For Your Arms Only

by Caroline Linden

  “It was odd,” he agreed.

  “And—”

  “And the truth is that my own actions contributed to my situation,” he said over her protest. “I was rash and quick-tempered. I was well-known in the army for being as bold as brass and daring to a fault. Had I been more restrained, people might not have believed the charges so quickly. Had I been more logical and dispassionate, I might have chosen a different course of action. Disappearing for five years doesn’t have the same effect as standing up and shouting my innocence for all to hear, even if in a criminal dock.”

  “You should not have needed to!” she cried. “Papa—”

  He put his fingertip on her lips. “It is not the adversity you suffer, it is how you react to it that determines one’s worth. What your father did does not reflect on you any more than Will’s actions reflect on me. And in the end, it does not change where we have ended up.”

  The rain pattered harder around them, refreshingly cool after the suffocating heat. He touched her cheek, and she leaned into it. “How can you bear to look at me,” she whispered, “and not think of him? Of all he cost you?”

  “When I look at you,” he murmured against her temple, “it’s not your father I think of.”

  “I am so sorry,” she said, her voice cracking.

  He rested his forehead against hers. “I’m not.”

  Cressida pulled back to look at him in astonishment. He was dripping wet, as was she, but he was grinning at her with that endearing dimple just visible in his cheek. “If you wish to make reparation, though,” he added, “I could be persuaded to accept.”

  Her mouth fell open. There was a wicked gleam in his eyes. A brilliant bolt of lightning lit the sky for a moment, with thunder like a cannon shot. They really ought to go inside. “Why are you not sorry?”

  “I had time to think while I rode to The Grange. I read Will’s letter; I knew what it said, and I was fairly certain what it meant for my circumstances.” He had to raise his voice as the rain increased, drumming loudly on the stable roof and the paving stones beneath their feet. “I had time to consider if I would rather have never been accused of treason, and come home to go on my way without ever crossing your path, or if this were the happier ending for me. And I knew I would rather have you, whatever else life might bring.”

  She blinked, and sniffled. Raindrops clung to her eyelashes. “You’re mad.”

  He grinned. “Barking, howling mad,” he said. “For you.”

  “Even though—?”

  “Even though.” He kissed her until she forgot her question, then tipped back his head and squinted into the downpour. “I don’t think we shall have a walk today after all.”

  She smiled through her tears. “Not without getting very wet.”

  Alec laughed. “It feels rather good, to tell the truth. But perhaps it’s holding you that feels good, and not even the rain could quench my delight.” He cupped her cheek and made her look up at him. “You said something earlier, about loving me.” Cressida froze, her eyes wide with apprehension. “I was wondering…or really, hoping,” he went on, “that you might love me as much as I love you. Or at least enough to marry me, because I really don’t think I can ever let you go.”

  For a moment she was too stunned to reply. Then wordlessly, she began nodding, and didn’t stop even when he held her close and swung her off her feet.

  Chapter 32

  To Alec’s great surprise, John Stafford himself arrived the next day. He had never learned what Stafford’s real interest was in George Turner’s disappearance, and could only guess that it was even greater than suspected for him to come all the way to Marston for a report.

  “Welcome to Penford,” he said.

  “Thank you. It is a lovely estate.”

  Alec smiled. It was like a boxing match, the two of them circling each other warily. He was not sorry to be leaving Stafford’s employ. “You’ll have heard the story from Ian, of course.”

  The other man’s eyes gleamed. “I expect there is more to the story than Mr. Wallace could tell me.”

  “No doubt.” Alec paused, then changed course. He had no patience to repeat what Ian had already said. “Why did you send me on this job?”

  Stafford smiled his thin, dry smile. “A favor for Lord Hastings.” Alec waited, just watching him. “And I suspected it might be to your benefit as well.”

  “Why?”

  His former employer’s mouth quirked. He clasped his hands behind his back and turned to walk over to the window overlooking Penford’s sweeping lawns. “I realize everyone does not always recognize my methods or means, but I am not as haphazard as one might suspect. This is not a game we play. A wrong guess often leads to disaster. When I send my agents out, I do so after solemn consideration of their skills and talents and what will be needed in the circumstance at hand.” He flashed a sly glance at Alec. “And, of course, I never forget why my agents have chosen to serve His Majesty.”

