For Your Arms Only

by Caroline Linden

  “I don’t know, but I think I can figure it out.”

  “Go do that. I will be at your room in a few minutes.” She picked up the valise and set it on a chair. “We will leave soon; hurry.”

  “Thank you,” she said in a rush of relief. “Thank you so much—”

  “You will come with us.” Madame was digging through the valise and didn’t look at her.

  “What?” Cressida exclaimed. “Oh, no. Must I go? Alec told me to stay here…”

  “You are bound to know more than I do, and if you stay here I will be blind. Go, and be ready to tell me where he has gone.”

  Cressida hoped she had done the right thing. With a quick nod she hurried back to the conservatory to scoop up the journal and her notes. She went in search of Julia, finally locating her in her chamber, freshly washed from the attic. “I need your help,” she said when Julia opened the door. “It’s about Alec.”

  Julia waved her in without a word, her expression sharp with curiosity. Cressida handed her the pages of notes. “This is from my father’s journal. He kept it while in the army. It was in a code, of sorts, and I’ve been translating it.”

  “Goodness, this is from years ago,” exclaimed Julia as she glanced at the first page. “What can it have to do with Alec now?”

  She laughed nervously. “I’m not entirely certain, but read it all. There is a man mentioned, an officer, I think. Alec recognized him. Something in these notes led him to the attic and his trunk, and now he’s gone off to do…something, and I want to help but first I have to discover who this person is.”

  Julia stared at her. “What?”

  “Just read!” Cressida pushed her lightly in the direction of a chair. Julia went, reading as she walked. Cressida pulled out the writing table chair and picked up her pen, taking up the translation where she had left off.

  For several minutes they worked in silence. “Do you mean this fellow?” Julia asked, reading aloud, ‘ “a fair, priggish fellow from Hertfordshire?’”

  “Yes, that’s the one. He calls him Little Nob, or Nob. Can you guess who he means?” Julia shook her head. Cressida sighed. “He must be someone Alec knows, or did know, and it must be someone who lives within a day’s ride, since he left already.” Julia frowned, and they both turned back to their work.

  Cressida’s despair deepened as her pen marched across the page. Worse and worse, her father’s behavior became. “A fine sum collected today,” he noted in June 1815. “Enemy on the march again, lovely to be back in business with my old friend De Lion.” De Lion was his name for the French colonel. “De Lion especially grateful today, informed him of old Blech’s position,” he wrote a day later. Cressida swallowed hard; old Blech was Marshal Blücher, head of the Prussian army at Waterloo. She handed the completed page to Julia and reached for another piece of paper.

  And here was mention of the officer again: “Little Nob reluctant, even when de Lion offered considerable sum. Nob agreed after proof of his previous actions was displayed. Always wise to keep proof in secure location.” She was skimming now, looking for the codes that represented Little Nob or De Lion. “Nob snubbed me this eve; must remind him of mutual obligations…De Lion pressing for more information, reward handsomer than ever…Saw Nob with his expensive Castilian. No wonder he’s for sale…De Lion pays in gold now, excellent choice…Rebuffed by Little Nob, pompous arse; had to show him letters retrieved from De Lion to ensure cooperation…”

  “Cressida.” Julia was looking at her with fright in her eyes. “This—This is by your father?”

  “Yes.” The word almost lodged in her throat.

  “But this—this is dreadful, what he says.” Julia held up the pages, her hands stained by the ink Cressida hadn’t taken the time to blot dry. “This is—this is—”

  She stretched her cramped fingers. “I know,” she said quietly. “I can’t believe my father—”

  “No.” Julia shook her head. She ran across the room and put the paper in front of Cressida, poking it with her finger. “This—This is what the army accused Alec of. This exactly, writing to a French officer and selling secrets. Here, it talks of letters retrieved from De Lion; letters from a Frenchman were found in Alec’s things, clearly implicating him in a correspondence with the man for money. My mother begged and begged for more information when the army said he had turned traitor, because she couldn’t believe it was possible, and finally some colonel spelled it out for her. I read his letter. This agrees with every particular of his account!”

