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Alec never thought he would miss the French sharpshooters, but as he moved through the drawing room with his mother, he would far rather have faced a field of Bonaparte’s finest than the thinly veiled curiosity of their guests.

His mother was intent on telling him all about everyone. “Mr. Barton, the new curate,” she would murmur. “Perfectly acceptable, but his wife is a little too full of Christian piety. I do believe she beats her children, they are so quiet and still.” And the curate's wife would curtsey to him with her mouth primly pursed, condescending tolerance writ large on her face. Alec knew this party was really for his mother, to reassert her own pride in him to the world at large, so he simply smiled and bowed until his mother reached the only interesting guests in attendance.

“Mrs. Phillips and Miss Turner.” Mother clucked her tongue softly. “Very sad.”

“Oh?” murmured Alec, his attention caught at last. “How so?”

“I believe they’ve been living above their means and are about to suffer a fall. It's not entirely their fault. Their father is quite a spendthrift, and now he’s gone and abandoned them. Julia is well-acquainted with Miss Turner, and she fears the family might lose their home soon.”

Now that she’d given him the excuse, Alec took a long look at Miss Turner. She was lovely tonight in a shimmering gown of sea green, a golden locket gleaming right above the swells of her breasts. The soft light from the chandelier darkened her hair to the color of chestnuts, but when she turned her head it shone like fresh honey. She was with Julia, listening to his sister with a mischievous little smile that made his stomach tighten.

“How unfortunate,” he murmured.

“Indeed. They’re both very amiable ladies.” Mother paused. “Mrs. Phillips in particular.”

Alec shifted his gaze to look at Mrs. Phillips. She was beautiful in a deep rose gown, but his eyes strayed back to Miss Turner. Not a beauty, that one, but something more. “Yes. I had the pleasure of meeting them both the other day.”

“Did you?” Her voice rose with interest. “Is that where you go off to? I wondered why you’re never about. I should have known, an attractive lady in the neighborhood⁠—”

“Don’t start matchmaking, Mother,” he said evenly. “I called to offer my assistance in locating Sergeant Turner.”

She stopped and looked at him in amazement. “Good heavens, I never knew that. Are you acquainted with Sergeant Turner?”

“No.” She waited expectantly, her wide blue eyes fixed on him. Reluctantly, Alec added, “As a favor for someone in London.”

“Oh!” She looked delighted, as though she’d been anticipating this moment since he came home. To be fair, she probably had been. “Then you’ve been in London? Alexander. . . ” She touched his arm. “I have wondered, dear, what to tell people. Everyone has been so. . . so curious, you see, about how—how you have been, and what adventures you might have had. . . ”

Alec felt a pang of shame and unease. His mother had been patiently waiting for him to explain everything, and he hadn’t said a word. Of course people were talking about him. The convenient response would be to make up something out of whole cloth, anything to answer the question of where he’d been for the last five years. Twice already he’d had to stop himself from inventing details of his recent past, as had become his habit. Say anything, Stafford had always instructed, except the truth. Never the truth. The truth was dangerous.

But that was to strangers. Alec didn’t want to lie to his mother unless he absolutely must. “Yes,” he answered. “It was a favor for someone in the army. Miss Turner wrote to him asking for assistance, and he asked me to look into things.”

“Oh.” Mother looked nonplussed. “The army. I see.”

He hoped she didn’t. “I must be discreet about it, for the family’s sake. They do seem like amiable ladies, and I would hate to bring them any more distress.” Too late he remembered Miss Turner hadn’t yet given him her blessing, and that he might end up making his inquiries on his own. But she was here tonight—surely a good sign—and he wasn’t waiting on her blessing in any event. He realized he’d been watching her for several minutes, and turned away.

“Of course.” A shadow had fallen over his mother’s face. “And that’s why you’ve come home, isn’t it? Because the army sent you.”

The faint sadness in her statement pierced him. Never the truth. Alec bowed his head. “No,” he said quietly. “I came home because of Freddie.”

Chapter Eleven

Cressida found herself having a lovely time as the evening wore on. Most of the guests were pleasant, undemanding people, all polite enough not to comment on the main purpose of the gathering and willing to enjoy the evening. By the time Julia excused herself to go check on the refreshments, Cressida was surprised to realize almost two hours had passed.

“I'm so glad we came,” Callie said softly beside her.

“I am, too,” she admitted.

“And not just to feel pretty again, although that is wonderful.” Callie moved, setting her rose skirts swaying as they both admired the glow of candlelight ripple across the silk. “It’s so lovely to be out in company.”

“I'm sure all the gentlemen in attendance are grateful you’re out in company. You really do look beautiful tonight.”

Her sister had a way of wrinkling her nose just a little, managing to look fetching instead of gruesome. Cressida had always envied it. “They’re not all looking at me.” She paused. “Major Hayes certainly looks at you a great deal.”

Cressida jerked in surprise. “He does not.”

“You don’t think so?” Callie was watching him across the room. Cressida glanced at him from under her eyelashes, just in time to realize he was looking her way. He stood by his mother, and as they watched he leaned down and murmured something to Mrs. Hayes before walking out the back of the room. “I vow, every time I happen to catch a glimpse of him, he’s looking at you in that contemplative way.”

“Rubbish.” Cressida gave a small, uncomfortable laugh.