For the first time, Alec didn’t know which course he would have preferred, had he been offered the choice. Innocence, without Cressida…or five years of guilt, but with Cressida at the end? There was no question that he had found more peace and happiness with her than he’d ever expected in his life. Knowing what he had done, even what he had been accused of doing, she accepted him and trusted him and gave him her heart. Alec had never met another woman like her, and knew he could appreciate the depth of her faith and love as he could never have done before Waterloo.
“What happened to Turner?” he asked again. Cressida and her family deserved to know his fate, whatever the man had done in his life.
“He came here late at night,” murmured Lacey. He was still staring hollow-eyed at the letter in his hands. “Some months ago. He wanted money—always money. He set up house in Marston to torment me, to flaunt his presence in my face at every opportunity. There were papers, he said, in William’s hand. As this letter…” He turned it over, handling it as gingerly as if it were spun of glass. “Just as this letter. Papers he would sell me, one page at a time, and I paid him to conceal my son’s weakness.” His voice broke on the last word. “I sent Morris to try to find them, but he never could.”
Alec remembered the man sneaking around Cressida’s stable on that long-ago day when he had first gone to see the Turners, and another small puzzle piece fell into place. Of course; it had been Morris.
“And then that villain came and said he would sell me the last of them, save one,” Lacey went on, his voice heating with fury again. “He said he intended to move to London, and I suppose defraud other men more prosperously situated. If he had offered every page I would have paid him and been done with it, burned it all and gone to my grave with the shame. That last page, though, he meant to hold forever, no doubt to bleed me even more when he had run through the money. He was a leech, a conniving, amoral excuse for a man, and I am not sorry he’s dead, no matter what it costs me.”
“What did you do to him?”
“Morris took him away,” Lacey muttered. “I don’t know where, nor do I care.” With trembling hands he unfolded the letter and began to read.
Alec watched the lines of his face grow deeper, and felt Lacey’s pain almost as his own. Will’s last letter was damning, in detail and in scope: how he had married in a reckless burst of passion and love, how devastating his father’s disapproval had been, how his finances had grown desperate. How he had been seduced into giving information to the French, and how he believed he had gotten away with it when Bonaparte was sent into exile the first time, only to realize he had compromised himself too far when the Emperor returned and marched on Belgium. And most tragic of all, his belief that the only honorable atonement for him was death on the field of battle, repaying the blood he had cost England with his own. Alec felt the force of his own grief for Will, and at the same time a great emptiness where he had expected to feel vindication. The driving need for proof had nursed him through many a lonely and bitter night, when he had imagined the triumph and the release of clearing his name. He had imagined confronting the true traitor, the one whose sins had been laid at his feet, and never dreamed it would be his dearest friend in the world. He finally had answers, but there was no joy in them for him.
“He asked me to look after his wife and child,” Alec said as Lacey seemed to shrink before his eyes. “Do you know where they are?”
Lacey bowed his head and closed his eyes. He gave a tiny shake of his head.
Alec let out his breath. What ought he to do now? His instinct was to let Stafford deal with it. Whatever punishment Lacey deserved, Stafford would be better equipped to impose it. But it was murder. He didn’t see how he could simply walk out now and wait to see what Stafford did, knowing that Stafford had cards in his hand that Alec knew nothing about. For all he knew, Stafford and Hastings might be well-pleased to hear Turner was dead, and thank Lacey instead of arrest him.
A shriek outside the door interrupted his thoughts. Alec spun around, flexing his hands and automatically assuming a half crouch, ready to defend himself even as he wondered who the bloody hell would be screaming. It was a woman, and he didn’t think Lacey had any maids, just a footman and butler besides the all-purpose Morris…
The door opened and Morris stumped in, dragging a struggling female form in his arms. Alec’s heart seized even before he saw her face.
“Morris,” cried Lacey in astonishment. “What the devil?”
“She was lurking by the road,” the servant said. He had one arm around Cressida’s chest, his hand wrapped around her throat, but his other hand held Alec’s attention. The man had a pistol pressed to her side. “One of them Turners.”