  “Are you saying that Alec is the officer my father dealt with?” She felt sick and disoriented. “But no—that can’t be…”

  Julia snorted. “It’s not Alec. No one would ever describe him as fair or priggish, especially not then.”

  She pressed her hands to her temples. “Then who?”

  “Let me see more.” Now Julia was as fevered as Cressida. She read rapidly through the next page, then another, and her face sagged in shock. “Good heavens.”

  “What?”

  She touched the page. “Castilian. Will Lacey married a Spanish girl while they were in Spain. It caused quite a furor in town because Priscilla Darrowby had set her cap for him before the war, and everyone knew old Mr. Lacey approved the match.”

  They looked at each other. “And Will might have given Alec a letter,” Cressida said slowly. “Because they were such friends.”

  Julia nodded. “He died at Waterloo. A great hero; Mr. Lacey received a letter from Wellington himself. But this…” She shook the translated pages. “This is Will Lacey, I’m sure of it. He was fair and could be priggish—or rather, he could seem so, even though he was just as much a devil as Alec. But…What if…Is it possible someone mistook Alec for Will?”

  “You said the papers were found in Alec’s things.”

  She watched the realization sink in. Julia, Alec’s sister, looked at her with dawning alarm. “Could—Could he have…?”

  Cressida knew he could have. Her father could have seen an opportunity and seized it while the battlefield was still in disarray. Everything was chaos after a battle, echoed Alec’s words in her memory. The relief that Papa’s journal exonerated Alec was eclipsed by the confirmation that Papa had been responsible for those charges being made at all. She steeled herself and picked up the journal to read some more. The code had become almost as clear as English now, and she didn’t even have to write it down to know what it said. She was still turning pages when a knock sounded on the door, and Madame Wallace opened it.

  “You are ready?”

  “Yes,” she said hollowly. She couldn’t face Julia. “You are right. He writes of it here. My father put the letters in Alec’s effects to cast the blame for Nob’s treason onto him, and then bl-blackmailed Nob’s family with the truth.”

  George Turner had been a blackmailer. Alec had seen that quickly enough in the journal account, and he thought Cressida did, too, even if she didn’t want to say it out loud. He could understand that, and even respect it. There was little to be gained by exposing a man now, when he might well be dead but was most certainly gone, particularly when it was someone she loved so dearly and the sins had occurred so long ago.

  But Turner had also been a traitor, selling information to the enemy. A common sergeant couldn’t know much of interest to the French army, though. Turner had wanted more easy money, and in time he found a means to get it, in the form of a British officer in dire financial straits. Alec’s heart burned with fury as he remembered Turner’s account of coaxing the officer to relate intelligence, trifling items at first, then more and more important until finally the officer was writing directly to a French colonel, with Turner as the intermediary—collecting his fee along the way, of course. For money, Turner had sold out his fellow Englishmen, endangered his mates and the country they all fought to protect, and lured a decent man into dishonor and treason.

  The only thing Alec didn’t know was how the blame had been diverted onto him.

  He knew the ro
ad to The Grange well. As a boy he had traveled this path often, and even after all these years he could still do it in the dark. Cracks of lightning split the sky with increasing frequency, but the booming rolls of thunder were far-off rumbles. The stiff breeze stung his face, and Alec welcomed it. It went some small way toward cooling his temper, reminding him that revenge, no matter how long plotted or well-earned, was rarely satisfying. It wasn’t revenge he sought; nothing could bring back the years of his life or his lost reputation. It was justice, not just for himself but for everyone else mired in this tragedy.

