For Your Arms Only

by Caroline Linden

  “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.”

  Angelique was tapping one finger against her lower lip. “What is in this journal? Have you found any evidence that would support your idea?”

  “Cressida’s begun working on it.” Alec smiled ruefully. “I haven’t the patience for ciphering. Never had. But still, it’s not the sort of thing you’d leave proof of, would you? Not unless you were a bloody idiot or the most arrogant fool alive.”

  She lifted her shoulders. “One must have proof in order to extort a good sum, so if you are correct, it must lie somewhere. You have searched the house, of course.”

  “Not a thorough search,” he admitted. “They’ve lost the lease for lack of funds and…well…Julia’s gone and invited them to stay here.”

  The knowing look she gave him made Alec want to scowl and scold her. It had been Julia who invited the Turners…even if he had deliberately mentioned their distress in front of Julia. Even if he had already kissed Cressida and invited her to stay at Penford. Even if his heart quickened and his blood heated at the thought of Cressida potentially around every corner he approached. He was drawn to her, no matter how he fought it, and he feared his restraint was crumbling against the constant press of that desire. It had been so long since he truly cared about a woman, Alec had almost forgotten it was possible.

  But Angelique seemed to understand that this was not the moment to make sport of him. She simply smiled. “See what is in the journal,” she said instead. “Perhaps it will explain the money.”

  “Of course.” It would also give him an excuse for closer proximity to Cressida. Alec tried to quell the fierce surge of exultation at the prospect.

  “Is that all?”

  He closed his eyes. “No,” he muttered, hating the word. “There is a possibility that Turner is dead.”

  “’Tis always a possibility,” said Ian. “The man’s been gone—what?—five months? It doesn’t take but a minute to put a knife in someone’s back.”

  “You have a suspect,” said Angelique softly. “Who? And why?”

  Alec hesitated again. He wished they had not come, not yet. “Turner’s eldest daughter is newly engaged to his man, Thomas Webb. Webb came home from the army with Turner and has been with the family ever since. The daughter was married once before, to a man who beat her. Cressida said…she told me her father blessed that marriage because it would keep Webb from having her sister. And that Webb knew it.”

  “That is suspicion,
nothing more.”

  “Of course not,” Alec snapped. “But it is a possibility. Webb has never seemed particularly keen to find Turner. Every time I spoke to him about the man, he put me off or said he knew nothing.”

  “Would you be eager, in his place?” Angelique shrugged. “Perhaps he views it as Divine Providence. You said they were recently engaged, but the lady has no fortune and no great breeding; perhaps it is nothing other than desperate love. If he has been waiting for years while she was married to another man—”

  “I realize all that!” Alec inhaled a deep, even breath. “I fervently hope that is so, Angelique. I don’t believe Webb is pretending to love her. In truth, I think he adores her.”

  For a moment she was quiet. “Love is a powerful motivator,” she murmured at last. “But if you have evidence…”

  “No, I don’t,” he said in relief. “Not a scrap.”

  She smiled gently. “Then I think we cannot do anything.”

  Alec shook his head. He hadn’t planned to do anything about it, but Angelique’s agreement reassured him. She wouldn’t hesitate to tell him if something changed her opinion. He recalled one other point that niggled at him. “What did you mean to say earlier about Hastings, Wallace?”

  Angelique paused in the act of rising from her chair. Ian cleared his throat. “Ah. Not so much—more an impression, I suppose. He’s been to the den, see.” Ian usually called Stafford an old fox, and referred to his offices in Bow Street as the fox’s den. “Bit of an odd one, if you take my meaning. Pompous and cold, but with nervous eyes.”

  “He’s a Deputy Commissary General of the army,” Alec said.

  Ian’s smile was flat and humorless. “All the more reason to suspect something’s not right, if you ask me. But like you, I’ve got no proof, just that I’ve seen him at Bow Street. Angelique must know more. Old Staff’s set his cap for her, has her round for tea all the time.”

  A delicate flush rose in Angelique’s cheeks. “Nonsense,” she said in her usual cool manner. “I know nothing about this Hastings.”

  Somehow Alec didn’t quite believe her, but if she didn’t want him to know, he would never learn it from her. Angelique had all the reticence of a sphinx when it suited her. He got to his feet as Ian did the same, now that Angelique was standing. “I hope you will stay for a few days,” he said, more to be polite than because he wanted them to stay. He didn’t like to see his two lives brought face to face like this. If he could have bundled Angelique and Ian off the property at once, he would have been very tempted to do so.

  Angelique’s smile hinted that she knew that. “Oui, a very few,” she said. “Might I have the tea in my room?”

  “Of course,” Alec said. The maid was just tapping at the door with the tea tray. He went and opened it, instructing her to serve it in his guests’ room.

  “Do not worry, Alec.” Angelique laid one hand on his arm as she passed him. “Not every puzzle can be solved.”

  He just gave a slight bow as she left with Ian, leaving unspoken his next thought: Nor should every puzzle be solved.

  Chapter 23

  Cressida almost missed dinner. She had spent the afternoon poring over Papa’s journal and its infuriating code until her head ached. She knew it probably would amount to little, but pure stubbornness kept her at it for hours.

  After Alec laid out the results of his efforts, she, Callie, and Tom had agreed together that Papa was probably gone for good, or at least until he wanted to be found. Even if something ill had befallen him, the result was the same. They also agreed it was unfair to ask Alec to keep searching, particularly with such thoroughness. Cressida had been slightly shocked when he explained all that he had done, all the places he had gone, and the avenues he had pursued. He truly had devoted an enormous amount of time—and, she suspected, money—to it. Tom and Callie were anxious to find a house in Portsmouth, and Granny’s health had declined even more. She rarely left her bed now. If they waited too long, she might be too weak to make the trip, even though she had been overcome with happiness, and somewhat revived in spirits, at the news that Callie was to be married.