Chapter 30
Lacey’s incredulity turned to disgust as he turned on Alec. “And what do you mean by bringing her here?”
“I didn’t.” Alec kept his voice low and even, his eyes never leaving Cressida. She had agreed to stay behind. He couldn’t believe she would follow him, yet here she was, apparently unarmed and alone. Bloody hell.
“I don’t approve of shooting women, Morris,” Lacey snapped. “Not even that one.” The sight of Cressida—a Turner—had revived the old man’s bilious spirit.
“Let her go,” said Alec softly. “She had no part in any of this, and knew nothing of it.” Cressida was watching him with wide, frightened eyes, but no panic. He felt an absurd spark of admiration, that she could be dragged about by her neck with a gun to her ribs, and yet not dissolve into panic. Of course, it would have been even better had she kept her promise and stayed safely at Penford. Bloody, bloody hell.
“It appears she’s a lying, sneaking thief like her father,” snapped Lacey.
“Let her go,” Alec repeated, ignoring Lacey. “For your own sake, Morris.”
Morris grunted. He shifted Cressida’s weight more to the side, as if tucking her under his arm. Her feet swung helplessly, like a doll’s, as she struggled. Morris moved the pistol muzzle to her back, right at the curve of her spine. A shot there would leave her paralyzed if it didn’t kill her instantly. “You want to take her place?”
“Lacey,” said Alec in warning.
The old man glowered. “Get her out of here, Morris. I never want to see another Turner on my property.”
The servant grinned. “I’ll put her with the other one.”
“Where is that?” Cressida squeaked. She had begun struggling again at Lacey’s words, twisting against Morris’s thick arm.
Morris’s grin grew wider. “Buried behind the privy, miss, right where he belonged.” He jerked his chin at Alec. “You come along, too. It’s not nice to call on a man and make threats.”
“Lacey,” said Alec again, more loudly. A faint buzzing filled his ears. Not even in the heat of battle had he ever been more focused on killing another person.
“Morris!”
“It’s my duty to Master William, sir,” replied his servant, ducking his head. “I owes him this, too. Never you mind, sir.”
“Let her go, and I’ll come with you instead,” Alec said. Morris was a thug, big and brutal, but Alec had learned more than a few tricks as a spy. The first lesson was to abandon honor at the door, and never mind a fair fight. Morris’s pistol was a single shot. All Alec had to do was make sure that shot didn’t go into Cressida or himself.
Morris laughed. “Eh, no. Got you both, don’t we? Led the young master into trouble for many years, you did; got him killed, too, most like. No friends of the family here tonight.”
“She had nothing to do with Will,” Alec said again. He was slowly moving to the side, to where he could see Cressida’s face. Two spots of red burned in her cheeks, and her eyes were glittering. She was furious, he realized, so furious she wasn’t even frightened anymore. “She never met him or heard of him.”
“But she lived well off his death, and that’s enough.” Morris gave her another shake. “Let’s go, miss. Time to join your papa.”
With a strangled s
hriek, Cressida threw her head back, cracking into Morris’s chin. She kicked at his knees and scratched at his restraining arm. He cursed, turning his head away from her as she twisted, and almost dropped the pistol. Alec lunged forward to grab it, but Morris, still cursing, raised the gun and tried to aim at him. Alec dodged to the side to avoid presenting a good target, reaching for Cressida at the same moment. But suddenly she crashed to the floor along with the pistol; Morris had released both to grab the rope that had appeared around his throat.
It was the moment of hesitation Alec needed. With one flick of his wrist, he pulled the stiletto from his sleeve and flung it. Morris jerked upright, his face going slack with surprise. With an awful, reedy gasp he choked and coughed, and blood spurted from the mortal wound.
Alec had thrown the knife hard and true. The weighted hilt quivered right below Morris’s meaty chin, the blade piercing his throat. Morris’s eyes glazed over and went blank. Angelique, clinging to his back, gave a sharp tug on her garrote, and his head went up without resistance.