  “Did you know what Turner—?”

  “Of course not,” Stafford interrupted. “Certainly not with regard to you.” His voice fell back into calm, bland tones. “Hastings alerted me that the man had gone missing; he wanted him found, although he did not particularly care if it were dead or alive. It didn’t take much to persuade Hastings to reveal the true nature of his concern. I daresay Turner thought he was quite clever, but he spread his net too wide.”

  Alec had suspected as much. Turner had been blackmailing Hastings, or trying to. He wondered what Hastings’s secret was, and then he realized he didn’t care. “Cressida has her father’s effects,” he said. “Should you wish to examine them for anyone else’s private papers. There may be more hidden at Brighampton as well, according to his journal. Turner, I gather, managed to retain both sides of the correspondence by showing the letters from one to the other, but then keeping them. Whatever he hadn’t sold to Lacey might still be there. Lacey sent his servant to steal them back, but the man never found the papers.”

  “I should very much like to look into that,” Stafford agreed at once. And that, Alec realized, was what had brought him to Marston: the prospect of Turner’s hoard of secrets being exposed. No doubt people like Hastings only trusted Stafford himself to return their shameful secrets discreetly—and freely. Or perhaps not. Perhaps Stafford would expose them in his own way. Hastings might well regret setting him on the case.

  “But why did you send me?” he asked again, returning to his main concern.

  “Your brother’s death was not insignificant.” A rare note of compassion entered Stafford’s voice. “I recruited men like you because I wished to create a more honorable class of agent, men who had honor and could be depended upon to serve the Crown and not just themselves. Men who could testify in court and not be dismissed by the judges as tools of the government; a discreet security service of sorts for His Majesty, if you will. But when your brother died, Lord Sidmouth directed me to send you home. Your family’s need was greater. As to this last assignment…” He shrugged. “I have seen the French colonel’s letters. After working with you for four years, it seemed incomprehensible that you could have been his correspondent, but there was no proof.”

  It was an odd comfort to know that Stafford had kept his promise to see what he could do, even if he hadn’t bothered to inform Alec about it until now. Alec bowed his head. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I could do nothing except vouch for your conduct these last few years. Lord Sidmouth persuaded the Duke of Wellington to suspend judgment, based on that conduct. You will be permitted to call on His Grace and explain the truth of the matter. I believe Wellington will be inclined to listen.” He paused. “Lord Doncaster may have also said a word on your behalf, at his son-in-law’s urging.”

  Alec grinned in surprise. Harry Sinclair had been his fellow spy until falling in love with the Earl of Doncaster’s daughter on their last assignment together. Harry must have forgiven him for the thrashing Alec administered over that love affair, which Alec had
feared would ruin everything they worked for. He’d have to send the man a note of thanks, now that they were both respectable citizens again.

  “It seemed too convenient that Turner, whose regiment was also at Waterloo, who had schemed to blackmail other officers, had gone missing from your own home village,” Stafford went on in the same idly musing tone. “May I simply say, it was a striking coincidence, and I hoped you might somehow find enlightenment in the course of the job.” He put out his hand. “I am glad you did.”

  Alec shook his hand. “As am I.” He knew what Stafford was doing. As a landed gentleman, Alec would be in a position to support Stafford’s initiatives, to influence his friends and peers on the necessity of this security service. Harry Sinclair would as well, since Alec had heard he intended to stand for Parliament. Perhaps Stafford had been wilier than they all thought in selecting them.

  “I regret losing you,” Stafford said then. “Very thorough, but not prone to rash heroics. I admire that in a man.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he replied again. Stafford had taken him on when no one else would have considered it, trusted him and vouched for him. Becoming a spy had been a tremendous gamble, and Alec knew he was exceedingly fortunate that it had worked out this well for him. “What is to be done with Mr. Lacey?”

