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He took a deep breath. James was younger than he, but no green boy. He was a staff officer, albeit a junior one, and he’d always had a knack for talking people into seeing things his way. And now, he was the only friend Alec had. He clasped James’s hand. “Thank you.”

“Well, there’s something,” James said with a short chuckle. “The hard-charging Major Hayes has accepted my advice and aid!”

Alec held up one hand. He supposed this possibility had been fermenting at the back of his mind all along, that he would need a second plan of action if the allegations couldn’t be easily dismissed, because now there was no hesitation when he spoke. “Not Hayes. Call me Brandon.” His mother’s family name. “Alexander Hayes is dead.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

1820

Penford

* * *

Alec was mildly astonished by how peaceful he felt after telling Cressida. He had dreaded anyone knowing, especially her; no matter who employed him, no matter what he hoped to achieve in return, Alec couldn't shake the thought that a spy was a spy, abhorrent to all.

But Cressida didn't. A spy's talents had come to her aid, and then she looked past them to see him. That went deeper to his heart than anything had in years. He might never be able to prove his innocence, but she didn't ask him to.

He explained to Mrs. Phillips what he had told Cressida, that he could find no trace of her father. Mrs. Phillips's new fiancé, Tom Webb, hovered unsmiling and protective in the background as he spoke, but Alec set the thought aside. He saw how Webb looked at Mrs. Phillips, and remembered what Cressida had told him. Webb had a powerful motive to want Turner to vanish, but even had Alec had evidence or proof of that, he wasn't sure bringing it to light would benefit anyone. In fact, as the newly engaged couple made plans for their wedding and removal to Portsmouth, there seemed to be a quiet acceptance that George Turner was gone forever.

His cousin John was also preparing to leave. Alec might never feel fully comfortable with his estate responsibilities, but as he rode with John, the mantle managed to drift down onto his shoulders more lightly than expected. He began to feel the affection for Penford that his father and Freddie had had creep into his soul. And after roaming the land—his land—it felt natural to return to the house. To his family.

To Cressida. To the realization that the rolling hills of Penford might not be the only thing he was coming to love.

For the first time, Alec could envision a life here. He had a duty to Penford and to his family, but most of his visions came to involve Cressida Turner. When he first met her, Alec had thought her striking, if not beautiful. Now he found it hard to take his eyes off her, especially when she wrinkled up her nose to laugh at something her sister said, or sucked on her lower lip as she concentrated, or just turned her face up to the sun, eyes closed in pleasure.

He wanted more than a kiss from her. He wanted to see her with her hair down in the moonlight again. He wanted to hold her close and feel her press against him. He wanted her eyes to glow when he touched her. He wanted her—and when he sent off his final report to John Stafford, that there was no trace to be found of the missing man, he began thinking how he could pursue her.

But of course nothing was ever that easy. A smart phaeton turned into the drive a few days later, raising a cloud of dust from the dry road in its wake. He watched for a moment before realizing the woman in the carriage was Angelique Martand, another of Stafford's agents.

He crossed the gravel to meet her as the carriage drew up to the house. “Angelique,” he said, helping her down. “Ian.” The driver, also Stafford's man, tipped his hat and winked. “What brings you into Hertfordshire?”

Ian Wallace laughed. "The fine weather," he said in his broad Scots accent. "Doesn't everyone flee the city when it's hot?"

Alec smiled, but kept his eyes on Angelique. He had never really got on well with Ian, a tall, broad fellow with lusty appetites and a booming laugh, both of which tended to attract too many women and too much trouble. He also had a deft touch with horses and was absolutely deadly in a fight, traits that made him valuable to Stafford's schemes despite the women and trouble. "I'm not sure you've come to the right place," he said. "It's bloody hot here, too."

Ian laughed again before snapping the reins and driving on where a stable boy was waving to him. Alec turned back to Angelique.

She smiled, showing her dimples. “We have come to see how you get on in the fresh, hot, country air. Major Hayes, yes? I shall have to remember not to call you Brandon.”

Alec frowned. “Stop.”

“I do not mean to tease you.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “We have come to see how you progress with Stafford’s business.”

His eyes swept over the grounds, the limestone house, the well-kept lawns, the neat gravel drive. It felt wrong to discuss Stafford and his sordid doings here in his home. “I wrote to him. It’s a hopeless case.”

“Yes, I believe that is what startled him. He does not like to hear that.”

That was what Alec was afraid of.

“Are you in need of help?” she prodded when he said nothing.

“No.”

Angelique arched an eyebrow. “Either you make progress, or you require help. It is not like you to muddle along.”

He thought about what to tell her; what did he want Stafford to know? Nothing much, he admitted. But Angelique was no fool, which he knew, having worked with her before. She would give good advice. The urge to talk through the problem with someone else was extremely tempting, especially now that she was here and he had to tell her something.

“What did Stafford tell you about my assignment?” he asked abruptly.