“Angelique,” he said. “You can let him go.”
Morris thudded heavily to his knees as she relaxed her grip. She peered over his shoulder, not appearing very surprised by the knife hilt sticking out of his throat. “I was not in need of help.” She whisked the black rope from around his neck and gave Morris a small push. Freed of support, his body slowly toppled to the floor. The blood gushed forth as he collapsed, staining the carpet dark red in a wide arc around him. Angelique stepped away, wrinkling her nose. “Such a mess the knife makes,” she said on a sigh.
Alec turned to Cressida, who had scrambled away from Morris and now sat braced on her arms, skirts twisted around her legs, breathing hard and staring at the dead man. “Are you hurt?”
She raised dazed eyes to him. Mutely she shook her head. Alec exhaled, his hands starting to shake from the delayed fear and fury at the sight of her caught in Morris’s grasp. He simply nodded, unable to speak.
“My God,” cried Lacey in shock. “You’ve killed my man!”
Alec gave him a black look as he bent to retrieve his knife. He cleaned the blade with a sharp swipe across Morris’s sleeve.
Angelique raised her eyebrows at Lacey as she coiled her deadly garrote around her hand. “Perhaps you are next.”
The old man jerked, staring at her as if she had sprouted another head. In her dark clothing, with all her hair pulled back and making no attempt to gentle her expression, Angelique might have been the angel of death, coldly merciless. When Ian appeared in the doorway behind her, looking for all the world like his fierce Highland forebears must have looked to the invading English, Lacey gave an audible whimper.
“Get him out of the way,” Alec muttered to Ian. The big Scot glanced at Angelique and nodded. He shoved his pistol into his pocket and bent to heave Morris’s bulk over one shoulder. Angelique stepped out of his way as he carried the dead man to the sofa. Lacey watched in horrified silence, cowering in the corner.
Alec put out his hand and pulled Cressida to her feet. She came into his arms and held him as if she would never let go. He pressed his lips to her hair. She was shaking, and he held her even tighter, to keep her still, to comfort her, to reassure himself that she was whole and well. He hadn’t planned to kill Morris, but the sight of him strangling Cressida had fueled a black rage that overrode every instinct except the fierce drive to protect what was vital to him. The knife had left his hand before he’d even thought of drawing it.
“Why did you not wait in the carriage?” Angelique asked gently, touching Cressida’s arm. “I did not wish you to be involved.”
“I did wait with the carriage.” Cressida’s voice was muffled against Alec’s chest. “He found me and dragged me to the house.”
Alec glared at Angelique. She pursed her lips. “I am sorry, Alec.”
“It doesn’t matter.” It did matter. Angelique should have known better than to bring her anywhere near The Grange. Based on the way she was dressed and armed, Angelique had known exactly what she was walking into, and there was no excuse for bringing an innocent, untrained woman with her. In other situations Alec would have argued the point, but this time it didn’t matter. Perhaps that, more than anything, drove home to him how final his choice was. He couldn’t go back to being a spy—not because he had found the proof of innocence he sought, not because he had returned home and taken up his real name and position, but because of Cressida. If something had happened to her, there would have been little at Penford to keep him from the nomadic, lonely existence of Stafford’s agents. But with her…With her he saw not the salvation of his reputation, but the salvation of his heart and soul. With her in his arms, nothing else mattered.
“You’ll take care of this?” he asked Angelique.
She nodded. “Ian will go to Stafford tonight. He will want to know.”
At the moment Alec didn’t give a bloody damn what Stafford wanted. He nodded once and walked out of the room, leaving it all behind—Lacey’s concealment of the truth, Morris’s murderous loyalty, George Turner’s venal sins, and most of all Will’s fatal, tragic flaw. He had Cressida in his arms, and that was all he cared about.