  So while Tom went ahead to Portsmouth in search of a house and Callie sat with Granny to sew her wedding dress, Cressida returned to the journal. She hadn’t exactly told her sister she intended to stay at Penford, although she wondered if Callie might have begun to suspect something. Callie seemed to glance her way an inordinate number of times whenever she spoke to Alec—and, to Cressida’s private exhilaration, he came to speak to her a great deal. Now even she couldn’t deny that he looked at her often. She didn’t want to. She wanted him to look as much as he might like.

  And she didn’t want to miss dinner. Since Alec was no longer riding far and wide in search of her father, he had dined with the family almost every night. She bundled her notes away, rushed through her dressing, and then hurried down the stairs.

  Guests had arrived. Not neighbors, but a couple Cressida had never seen before. The man was a brawny, redheaded Scot with a ready laugh. The woman was petite and exotically beautiful, with sleek black hair and dark eyes. No one else seemed to know what to make of them, leaving only Mrs. Hayes and John to talk to them.

  “Friends of Alec’s,” Julia murmured, coming up beside her. “They arrived unexpectedly a few hours ago.”

  “Oh.” Cressida watched as Alec strode into the room. He glanced around, his eye catching and lingering a moment on her. He gave her a tiny, almost imperceptible smile before going to his mother’s side and greeting the new guests.

  “They came from London. Mother has been in a frenzy of curiosity to know how he knows them, but she’ll never ask. Alec can do no wrong in her eyes.”

  “Julia,” murmured Cressida.

  She put up one hand. “I’m not angry, Cressida. I just don’t know what to think about him anymore—and I believe he prefers it that way. He’s decided to keep his secrets, and there is nothing I can do to change that.” She looked at her brother as she spoke. The anger that had once heated her words about Alec was gone, replaced by something more like resignation.

  Cressida shifted uncomfortably. She alone knew Alec’s secret, it seemed. She longed to defend him, to justify and explain to Julia why he had been so silent. She longed to tell Julia that whatever his family had suffered, Alec had endured far, far worse, not just from the wounds that scarred his chest but from the damage to his character that still followed him, damage he had tried but been unable to repair. And most of all she longed to tell Julia that it was her duty as his sister to accept him anyway, whether he told her his secret or not. Cressida knew that if her father were to stroll into the room this moment, even after all she had learned about him and his actions, she would still run to embrace him and her heart would leap with gladness that he was well, because he was her father. For all Papa’s faults, she couldn’t help loving him. How much might it have meant to Alec if his sister had been able to set aside her hurt and anger, and do the same?

  The guests were Mr. and Mrs. Wallace from London, stopping in for a few days on their journey north. Mr. Wallace was brashly charming, easily falling into conversation with everyone. His wife was quieter, but unsheathed a sharp wit when she did speak, her voice inflected with a lilting French accent. Mrs. Wallace was seated next to Alec, and whenever she spoke, he paid strict attention to her every word. Mr. Wallace spared them no mind; at the other end of the table he was busy regaling the two Mrs. Hayeses and their daughters with tales of his native Scotland.

  Cressida found herself watching Mrs. Wallace after dinner. There was something quietly watchful and alert about her, quite unlike her husband. That gentleman seemed to have a hundred tales and humorous stories, and he kept them all laughing. Although, for all Mr. Wallace’s loquaciousness, neither he nor his wife had revealed much about themselves. Rather like Alec had done when he first returned to Marston…

  The thought stopped her. Could they be, like Alec…? But no; surely spies did not pay social calls on other spi
es. She glanced at Mrs. Wallace again, so darkly beautiful and polite as she listened to Mrs. Hayes. Could that delicate lady be a spy? Cressida tried to picture her in the part, then smiled at her own imagination. As if she even knew what spies did, let alone how the typical spy looked.

  Thankfully the company retired early. The Wallaces had spent the day traveling, and John and his family were to depart on the morrow. After stopping to say good night to Granny, Cressida and Callie returned to their room.

  “You’re not planning to work on that now, are you?” Callie wrinkled her nose as Cressida took out the journal again after getting ready for bed.

  She shrugged. “For a little while. I think I’m about to solve it. I can feel it.”

  Her sister sighed. “You and puzzles! Well, don’t let me disturb you.” She got into bed and opened a book.

  Cressida pulled the chair up close to the writing desk and opened the journal. In a few minutes she had picked up where she left off earlier.

  The code was frustrating her to no end. It appeared to be simple, and it surely was; more than once, she thought she had it solved only to see things fall apart as she applied her key to larger sections of the journal. If Papa’s code had changed over the years, she wryly acknowledged, she might never get it. But she pressed on, tinkering with different passages and trying to fit the information into one encompassing model.

  She had learned about codes from her father. Papa had an ear for languages, and whenever he came home he would try to teach her and Callie what he had picked up. Instead of telling them what he was saying, though, he would just speak to them in a Spanish dialect or Flemish. She learned to map some words by their proximity to other words, deducing “sister” by how often it occurred before or after Callie’s name. This, she decided, was much the same. She had drawn up a list of battles and places to correspond to the dates, and had thus picked out a number of words, mainly places in the Peninsula that shed little light on the rest of the journal. But those small successes did reveal a few letters, and she had covered pages and pages with tentative translations that all ground to a halt eventually.