to a satiny sheen. Every indignity this table had suffered had been ground down and smoothed over until the casual observer would almost think it crafted that way. “Why would you take a chance on a turncoat?”
“Peterbury says you are not.” Phipps cocked one eyebrow. “Is he wrong?”
“No. But no one else believes it.” And it was telling that Phipps was taking Peterbury’s word for it, against the word of the whole English army, including its immensely popular and politically ambitious hero. “You’d run counter to Wellington’s own opinion on the matter.”
“But I do not come on behalf of Wellington.” He lowered his voice again. “You’ll be paid, of course—”
The mugs of ale rattled as Alec slammed his palm down on the table. “I don’t want money,” he bit out. “I am not a mercenary.”
This seemed to please Phipps. His flat smile spread once more across his face. “Good. The payment will not be much. We prefer to deal in other compensation. Let me know your decision by noon on the morrow.” He got to his feet and dropped a card on the table. “Good eve to you, Mr. Brandon.”
Alec finished his ale before he touched the card. He didn’t know what Peterbury might have told this man about him to make Phipps so confident in his offer, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Could he become a spy? A black smile crossed his face; hadn’t he already done so, changing his name and altering his appearance, moving around from place to place without staying anywhere for long, always listening, always watching…But if he took this position, all that might come to something useful. He had a feeling Phipps would be very pleased to have a dead man working for him. That way, if Alec erred too badly, it would be no trouble to get rid of him. Dead men had no rights—and made no protests.
John Stafford, Magistrates Court, Number 4, Bow Street. Alec turned the card over and over in his hand. It went against everything he thought right. Spies were rabble, not gentlemen. Some would view turning spy as an admission of guilt, a continuance of past sins. In other circumstances, Alec would believe the same. But what choice did he have? Peterbury had discovered nothing in almost a year. The documents that proved his guilt might exist, or not, and Alec had no way of knowing. If he didn’t know, he could hardly refute them, and if he couldn’t refute them, his best option was to take this job. If such damning documents existed, Sidmouth would be able to find them. All Alec asked was a chance to see them, to defend himself against them, and this might be the price of that chance.
And if it led to a noose around his neck…he was hardly any worse off.
He slipped the card into his pocket and walked out of the pub.
Chapter 9
J
uly 1820
The invitation to Penford arrived the next morning. Cressida held it a moment, admiring Mrs. Hayes’s elegant script. She still hadn’t decided if she wanted to go, but it was very lovely to be invited.
“What is that?” Callie had heard the servant at the door. She paused on her way through the hall to look. “Oh my.”
“Julia told me about it,” she said, ignoring the curiosity in her sister’s tone.
“We’ve never been invited to such an event at Penford before.”
“Er…no.” She handed the invitation to Callie and picked up her basket. Callie followed her out into the garden.
“What sort of party is it?”
“I think it’s to celebrate the major’s return home.” Cressida bent over the herb garden. She cut some lavender, breathing the soft scent with a sigh of pleasure.
“Oh.” Callie fingered Mrs. Hayes’s note. “We haven’t anything grand enough to wear.”
“Not nearly.”
“And you still don’t like him.”
Cressida concentrated on cutting some sage, laying each velvety sprig carefully in the basket.
“Well, shall we go?” Callie kicked her foot lightly.
“I don’t know.” She cut some mint for Granny’s tea. Perhaps it would settle her digestion. The expensive tonic had made little difference.
“You don’t have long to think about it.”
“I know!” For a moment she considered telling Callie what the major had said yesterday, that they might not really want to find Papa after all, and his advice on horse stealing. They didn’t know anything about that man, and she was not wrong to be cautious, she wasn’t…Except that he had been right, curse him, about everything. She hated it when going against her instinct was the sensible thing to do. “We’ll talk about it later,” she said. “At dinner.”
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