Chapter 31
They rode home slowly, she before him on the horse. For the first time in five years, Alec realized he was free. The weight of his suspected treason that had borne down on him for so long was gone. The thirst of vengeance that had driven him was no more, washed away by the sorrow of his friend’s tragic secret. The prickly solitude that had been his life for five years was over, stripped from him by the woman in his arms. He was free, to live and to love. He tilted his face up to the sky and breathed deeply.
Neither spoke during the ride. A few fat drops of rain spattered against them, but the storm was still holding off. At the Penford stables Alec dismounted and handed the reins to the stable boy. He held out his arms to Cressida, wanting nothing more than to hide away from the world with her.
She let him help her down. Through the long ride home, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about one fact: her father had directly caused Alec’s disgrace and estrangement. He hadn’t hesitated to destroy an innocent man’s name, all in the interest of blackmailing the family of the man he helped ruin. As she huddled in Alec’s arms, her life with Papa had played across her memory’s eye, his cheery winks and booming laughter, his quick temper and generous nature. The time he had brought home a baby bunny for her and Callie to see. The way his face would darken when she argued with him, and the cold way he had maneuvered Callie into marriage with Mr. Phillips. She thought of him making sport of Tom, and of how he carried her grandmother tenderly up the stairs when Granny had broken her ankle. It was a bittersweet jumble of happiness and horror, that he could support them with money gained so shamefully. And now Papa was lying in the ground behind Mr. Lacey’s privy, if Morris could be believed, and she was sad and angry and relieved all at once.
She looked up into Alec’s face. He had borne the disgrace, sacrificing five years—and almost his very life—trying to disprove what Papa had so carelessly cast on him. It was a cruel irony that he had been sent to find Papa when all along Papa had been the one responsible for Alec’s condemnation. Cressida couldn’t help thinking that her father had brought his fate upon himself; he had played with fire and it had consumed him in the end. And not only had it cost her her father and her affection for him, it might cost her a lifetime of happiness with the man she loved.
“What you must think of me,” she began brokenly. “Of him, and everyone connected with him.”
Alec’s jaw tightened, then eased. “I am sorry you were there. Angelique should never have brought you with her.”
“Oh!” She waved one hand impatiently. “At least now I know the truth, not some fairy tale of ‘expectations’ and other rubbish Papa used to tell us. He was a liar and a thief who lived on other people’s sins.”
“He was your father.”
“And I loved him!” she said hysterically. “
I did, and he was so—so—so unworthy.”
“I loved Will,” he reminded her. “He was my brother in spirit, closer than Frederick.”
“I know. And Papa ruined his life, too,” she said sadly.
He shook his head. “Will was not weak-willed. What he did was unpardonable, and I don’t for one moment hold your father blameless. But Will could have refused. I don’t know why he didn’t, but he was not likely to be swayed by a lowly sergeant to do something so heinous if his inclination had been fixed against it. French gold, I expect, won him over more than anything else.
“What your father did to me…” He paused. A gentle rain had begun, wetting the shoulders of his coat. “It was the coward’s way,” he said quietly. “Did he know me and despise me for some reason, or was I just a conveniently dead officer? He might not have even known whose belongings he hid those letters in, and it was mischance he found a man not truly dead.”
“But Mr. Lacey—”
“I doubt he had any thought of Mr. Lacey when he undertook the plan, except perhaps contempt. If he’d had any respect at all for Mr. Lacey, he never would have tried to extort money from him.”
Yes, she could believe that. But what contempt must Alec have, then, for her father—or for her?
“You told me once you cared only for the truth,” she said. Rain ran down her cheeks and dripped from her nose.
“The truth,” Alec repeated. “Yes. I do.” Cressida wrapped her arms around herself, bracing for the coming blow. Her heart would never recover from this one. “The truth is that I love you. The truth is that nothing your father did, or said, or thought or felt or wrote, could change that.”
“The truth is my father cast blame for another man’s crime on you!”
“He did.”
She laughed a little wildly in despair. “How horrified you must have been when you realized the man you had been sent to help was the very man who betrayed you.”
For Your Arms Only Page 28