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Cressida opened her mouth, but realized she didn’t have a good reason. “Can you not, then? Because if you can’t, I shall have to go myself.”

There was an odd humor in Madame’s smile. “This is why I do not like to work with men,” she said. “They are forever being led astray by their hearts or by their—” She stopped and pursed her lips. “Where has he gone?”

“I don’t know, but I think I can work it out.”

“Do. I will be at your room in a few minutes.” She picked up her valise and set it on a chair. “We leave soon. Hurry.”

"Thank you," she said in a rush of relief. "Thank you so much for going to him⁠—”

"You will come with us." Madame was digging through the valise and didn't look at her.

“What?" Cressida exclaimed. "Oh, no. Alec told me to stay here.”

“You know more than I do, and if you stay here I will be blind. Go, and be ready to tell me where he has gone.”

Cressida hoped she was doing the right thing. With a quick nod she hurried back to the conservatory to scoop up the journal and her notes. She went in search of Julia, finally locating her in her chamber, freshly washed from the attics. “I need your help,” she said when Julia opened the door. “It’s about Alec.”

Julia waved her in without a word, her expression sharp with curiosity. Cressida handed her the pages of notes. “This is my father’s journal. He kept it while in the army. It was in a code, of sorts, and I’ve been translating it.”

“Goodness, this is from years ago," exclaimed Julia as she glanced at the first page. "What can it have to do with Alec?”

She smiled nervously. “I'm not entirely certain, but read it all. There’s a man mentioned, an officer. I think Alec recognized him. Something in these notes set him in pursuit of his trunk, and now he’s gone off to do. . . something, and I want to help but first I have to discover who this person is.”

Julia goggled at her. “What?”

“Just read!” Cressida pushed her toward a chair. Julia went, reading as she walked. Cressida pulled out the writing table chair and picked up her pen, taking up the translation where she had left off.

For several minutes they worked in silence. “Do you mean this fellow?” Julia asked, reading aloud, “‘a fair, priggish fellow from Hertfordshire?’”

“Yes, that’s the one. He calls him Little Peacock, or Peacock. Can you guess who he means?” Julia shook her head. Cressida sighed. “He must be someone Alec knows, or knew, and it must be someone who lives within a day's ride, since he left already.” Julia frowned, and they both turned back to their work.

Cressida’s despair deepened as her pen marched across the page. Worse and worse, her father’s behavior became. “A fine sum collected today,” he noted in 1815. “Enemy on the march again, lovely to be back in business with my old friend le lion.” Lion was his name for the French colonel. “Lion especially grateful today, informed him of old Blech’s position,” he wrote a day later.

Cressida swallowed hard; old Blech was Marshal Blücher, head of the Prussian army at Waterloo. She handed the completed page to Julia and reached for another sheet of paper.

And here was mention of the officer again: “Peacock reluctant, even when Lion offered considerable sum. Peacock agreed after proof of his previous actions was displayed. Always wise to keep proof in secure location.” She was skimming now, looking for the codes that represented Peacock or Lion. “Peacock snubbed me this eve, must remind him of mutual obligations. . . Le Lion pressing for more, reward handsomer than ever. . . Saw Peacock with his Castilian. No wonder he’s for sale. . . Le Lion pays in gold now, excellent choice. . . Rebuffed by Little Peacock, pompous arse. Had to show him letters retrieved from le Lion to ensure cooperation. . . ”

“Cressida.” Julia was looking at her with fright in her eyes. “This—this is by your father?”

“Yes.” The word almost lodged in her throat.

“But it’s—it’s dreadful, what he says.” Julia held up the pages, her hands stained by the ink Cressida hadn’t taken the time to blot fully dry. “This is—this is⁠—”

She stretched her cramped fingers. “I know. I can’t believe Papa⁠—”

“No.” Julia shook her head. She ran across the room and put the paper in front of Cressida, poking it with her finger. “This—this is what the army accused Alec of! This exactly, writing to a French officer and selling secrets. Here, it talks of letters retrieved from le Lion—letters from a Frenchman were found in Alec’s things, clearly implicating him in a correspondence with the man for money. My mother begged and begged for more information when the army said he had turned traitor, because she couldn’t believe it was possible, and finally some colonel spelled it out for her. I read his letter. This agrees with every particular of his account!”

“Are you saying Alec is the officer my father dealt with?” Cressida felt sick and disoriented. “But no—that can’t be. . . ”

Julia snorted. “It’s not Alec. No one would ever describe him as priggish, especially not then."

She pressed her hands to her temples. "Then who?"

"Let me see more." Now Julia was as fevered as Cressida. She read rapidly through the next page, then another, until her face sagged in shock. "Good heavens."

"What?"

Julia touched the page. "Castilian. Will Lucey married a Spanish girl while they were in Spain. It caused quite a furor in town because Priscilla Darrowby had set her cap for him before the war, and everyone knew old Mr. Lucey was furious about it.”