  For a moment Stafford said nothing. “That is not my decision,” he said at last, somewhat vaguely. “I suppose the magistrate hereabouts will have to decide what to do when a body is unearthed from behind Lacey’s privy. The dead man’s family might demand restitution, but I doubt they will require a prosecution, since the murderer is dead. A gentleman of Lacey’s age might find the shock of the whole affair taxing, and choose to retire to the seacoast.”

  Perhaps. Alec said nothing. He didn’t want to see old Lacey ever again, and yet he didn’t feel the same burning need for revenge. Lacey had already lost what he cared for most, and George Turner had rubbed salt into the open wound with his blackmail. But while Lacey had smiled at Turner’s death, he hadn’t killed him; there was no way to know for certain if he had even told Morris to do it, or if Morris—a fanatically loyal servant for as long as Alec could remember—had simply taken it on himself. Perhaps there was no more justice to be sought, or at least none that would help anyone.

  “A terrible pity, it is, that the man who administered the killing blow has already met with an unfortunate accident.” Stafford’s words echoed his thoughts. “How dreadful that he should trip and fall on his knife.”

  “Yes,” Alec agreed dryly. “Terrible.” Stafford had a way with “terrible pities.” A great many of them happened in connection with his assignments, yet none were held against his agents. Alec had to hand it to the old fox: Stafford demanded a great deal, but he also overlooked a great deal and he stood solidly behind his people. After an hour with Stafford, Lacey himself would swear Morris had stabbed his own throat.

  The spymaster’s mouth twitched. He bowed his head in farewell and walked out of the room. Alec touched Will’s carved wooden horse on the mantelpiece once more, then followed at a slower pace.

  Stafford had already gone out to his carriage by the time Alec reached the hall. Cressida was waiting there, pacing and wringing her hands. Her face cleared when she saw him, and she rushed forward.

  “What happened? Julia said there was an odd man from London come to see you, and that Madame Wallace was leaving with him. Was that…?”

  He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. “It was. All is explained.”

  “Then he can clear your name?” she asked anxiously.

  Alec smiled. “No. He has provided me the chance to do it myself.”

  “Oh!” She seemed to shine with relief. “You must tell your mother at once, and Julia—”

  “Hmm.” He slid his arm around her waist and led her out onto the terrace overlooking the garden. Every path was a quagmire of mud from the rain yesterday, but every leaf was bright and fresh in the sun. “I wasn’t thinking of them.”

  “No?”

  “No.” They stopped, in very near the same place they had stood the evening of his mother’s party, when they talked in the dark and made their wary bargain to trust each other. “I was thinking that I should clear my name before I share it with you.” She glanced quickly at him. “It will require a trip to London, of course, to see Wellington. I was thinking we might all go. I’m sure my mother and Julia would like to see town, and I hear they have dressmakers there who could fit a bride’s trousseau in no time.”

  She laughed. “Don’t be silly.”

  “You won’t go?” he said in surprise. “Cressida—”

  “I thought I had been quite clear, but perhaps it bears repeating, since you persist in asking questions like that.” She twined her fingers through his and squeezed, smiling up into his beloved face. “I would go with you anywhere.”

  Epilogue

  May 1821

  Yorkshire

  It was a tidy lane, dotted with a few small but neat houses, surrounded by carefully tended patches of garden. They had left the carriage at an inn in town and walked the rest of the way, not knowing the exact house they were seeking, but Alec’s eyes immediately snagged on one dwelling. It wasn’t surrounded by the usual English primroses, but by crimson blooms on tall stems. He hadn’t seen carnations that bright since the Spanish campaign.

  “This is her last known residence,” said James Peterbury.

  “It is,” said Alec quietly. “Right there, I’d wager.” He indicated the bright red flowers. “Carnations are everywhere in Spain,” he told Cressida.

  “They’re beautiful,” she said.

  Alec smiled. “I always thought so. My mother would like them.”

  A few children ran by them, herding a handful of geese along with the help of a barking dog. One of the boys stumbled over a rock and dropped his biscuit almost on Alec’s boots. “Beg pardon, sir,” he said breathlessly, snatching up his snack and brushing the dirt off it.

