Page 60

July 1815

Forest of the Soignes

Belgium

* * *

It took several days for Alec to recover from his trip into Brussels. James Peterbury hired a cart to drive him back to the farm and left with a promise to come back as soon as he learned anything. He seemed to be reserving judgment, at least for the moment, and was still willing to help. It was small comfort, but better than none.

Alec’s wound had reopened, and Widow Gustave shook her head over him, muttering unintelligibly as she covered his chest with salve and wrapped him up tighter than before. He was sure the widow was ready for him to be gone as much as he was ready to go, but now there was nowhere for him to go. Instead of being on his way back to England, or even lodged in Brussels to recuperate, he couldn’t leave the forest for fear of being recognized by the wrong person—namely, anyone but Peterbury.

He had little to do except ruminate on the accusation. All James had mentioned in the way of proof were some papers, allegedly found in Alec’s baggage after the battle. Either it was all a terrible mistake and would be sorted out as soon as someone read those papers and realized they weren’t his, or someone had put them in his things with intent. His thoughts ran dark and murderous as he contemplated who could have planted them there, and why. It was the only explanation he could see, and it would be easy enough to do in the upheaval after the battle.

He knew he was known as a bit of a hell-raiser in the Dragoons, with a fearlessness in battle that endeared him to his men and impressed his superiors. But the army had its own hierarchy, and no shortage of vanity or short tempers. The path to advancement was paved with the good opinion of commanding officers, and even then a man could not be promoted until an opening appeared in the ranks above him. Alec didn’t think any of his junior officers would go so far to secure a majority, but as the days marched on and James didn’t return, he began to wonder.

Finally, James came, a week later. Alec was stacking wood a neighboring farmer had split for the widow in return for her spinning his wool. It was hard work, but Alec was determined to make himself well. The French saber had slid up his ribs before catching on his collarbone. The muscles burned every time he raised his arm, but he forced himself to lift another log, and another. He refused to be left an invalid by this. But when he heard the horse approaching, he stopped stacking logs with as much relief for the respite as he had hope for the tidings.

Peterbury tied his horse to a tree, taking just long enough that Alec knew the news was bad. He turned away, ducking his head to wipe the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. Good God. He’d believed James would find the mistake, easily discovered and promptly believed. If not—if it couldn’t be proven, or worse, was simply not believed—what would he do?

Footsteps sounded behind him. “How goes it?” he asked without turning.

There was a pause. “Not as well as we hoped, I’m afraid.”

Alec nodded and said nothing.

“The papers. . . ” James paused again, as if picking each word carefully. “They are apparently quite an extensive correspondence with a French colonel, over some years’ time.”

“Is there anything at all to identify the recipient?”

“I don't know,” came James’s low answer. “I didn’t read them.” Alec jerked around, incredulous. James held up his hands. “I tried—repeatedly. It took a devilishly long time to find someone who had actually seen the letters himself, and even longer to get anything but vitriol from him. Everyone thinks it doesn’t matter now, as you’re. . . dead.” He grimaced. “That’s the good news. Since everyone believes you dead, no one is looking for you or making a great fuss over charges. There are whispers, but nothing more. The victory has crowded out most other talk.”

“That's the good news,” Alec repeated. He lowered himself onto the woodpile. “At least there’s some.”

James looked at the ground. “It’s more valuable than you think.”

“Believe me, I know.” Alec ran one hand over his face. “You said Will Lucey is dead.” He’d hardly been able to think of his friend lying cold and broken on the field, never again to flash his wry grin over a commanding officer’s tantrum or quietly lend a hand to a wounded soldier. Alec’s heart twisted with grief for the loss, not just to himself but to Will’s family, his proud, strict father and his newly widowed wife, who had been carrying a child who would never know his father.

James sat on the woodpile beside him. “Ponsonby sent him to direct a squadron of dragoons to charge, and just as he was relaying the order, an artillery shell made a direct hit on the commander, cleaving him in two. They say Lucey seized the sword from the commander’s hand and led the charge himself, into deadly French fire. The fighting was fierce, but he pushed onward, and captured the enemy’s colors before being cut down.”

A true hero’s death. Alec bowed his head. “His wife? She was in Brussels.”

“I don’t know. There are many widows in Brussels.”

He shoved himself to his feet. “Find her, if she's still there. Do all that you can for her. I gave Lucey my word I would see to her security, but⁠—”

Peterbury understood. He jumped up and saluted crisply. “I will, sir.” Then he blinked and looked uncertain. “What will you do?”

Alec glanced around the little clearing about the house. Widow Gustave was ready for him to leave, and he’d go mad if he stayed much longer. “Leave.”

“Where will you go?”

That was a damned good question. Where, indeed? He stared at his hands, flexing his fingers until his knuckles strained white. “I will disprove this,” he said instead of answering James. “I will.” His hands curled into fists. “Somehow.”

After a moment James extended his hand, palm open. “I know. You will always have my help.”

Alec smiled bitterly. “You don’t need to promise me anything. Aiding a traitor isn’t in your best interest.”

“I’m not aiding a traitor. I’m aiding a friend in need.” His hand didn’t waver. “I pledge my help whether you shake my hand or not. I’ll find those letters and track down the true author, and expose that man as both a traitor and a liar. No one is served by the wrong man being punished. It makes a fool of the entire army.”