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They ate breakfast with Granny, who was still enraptured over Callie's engagement and didn't notice Cressida's distraction. What did Alec want to say to her on this walk? He had already invited her to stay at Penford. He had already told her he couldn’t find Papa and was calling off the search. Perhaps he meant to tell her it was a mistake. . . but he looked so happy when she agreed. When she said she would go with him anywhere. What would he say to her?

To keep her mind from running over it until she drove herself mad, she took Papa’s journal into the warm, bright conservatory. Her speed in translating steadily increased, even as her dismay at the words mounted. There was no doubt now that Papa had been a sly opportunist, at best. He still wrote of the conditions of the army in Spain, but more and more described indiscretions, outrages, even sins. He never used proper names, but referred to people by animal nicknames, like the Scottish officer he called Owl and another man he named Hedgehog. Papa had discovered Owl abusing a Spanish boy, and Hedgehog had been stealing from the payroll funds—a portion of which ended up in Papa's pocket for his silence.

Papa was quite unconcerned about this venality. More than once he wrote of his disgust for their activities, which Cressida shared. But it made her sick to her stomach to read how blithely he received money to keep their sins secret.

Callie came to take tea with her at some point, and asked how she was progressing. Cressida knew her sister asked more out of politeness than because she was truly curious about the journal, but she wouldn't have told Callie anyway. Since her engagement to Tom, Callie was so happy. This news about Papa would only upset her and make her worry. Now Cressida realized how right Tom had been, and when Callie had gone, she even considered putting it aside.

Unfortunately, it had become a splinter in her mind, nagging to be exposed no matter how much pain it caused. She kept at it, but resolved to burn every translated page when she was finished.

It wasn't until she reached the autumn of 1812, though, that she read the worst. The British army had marched through Spain in pursuit of the French army, and Wellington set his sights on Burgos, a fortress in French hands. The army laid siege to the town, but only lost men by the dozen as every attempt at storming it failed. Cressida remembered Alec calling it a complete waste. Now here was her father, laboring to dig trenches that only brought them under the range of French sharpshooters. Papa cursed the general who put them there, and then one night he made a small note.

"Met an interesting man today," he recorded. "Charming fellow from the other side."

Cressida frowned at that. What other side? Surely not the French side. She worked on in deepening alarm. By the time Alec tapped on the door, she felt physically sickened by her father's actions, no matter how long ago. But when she looked up at Alec and saw the warmth of his smile, she managed to smile back.

"I came to claim our walk, but I fear the rain may spoil it," he said, coming in to sit beside her.

"Oh?" She turned to the tall windows. The sky had grown dark, as if evening had fallen early. "I didn’t even notice."

He grinned. "Caught up in ciphering, eh?"

Her smile faded, and she fiddled with the pen before putting it down. "I wish not. It hasn't been very rewarding."

"I shall steal you away from it, then." He took her hand and brought it to his lips. "Perhaps you’ll walk with me in the gallery instead of the outdoors."

"Anywhere," she said with a smile.

He was kissing the inside of her wrist, brushing his lips across the tender skin there. "What has distressed you?" She hesitated, and he glanced at the journal. "Something in there?"

She needed to tell someone. Cressida nodded, holding out the pages she had just translated. "It's dreadful. I don't know what to do about it." Alec gave her a curious look, then released her hand and took the pages.

She knew what he would learn. Her father had somehow met a French officer, and been lured into sharing what he knew of the British army's disposition. Then, in pursuit of additional funds, he had persuaded another soldier, a man of superior rank, to do the same with his greater store of knowledge about Wellington's army.

Alec smoothed the sheets and began to read. As she watched, the thoughtful crease between his eyes vanished. Faster and faster his eyes raced, and his fingers grew clumsy as he turned the page to read to the end. “Are you certain of this translation?” he demanded hoarsely. "Absolutely certain?"

“Y-yes,” she stammered, thrown by his demeanor. She had expected disgust, even anger, but he was as pale as snow. “Why?”

“This was in your father’s journal?”

“Yes,” she said in a small voice. “It’s horrible. I cannot bear to think of it⁠—”

Alec lurched to his feet and strode across the room. The door flew back and hit the wall behind it when he threw it open, making Cressida jump again. Shame suffused her. Her father was an opportunist, a liar, and a traitor—and he had enticed someone else into doing the same.

Her mouth fell open as the obvious conclusion hit her. Dear Lord. She’d been so miserable thinking of her father’s sins, she had completely forgotten about Alec, accused of those very actions.

But her father was in the infantry; Alec was in the cavalry. And he said he never knew Papa at all. She shoved her hands into her hair and gripped her head, trying to physically hold back her thoughts. Alec had never told her exactly how he came to be thought a traitor, and the events Papa wrote of happened almost a decade ago, well before Waterloo. She couldn’t see the connection—but something had sent him storming through the halls.

Cressida jumped up and ran after him. “What is it?” she cried.

He shook his head, striding past her. "Mother?" He raised his voice and called again. A footman rushed up. "Where is Mrs. Hayes?" he demanded. The flustered servant stammered that he did not know. Alec motioned him away impatiently and continued down the corridor, pulling open every door he passed.

“Why are you shouting?”

Alec swung around to face Julia as she stepped out of the music room. “After Waterloo, my baggage was sent home. You told me so.” Julia frowned, but nodded. “Where is it? Did Mother dispose of it?”

“No.” She glanced at Cressida, hovering anxiously behind him. “She refused to look at any of it, and had it all put away.”

“Where, Julia?”