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“Odd,” she replied. “She hasn’t minded for the last several years.”

Alec said nothing. He knew very well his mother had sent him in hopes that this forced companionship would revive his and Julia’s affectionate relationship of old. Personally, he doubted anything would. Not because Julia was furious with him, but because he had changed so much in five years, he didn’t know how to respond to it.

In their youth, they had both been quick-tempered and impulsive, given to speaking their minds and apologizing later. There had been no reserve between them, for good or for ill. When in a temper, they had argued fiercely, but never had the disagreement lasted. One or the other would always apologize the next day, and all would be well.

Julia was still like that, but temper and impulse had been hammered out of Alec. On his first mission for Stafford, he’d lost his temper and been drawn into a brawl. When it was over, the man Alec had been assigned to befriend for information about a group suspected of plotting an armed uprising lay dead on a tavern floor. Alec hadn’t killed him—he’d been trying to defend the fellow—but after the brawl, he was too notorious in that town to continue. All his work had been for naught, and Stafford’s deputy, Phipps, had cursed a blue streak at him and threatened to sack him.

Chastened and furious, Alec had vowed never to lose control that way again. All his daring and courage mattered little if he couldn’t mind his tongue and temper. Ruthlessly he schooled himself to become a silent, unnoticeable watcher instead of a brazen imposter mingling with the targets of an investigation. Other agents took those parts, and Alec faded into the background as a servant or a beggar or a common tradesman, nobody worthy of note. He was used to that now; he was comfortable with it.

He said nothing.

His silence only fueled his sister's anger. Her expression grew stormy. “I wish you would speak to Mother,” she said after a few moments.

“About what?”

“The party she’s planning.”

Alec had barely listened to his mother's hopeful plans. He wanted no part of it, but neither could he bring himself to tell her to stop. She was happy he was home, and he was trying mightily not to ruin that. “What should I say to her about it?”

“You can’t tell me you want her to throw a party in your honor!” Julia exclaimed.

“I never asked her to, no.”

Her cheeks were scarlet with fury. “I don’t understand.”

“It was entirely her idea, and she didn’t ask my opinion of it, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She twisted in her seat to face him, making the gig rock. “I don’t understand anything about you anymore!”

Alec considered that plea. Was there any possible way to explain? He’d been trying to form an answer for the better part of a fortnight, and still had nothing. It wouldn’t be enough simply to tell the truth as he knew it; people would want answers, evidence, proof. Alec didn’t even have a plausible theory. “I’m sorry for that,” he said at last.

Julia inhaled loudly, then turned forward again. “I don’t know you, Alec. You keep your secrets and leave the rest of us to wonder and worry and offer excuses for you.”

“Don’t,” he snapped. “I never asked for that.”

“No, you never asked for anything. Asking might involve some discussion of the last five years, which must never, ever happen,” she muttered. “Such a pleasure it is to have you home again.”

“So I should tell Mother to cancel her party?” he retorted. “I should tell her I don’t want her to be happy? I don’t care tuppence for the good opinion of her guests, but I do care about her own joy.”

“Oh, this will be a marvelous party,” Julia exclaimed. “The host glowering at everyone in sullen silence, and the poor hostess pitied by everyone else because of it.”

Alec pulled up the horse. He handed the reins to his sister and jumped down. It was a quiet horse, she would have no trouble with him.

“What are you doing?” she cried as he started off down the road.

“I'd better walk.”

"Why?" She started the horse. The gig drew alongside him and kept to his pace. "Why won't you tell us anything? What are you hiding, Alec? I assure you, it can't be worse than what everyone believes you've done!”

"Does everyone?” He kept his eyes forward. "Do you believe it?"

"You give me nothing else to believe!"

He stopped and looked at her. Julia was practically hanging out of the gig, her face screwed up in frustration—and hope, however angry. For a moment he was buoyed by it. Perhaps he could tell her, and she would be reassured. . .

No. Alec knew she wanted him to tell her something honorable, or at least pardonable. That he’d become entangled with a person who incriminated him, perhaps, and then fled England in shame. That he’d committed some error on the battlefield and been made a scapegoat by his superiors. Something, anything, that would explain why he disappeared for so long.

What would she think of the truth?