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She ran her finger around the rim of the wine glass, obviously unconvinced. “Possibly, but. . . I find it unlikely. Papa wasn’t the type to be told what to do.”

Alec’s brows went up. “He was a sergeant in the army for several years.”

She blushed. “Of course he followed orders in the army. I think that made him more resistant to it, out of the army.”

“Ah.”

There was a tap at the door, and the servant came in to clear away the dishes. He’d also brought another bottle of wine, which Alec accepted without remark. When the man had gone, Alec stood and gestured at the chairs by the fireplace. “Shall we?”

She followed him, still holding her wine glass. “What will you do next?” This time her gaze was open and almost trusting.

For the first time Alec realized that he wanted to find Turner for her, not for Stafford. She needed him found, not as a favor for Pickering but because her family depended on his return, alive and well. More and more, Alec was beginning to think there wouldn’t be a happy answer, though. A misadventure or sudden illness would have likely come to light by now. A determined plan to flee probably wouldn’t have included leaving behind a coded diary.

He repressed those thoughts. “Keep looking. Tell me more about him, and about your family.”

Wariness sprang into her eyes.

He poured more wine for both of them. “My initial suspicion was that he came to London, found jolly company—perhaps old mates from the army—and simply lost track of time. Before I left for Marston, I made some inquiries designed to unearth him. If those had borne out, he would have likely come home on his own by now.”

“That was weeks ago,” she murmured, still watching him raptly.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Then I thought perhaps it was a matter of money. You mentioned that he hadn’t left much for the family, suggesting he might have gone off to get more.” He spread his hands as if presenting a case. “Thus Prenner and the lithographs seemed a good chance, worth investigating.”

“By searched his office.”

“He wasn’t giving me answers, so I decided to find them myself. That’s what I did in the army. Searching Prenner’s office wasn’t quite the same as gathering intelligence, but it was. . . a tactic I learned.”

She perked up. “Intelligence. Like a spy?”

Alce choked on his wine. “No. Well—perhaps, in a way. In the army I spent a fair bit of time riding about the countryside, asking people if they’d seen any Frenchmen go by.” She gave a surprised laugh, and he grinned. “Often they wouldn’t tell me, and I had to persuade them.”

“With your fists?”

“With my great charm,” he said, and she laughed again. He loved it. Her whole face changed when she laughed.

She gazed at him with amusement and respect. “This is forming a colorful image of you, sir, quite unlike the one you’ve cultivated so far.”

“Colorful!” He affected shock. “What do you mean, madam?”

“Riding around thrashing information out of ordinary people? That hardly fits with a man who was thought—” She blushed scarlet, but didn’t look away. “Never mind. I daresay you guessed at most of my misperceptions anyway. I—I don’t think much of it was true. Except what your sister told me, that you had a knack for achieving the impossible.” She fiddled with her glass. “What you must think of me,” she added in a shaky voice.

He watched her thoughtfully. “Would you like to know?”

Miss Turner straightened with a jerk, then gave a slight nod.

“I think you are the head of your household, even when your father is present,” he went on, his voice low and even. “I think you find it trying, but you shoulder the responsibility because you love your family. I think you are practical. Loyal to those you love, ready to defend them against all harm, wary of outsiders. But you’re not intractable, and will listen to reason.” She sat in taut silence. “I suspect you want to be more trusting, but have been burned by it in the past.”

“Who hasn’t?” she asked with a forced smile.

“I understand.”

She shook her head. Her cheeks were flushed, though he didn’t know if it was from the wine or the conversation. “No, you couldn’t. Papa. . . He loves us, he does, but he doesn’t always know us. When my sister was eighteen, Papa arranged a marriage for her. Mr. Phillips was older, handsome, respectable, and rich—in our eyes, at least. Callie was the most beautiful girl in town, and at first we were delighted when he came to call on her. Papa was especially pleased. I think he saw Mr. Phillips’s wealth and didn’t think beyond having a wealthy son-in-law. The wedding took place almost immediately. But. . . ” Her voice grew hard. “Phillips was a devil. I think he beat my sister, though she would never admit it. She stopped laughing, and she looked ten years older than she was. There was nothing I could do to help her. And when Papa finally came home, he scolded my sister for not preventing Phillips from leaving most of his money to his nephew. He told her she should find a new husband at once, and I⁠—”

She broke off abruptly, her color high and her breath rapid. She and Alec stared at each other.

“You were furious at him,” Alec finally said. There was another piece of the puzzle, not about Turner but about the woman across from him—the puzzle he was finding more intriguing by the day.

She tossed back the rest of her wine defiantly. “Someone’s got to look out for my family. Callie is too gentle, and Granny is too delicate.”