  The house was just as he remembered it. Alec’s eyes went by pure habit to the third window from the left on the upper story, where he used to toss pebbles and other items to Will. What rapscallions they had been, sneaking off to swim in the river or to run through the woods at night after long days indoors at lessons. Will had been his brother in spirit if not in flesh, his thirst for adventure matching Alec’s own. Will was just as adept as Alec at finding trouble, despite looking so solemn and innocent that many people thought Alec was the one responsible for leading Will astray. As soon as they were old enough, the two of them had bought commissions in the army, determined to see the world and escape stern, strict fathers at the same time. Alec’s father had been relieved to see him committed to something respectable, but Will’s father mightily disapproved of the whole enterprise, and let his son and heir know it. Alec could still see the somber farewell between Will and his father before they rode off to join their regiments. He had seen the tears spring into Mr. Lacey’s eyes when Will turned away to mount his horse, just as he had seen the scars the old man inflicted on Will’s back over the years.

  He tied his horse to the paddock fence and walked up to the back door of the house, memories flooding him. How many times had he come this way, full of anticipation to see his friend? It caused a dull pain in his chest that he was here to confront a man about his son’s treason.

  Alec straightened his shoulders. The dagger under his coat pressed against his ribs. He thought of Cressida, clinging to him with all her strength and begging him to stay, and her last whispered declaration of love. Then he opened the door and let himself in.

  Chapter 27

  17 June 1815

  Near the village of Waterloo, Belgium

  Those who had fought with the Duke of Wellington in the Peninsula campaign claimed that great victories were often preceded by great storms crackling with thunder and lightning. In Wellington’s army, drenched and chilled to the bone by the rain that had started up the previous afternoon and proceeded to turn the Belgian hills and fields into oceans of mud, some were reassuring themselves that this storm was a sign of good fortune for His Grace. That might be true, and perhaps it did foretell another great triumph on the morrow, but at the moment, Major Alec Hayes would rather have been warm and dry.

  He forged through the ankle-deep mud toward the squat little house where he was billeted for the night. There was nothing he could do for his men. They were managing as best they could, huddling under blankets thrown over their saddles and clinging to the stirrup leathers to stay upright and avoid being trampled. Cavalry always bore bad weather even harder than the infantry. Alec had gone among them, doing his best to raise spirits and morale, making certain they got their rations of gin, but now he had to get some rest himself. The morning promised the exhilaration and madness of battle, when he would need a calm, collected mind more than ever.

  “Hayes! Hallo there, Major!”

  He stopped and turned, swiping rain from his face and grinning as he saw William Lacey slogging through the storm. He and Will had been boyhood friends, growing up near the same town in Hertfordshire and purchasing commissions at the same time. Lacey was attached to the staff of Sir William Ponsonby, the brigade commander, and Alec hadn’t seen him for several days, not since the night of Lady Richmond’s ball just before the French pushed across the border. “Nice night for a stroll,” he called. “Care to stop in and have a drink?”

  “If you’ve got anything, I’d drink it,” Lacey replied. He looked exhausted, his face drawn and gray. “The stronger the better.”

  Alec pushed open the door of the farmhouse, but it was full. A group of junior officers were clustered around the fire, where a pot steamed. He grimaced; whatever was in the kettle didn’t smell appetizing in the least, not even to a man who hadn’t had a decent meal all day. Combined with the smell of drying wool, the air in the house was thick and sour. Instead Alec picked up an umbrella someone had left near the door and ducked back into the rain. He opened it, and Will stepped under it beside him to share the last of the brandy in his flask.

  For a while they just watched the rain. When the brandy was gone, Will rummaged in his pockets and found some tobacco. Alec went into the house and got an ember, and they settled in for a smoke to warm themselves.

  “It’s going to be a bloodbath,” Will said at last.

  Alec blew out a puff of smoke that evaporated at once in the wet air. “Worse than usual, you think?”

  His friend was quiet, then plucked the cigar from his mouth to gesture at the sodden darkness. “Somewhere over that ridge are thousands of Frenchmen who want to kill us all. They must know it’s old Boney’s great chance. If he can wipe out this army, what would stand in his way?”

  Alec grunted, conceding the point. “He shan’t destroy the army, I don’t think. Wellington’s too cagey for that. He’ll fall back on Brussels and make another stand, and God help the Prussians if they don’t join him there.”

