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While he was home, he would draw miniatures of her and Callie, saying he wanted to be able to look at his best girls any time he was on campaign. When he left, he always patted the pocket where he’d stowed the miniatures as he waved goodbye. He drew little cartoons on the letters he sent them—funny little scenes of army life or the countryside wherever he was.

But her beloved papa had been selling lithographs of some kind to that wretched Prenner. She knew he had a sharp wit and a keen eye for humor. Based on the prints in Prenner’s windows, Cressida didn’t think Papa had sold him sketches of rabbits or drunken soldiers.

Perhaps she didn’t really know Papa at all. Until he’d left the army, he hadn’t spent more than a few consecutive weeks at home with them since Cressida was a small child. When the wars finally ended, he’d come back as charming and energetic as ever, but she and Callie were not the same.

She still saw Papa’s charm, but now she noticed his quick temper and unwise extravagance. Callie had survived a bitter marriage, coming home quiet and cowed, and Papa only chided her for not finding a new husband immediately. Cressida had become the practical head of the household as Granny’s mind began to slip, and she and Papa clashed over everything from finances to household management. Tom hadn’t been wrong when he said things ran smoother without Papa.

Major Hayes—Alec—had also warned her. We could discover something unpleasant, he’d said, before she’d badgered him into bringing her to London. Well, she’d got what she deserved, she told herself. She should take this as a lesson and be more trusting of what he told her.

She put her face in her hands at the thought. Had she been right about anything regarding him? She’d accused him of being a horse thief. She’d impugned his bravery in battle. She told him they didn’t need or want his help. She’d dismissed his abilities and openly doubted he would succeed. Wrong, wrong, very wrong, and blindingly wrong. Just the way he’d turned on Prenner in the blink of an eye, knocked him unconscious, and searched the office with calm haste made her think that if anyone could find Papa, it would be the major.

Alec.

Why had he told her to call him that? Mr. Hayes would have been proper enough, even if it felt awkward on her lips, but he asked her to call him by name. Like someone dear to him would do. Alec. She said the name silently, liking the taste of it. Just as she liked the look of the man himself. And the sound of his voice. And the way he looked at her with focused intent. Oh, she did like the way he looked at her, even if it set all her nerves tingling. . .

Somewhere in the city a bell tolled the hour, startling her out of those thoughts. The shadows in the street below had slanted until everything was tinged with gray, although the sun was still bright on the rooftops. The major had engaged a private parlor for dinner, and promised to be back by now.

Cressida got up and washed her face and hands. Let this mark a new beginning, she decided. From now on, she would discount the wide-ranging rumors about him and rely on what her own eyes and ears told her. She studied herself in the mirror, smoothing her hair and straightening her dress. She wished she had an ordinary dress as lovely as the sea-green silk one she’d worn to the Penford party, when he’d looked at her with fascination.

“He didn’t mean it like that,” she whispered to herself, then went down to dinner.

Chapter Sixteen

Alec returned to the inn in conflicted spirits.

He’d found the Dove’s Nest, a middling sort of brothel near Covent Garden. Turner had been there, as Prenner suggested, but not for the last several months. The woman he spoke to wasn’t sure how long it had been, but she made no secret of the fact that he was missed.

“Right generous he is,” she’d said with a saucy wink. “Tell him to come back soon, won’t you, love?”

The warden at the Fleet confirmed Turner still wasn’t in the prison, so Alec had gone shopping, visiting as many print shops and coffee houses as he could. At the fourth one he found what he was looking for, but he kept looking through two more coffee houses until he had collected several samples.

None of this was going to reassure Miss Turner. And he hated having to tell her.

In Prenner’s office he’d shocked her by punching the printer, but she recovered quickly. She didn’t have the years of experience at sneaking and lying that Alec had, but she’d done a creditable job, chattering at the unconscious Prenner and then putting on a fainting act for the clerk. He smiled in memory of her outburst after they left, and then his mind veered right back to the moment he’d been trying to forget.

He flexed his hand, recalling the feel of her waist under his hand. She’d been trembling, her face flushed, tugging at the locked desk drawer and looking at him with her amber eyes gone wide with anxiety. That was behind his lapse, he told himself. Those eyes would be the death of him. He’d stepped far too close to her, inhaled her scent, and put his hand on her waist, instead of stepping back and letting her move away from the desk. The office had been small, but not too small for her to take two steps on her own and allow him to pick the lock on the desk. Instead he’d leapt at the chance to touch her and be close to her. It only lasted a moment, but he kept replaying it in his memory, savoring every stolen second.

It had been a very long time since he’d wanted a woman so badly, and of course it was to be this woman. He told himself to enjoy that one moment, because he couldn’t risk another. He wasn’t at leisure to flirt and romance a woman; he was working. He needed to find her father and report back to Stafford so that. . .

He paused on that thought. So that what? This wasn’t an ordinary assignment, where he would simply disappear. He was home again, anonymous no more. He had no idea what came next.

The innkeeper showed him to the private parlor and brought in wine. Alec poured two glasses. There was no sign of Miss Turner. He stared out the mullioned window and tossed back half his glass, and wondered if it might be better for them both if she didn’t come down.

A soft sound made him turn. There she stood, hands pressed self-consciously to her skirt. “Good evening,” she said.

His heart took a great thumping leap, right into his throat. “Good evening,” he managed to say. She wore the same simple dress, her hair in the same neat knot, but he felt dazzled by the sight of her, as if he’d forgotten in the space of a few hours how lovely she was.

He cleared his throat and took the second glass of wine across the room. She accepted it without comment, but her eyes did widen as she sipped.

“All right?” he asked.

She gave him a shy smile. “It’s very good. We don’t usually⁠—”

Have such fine wine, he heard. “Dinner should be served directly,” he said, pretending he hadn’t noticed her abrupt silence. “Come in.”

“Thank you.” She walked to the windows, where he’d been standing a moment ago. Alec followed. Through the wavy glass they watched the traffic of London bustle past. “I’ve never been to London before,” she remarked, taking another sip.

And what a reason to make her first visit. “It’s much louder and dirtier than Marston,” he replied, “but has its charms.”