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Phipps paused, his eyes narrowing.

“Never mind,” muttered Alec. “Go on.”

“It will require a great deal of discretion. Our first concern is success. . . but often honor has no place in this business, as we are well aware.”

“Set aside honor,” said Alec, unsmiling. “Understood.”

Phipps sat back. “Perhaps this is a waste of my time.”

Alec forced himself to remember that James Peterbury had thought this a good prospect, and that being churlish and impatient was never the way to accomplish anything. He hardly had the privilege to talk of honor anyway, not now. “No,” he said. “Go on.”

Mr. Phipps tapped his fingers on the table. “Peterbury indicated you had. . . requirements.”

Alec nodded wearily. “But I suspect that what I need, you cannot give.”

“Perhaps not.” Phipps leaned forward. “I cannot give you back your good name, no. But I have it in my power to lend you another’s.”

“Oh?” Alec smiled faintly. “Whose would that be?”

“Lord Sidmouth’s.” The other man’s eyes gleamed as Alec’s face went slack with surprise in spite of himself. The Home Secretary’s name was possibly the last one he expected to hear. Who was this man? How had Peterbury come across him? And what made Peterbury think this would appeal to him? “His lordship is most appreciative, when he has cause to be," Phipps added. "Do well for him, and he’ll do well for you.”

A squirrelly fellow, cagey and secretive, but with powerful connections and willing to take chances—that was how Peterbury had described Phipps. Alec ducked his head, thinking hard. “How well?”

Phipps’s smile was cold and calculated. Mephistopheles must have smiled just so when he struck his infamous bargain. “Very well.”

Very well. Sidmouth had power, even though he was far from popular among the people. He was a member of the Cabinet, certainly well-placed and well-connected enough to get what Alec wanted—if he chose to do so. “What does he require?”

Alec listened in silence as the other man outlined what would be required. Disguise. Subterfuge. Lies. A willingness to set aside, or at least overlook, certain laws and morals in pursuit of his objectives. Although neither said the word aloud, Alec was under no illusion about what he was being asked to become. How cruelly ironic that his only chance at restoring his honor was to become wholly dishonorable, that to prove he hadn't been a spy, he would become one in truth. If he failed, he’d lose whatever shred of protest he had that he had never done anything wrong. But if he succeeded. . . If Phipps really could secure him a reference from the Home Secretary. . . If Phipps could locate those letters and deliver them into Alec's hands. . .

He felt strangely distant from the rancid little pub, as if he merely watched and heard the scene instead of being part of it. He could almost feel the specter of Doctor Faustus at his side as he contemplated selling his soul to this cold-eyed fellow for a chance at regaining his name.

“I’ll consider it,” he said at the end.

“Consider it well.” Phipps leaned back in his seat. “You’d still be serving your king, you know. We’ve need of intelligent, capable men here at home. Having defended England overseas, I’m sure you’ll see the necessity of defending her in her own cities.”

Alec ran one hand along the table’s edge, studying the grain of the wood. It was dark and smooth, even the gouges worn to a satiny sheen. Every indignity this table had suffered had been ground down and smoothed over until the casual observer would almost think it crafted that way. “Why would you take a chance on a turncoat?”

“Peterbury says you are not.” Phipps cocked one eyebrow. “Is he wrong?”

“No. But no one else believes it.” And it was telling that Phipps was taking Peterbury’s word for it, against the word of the whole English army, including its immensely popular and politically ambitious hero. “You’d run counter to Wellington’s own opinion of the matter.”

“I do not come on behalf of Wellington.” Phipps lowered his voice again. “You’ll be paid, of course⁠—”

The mugs of ale rattled as Alec slammed his palm down on the table. “I don’t want money,” he bit out. “I am not a mercenary.”

This seemed to please Phipps. His flat smile spread once more across his face. “Good. The payment won’t be much. We prefer to deal in other compensation. Let me know your decision by noon on the morrow.” He got to his feet and placed a card on the table. “Good eve to you, Mr. Brandon.”

Alec finished his ale, ignoring the card. He didn’t know what Peterbury might have told this man about him to make Phipps so confident in his offer, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Could he become a spy? A black smile crossed his face. Wasn’t he halfway there already, changing his name and altering his appearance, moving around from place to place without staying anywhere for long, always listening, always watching his back. But if he took this position, all that might come to something useful.

He had a feeling Phipps would be very pleased to have a dead man working for him. Dead men had no rights and made no protests—and were easy to get rid of. He picked up the card.

John Stafford, Magistrates Court, Number 4, Bow Street. Alec turned the card over and over in his hand. It went against everything he thought right. Spies were rabble, not gentlemen, no matter whom they spied for. Some would view turning spy as an admission of guilt, a continuance of past sins. Before Waterloo, Alec would have thought so.

What choice did he have? Peterbury had discovered nothing in almost a year. The documents that proved his guilt might exist, or not, and Alec had no way of knowing. If he didn’t know, he could hardly refute them, and if he couldn’t refute them, his best option was to take this job. If such damning documents existed, Sidmouth should be able to find them. All Alec asked was a chance to see them, to defend himself against them, and this appeared to be the price of that chance.

And if it led to a noose around his neck. . . he was hardly any worse off.

He slipped the card into his pocket and walked out of the pub.