  “They’re on the way to Wavre, if the French can’t get them first.”

  “You’re awfully grim,” Alec said mildly. “I hold out hope we might crush them, instead of the other way around.”

  Will shook his head. “I have a terrible premonition about this fight, Alec. No—that is not what I mean.” He paused, seemingly struggling for words. “I have not been as—as able an officer as I should have been.”

  Alec glanced at him. “Nonsense. What the devil…?”

  “I have felt my inadequacies weighing on me of late.” He was drawing hard on his cigar. “As though I’ve been blinded to them all my life and only now see what they cost me.”

  “The lament of all married men.”

  As hoped, Will smiled, but it quickly faded. “My poor wife. If I should die, who will take care of her? She shouldn’t have to suffer so, and now she’s with child.”

  Will had married a Spanish beauty during the Peninsula campaign, but his father had not been pleased. From what Alec recalled of old Mr. Lacey, he wouldn’t be likely to take care of Isabella Lacey and her baby if anything happened to Will. Mrs. Lacey was in Brussels now, no doubt even more anxious about the impending battle than her husband. Alec had met her on a few occasions and thought old Lacey was a fool not to embrace her. He clapped Will on the shoulder. “I will care for her. You may depend on that, although I fully expect you to ride through this battle without a blemish, and have many children to vex you well into your old age, just as you and I have done for our fathers.”

  Will’s shoulder twitched. “Thank you. You cannot know how that eases my mind. I have your word? Whatever may happen?”

  Surprised, Alec looked away from the driving rain and into his friend’s face. “Do you even need to ask? You know I would.”

  “Your word?” Will repeated. His eyes burned and the cigar trembled in his fingers. “Whatever happens?”

  “Yes.” Alec wondered at Will’s feverish insistence, but then told himself not to judge too harshly; he didn’t know what went through a man’s mind the night before a battle when he had a wife and children to think of. He didn’t particularly care to think of his own death, but if it happened, his family would go along well enough without him. No one depended on him for home and happiness, and he didn’t depend on anyone for his. “I swear it.”

  The tension went out of Will’s body and he leaned against the wall at their back. “I have a letter here…” He drew it from inside
his coat. “To my father. Would you send it to him, after my death?”

  It was customary to leave a letter for one’s family, to be sent if necessary. Many officers would be up most of the night writing them. Alec stared askance at Will, though, for the certainty of his phrasing. Not “if I should fall” but “after my death.” He took the letter and shoved it into his pocket. “Get some sleep, Lacey. You’re not going to die, not in this fight.”

  Will’s smile was ghastly. “Perhaps not. But it would ease my mind…”

  “Of course,” Alec muttered. Of course they both might die on the morrow, or a week hence, or in their sleep tonight. It was part of the army. “I regret I have no wife and child to leave to your tender care. Perhaps you can find someone to marry Julia, if I die and miss the chance of teasing her suitors.”

  Will closed his eyes, smiled, and said nothing. For a long moment the only sound was the steady patter of the rain on the umbrella over their heads and the soft rush of the small river now flowing through the ditch that used to be a road. In the distance was a constant rumble, not of thunder but of wagons carrying supplies, artillery, and wounded. A man came sloshing through the mud toward them. “Captain Lacey, sir!”

  He stiffened. “Yes?”

  The man’s eyes were barely visible in the dark; every inch of him was spattered with mud. “You’re needed, sir. General Ponsonby sent for you.”

  Will’s face relaxed, and he nodded before sending the man on his way. “Ponsonby’s concerned for his horse,” he said wryly, more like the Will of old. “He’s been set on purchasing another to spare his animal any injury but cannot seem to strike a bargain. Perhaps I shall sell him mine and make a tidy sum.”

  Alec chuckled, and raised one hand in farewell as Will flicked the end of his cigar into the darkness. The glowing tip of it was extinguished before it hit the ground. “Godspeed, Will.”