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A tide of hot longing flooded through her. That rough, intimate tone could make her lose her mind. Cressida lurched to her feet. To her surprise, so did Alec, with a suddenness that startled her. But then he began to tilt, and she realized he was going to fall flat on his face. She jumped forward and caught him, arresting his fall with her palms on his chest.

He swayed toward her. “Good catch,” he whispered, and this time she heard the faint slurring of his words. He clasped her shoulders for balance, then paused, and slowly rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “Very good catch,” he murmured again. He drew her closer, until he wrapped both arms around her and rested his cheek against her temple. “Thank you,” he breathed.

Cressida held very still. She could feel his heartbeat under her palms, still spread on his chest, and his breath stirred her hair. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t feel this way about this man, who would walk out of her life as soon as Papa was found. She shouldn’t want to press closer and spend the rest of the night just like this, wrapped in his arms with his fingers idly plucking at her long braid and his lips almost touching her forehead. But slowly her arms slid around him, and she let him hold her until the distant chiming of a clock made her start.

“The bell tolls,” rumbled Alec’s voice. “Again for me.” He pushed himself upright, his hands lingering on her shoulders. “Good night, Cressida.”

The sound of her name made her blush. She could only nod as he stepped back, gave a surprisingly crisp bow, and walked out of the room, not quite in a straight line.

“Good night, Alec,” she whispered.

Chapter Nineteen

That Sunday Alec agreed to accompany the family to church for the first time since his return.

His mother beamed in delight. Julia looked suspicious. Miss Turner gave him a thoughtful look that was enough to bolster his spirits even as he steeled himself.

He’d only seen her at dinner since the night he drank himself stupid after discovering Will’s carved horse. He didn’t remember all of that night, but he remembered her standing right in front of the window, giving him an unforgettable view of the shape of her body, visible in the moonlight through her dressing gown. He remembered pouring wine for her, and talking about Will. He remembered tumbling toward her, and holding her in his arms, and that her hair smelled of chamomile. And he remembered that someone had broken her heart.

Aside from a few brief trips, he had avoided Marston. Today would be the first time many of the townspeople actually saw him, and their reaction was everything he expected. A flurry of whispers swept the church as they entered. He helped his mother into the family pew, where Miss Turner was sitting between her sister and Julia, Marianne and John beyond them. Alec took his seat beside his mother, placing himself between his family and everyone else.

The whispers swelled louder, then rapidly died away. His mother glanced up and clutched his arm just as shuffling footsteps stopped right beside them.

"You," gasped a familiar voice. Alec's stomach knotted but he kept his face expressionless. He’d known this would happen. Slowly he turned and faced his dearest friend's father.

Angus Lucey had grown stooped and lame. His narrow face was more wrinkled and gray, but his pale blue eyes were as alert as ever, and they were fixed on Alec with shock and hatred. "You," he croaked again.

The church was as silent as a grave now. The curate had his head down as if to avoid seeing any sins committed.

Alec met Lucey’s horrified gaze evenly. "Sir."

Lucey's chin quivered. The hand clutching his cane shook, and he wobbled on his feet. The servant behind him reached forward to steady him, but Lucey shook off his hands. "You dare to show your face," he said with venom. “Here in this town!”

"Mr. Lucey," said Alec's mother firmly, "we are in church."

Lucey didn't even look at her. "Traitor," he spat, then turned and shuffled right back out of the church, his man lumbering after him.

Mr. Barton the curate leaped forward as a hiss of whispers erupted. "Let us pray," he said somewhat desperately. With a thunderous clang, the door of the church swung shut.

When the service was over, an eternity later, Alec helped his mother into the carriage. He swung onto his horse, avoiding everyone's eye but John's, to whom he gave a curt nod before heading south, out of town and away from Penford. The moment he cleared the town, Alec urged the horse into a canter and didn't look back.

He rode for a long time. At first the desire to keep heading south, back to London, was almost impossible to fight. Not to hide, but to break into the War Office and search for those damned incriminating letters. What had patience and caution gained him? Nothing Alec could see. When Lucey snarled that last vicious word, Alec felt his mother flinch. She'd sat like a stone throughout the service, and his thoughts had run down very unchristian paths.

When he and Will were lads, Mr. Lucey had blamed most of Will's misbehavior on Alec’s bad influence. More than once, Alec’s own father had summoned him to remind him that he mustn’t encourage Will to disobey his father, even if everyone—Mr. Hayes included—thought Mr. Lucey was too strict by half. Lucey had settled all his hopes and affection—whatever that amounted to for him—on Will, and as Cressida had said, it was crushing to lose someone so beloved. It must seem the worst sort of cruelty to Lucey that his son had died while fighting valiantly for his country, but Alec had survived after apparently betraying it. Of course Lucey hated him. Alec didn’t even blame him.

But he couldn’t forgive the man for insulting his mother in front of all Marston.

When the road crested a rise, he halted the horse. Ahead of him stretched the turnpike into London. In a few hours he could be in town; he could demand an inquiry, even a court-martial. His years as Stafford’s spy had been instructive, and Alec was almost ready to take his chances in the dock. At least it would provide an end to the matter, and if the government must make a case against him, he would finally know exactly what had cast suspicion on him. And if he were found guilty. . . let the hangman have him. Who besides his mother would even miss him at this point?

Cressida Turner, a wicked little voice in his head supplied. Cressida, who held her head high even when everyone whispered about her family. Cressida, who’d had her heart broken but picked herself up and carried on. Cressida, who caught him when he almost fell on his face, and let him hold her while his thoughts ran down dangerous paths.

The horse snorted and tossed his head. Alec realized he was holding the reins too tightly and let them go slack. He took one more look down the road toward London. If he wanted to put his family through a trial, he should have done it five years ago. He turned and started for home.

At Penford he went straight to the library, where his father and then Freddie had long kept the best brandy in the rosewood chiffonier. He poured a generous glass and took a gulp

"There you are," said Julia from the doorway. "Where did you go?”

“For a ride.”