  Behind him, James inhaled sharply. Alec felt the same shock. It was Will’s face peering up from under the mop of dark hair, darker and smaller but unmistakable. The boy had inherited his mother’s Castilian coloring, but every feature was his father’s. Cressida pressed his arm in worry, but he put his hand over hers in reassurance. “Are you Master Lacey?” he asked, recovering his voice.

  The boy’s dark eyes shone up at him, innocent and unsuspecting. “Yes, sir. Who be you?”

  Alec went down on one knee to face him. “I’m an old friend of your father’s.”

  A surprised smile burst over the boy’s face. “Truly?”

  “Yes. My name is Alec Hayes, and this lady is my wife.” He gestured at James. “And this is Sir James Peterbury. Sir James and I grew up with your father in Hertfordshire. We’re very pleased to meet you.”

  The lad looked between them, then turned and ran down the street. “Mama, Mama!” he shouted. “There’s some men here—friends of my papa! Mama, come!”

  A slender woman with olive skin emerged from the house with the carnations, shading her eyes as her son raced toward her. For all that she was older and had obviously suffered some hardship, Isabella Lacey was still lovely. Alec recognized her at once. He had last seen her at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, the night before they marched out to meet the French. That night she had been a young bride, deeply in love with a man who adored her. It must have been their last night together.

  “At last,” breathed James. He and Alec exchanged a glance; at last, indeed. It had taken them months to find her. Isabella had moved about frequently after Waterloo, and even the two private agents they hired to trace her had struggled at times.

  She watched them approach, her aristocratic heritage evident in her proud posture if not in her appearance. Her son started to run back to them, but she admonished him with a word and he returned to her side, only dragging his feet a little.

  “Mrs. Lacey?” Alec removed his hat and bowed.

  “Yes.” Her wary eyes darted
between the two of them. She put one hand on her son’s shoulder, drawing him even closer to her. Beyond her Alec could see the interior of the house, neat and clean but tiny. Her hands bore the calluses of hard work, and her clothing was faded and much mended. He felt again the sharp guilt that he hadn’t been able to keep his promise to Will to take care of them, tempered only by the knowledge that the Laceys would never want for anything again.

  “I am Alexander Hayes. May I present my wife, Mrs. Hayes, and Sir James Peterbury.” James also doffed his hat and bowed. Cressida curtsied, murmuring a polite greeting. Mrs. Lacey returned it, but most of her attention remained on the men. “Peterbury and I were friends of your husband, Will,” Alec said. “The three of us grew up together in Hertfordshire and served in the army together.”

  Something sparkled in her gaze, the memory of old joys and the remembrance of enduring sorrow. “He has been dead several years now,” she said softly. “Since Waterloo.”

  “We know, and are very sorry for it,” said James. “But we have brought you some news. Your son has inherited a legacy from his grandfather.”

  Her lips parted in shock. Her son crept closer to her side. “What’s a legacy, sir?” he asked.

  Alec smiled at him. “It can mean many things, young man, but in this case it means money.” He looked at Isabella, still standing in mute amazement. “Ten thousand pounds.”

  “Blimey,” exclaimed the boy. “Mama, we shall be rich!”

  Alec grinned; the boy was just like Will. “Yes, indeed.”

  Later, after Isabella had recovered from her shock enough to invite them in, they talked about Will. Her son, named for his father, asked dozens of questions, and as James and Alec shared their memories, silent tears began to flow down Isabella’s cheeks.

  Cressida made tea, keeping out of the way. As they reminisced and laughed, she sensed a subtle easing of the last tension in her husband’s shoulders. He needed this—he deserved this, she thought fiercely. After he had discovered the truth about Will Lacey and her father last summer, Alec had been fully exonerated; the Duke of Wellington acknowledged the error and publicly denounced the rumors of treason. Suddenly it was as if no one had ever believed Alec guilty, or so it seemed from the number of people who came to call. Alec bore it all with a wry twist to his smile, and told her he almost preferred being a pariah.