For Your Arms Only by Linden, Caroline (best fiction books to read .TXT) 📗

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