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They stared at each other. "And Will might have given Alec that letter from his trunk,” Cressida said slowly, thinking of Alec’s stricken expression in the attics. "Because they were such friends."

Julia nodded. "He died at Waterloo, a great hero. Mr. Lucey received a letter from Wellington himself. But this. . . " She shook the translated pages. "This is Will Lucey, I’m sure of it. He was fair and could be priggish—or rather, he could seem so, even though he was just as much a devil as Alec. But. . . What if. . . Is it possible someone mistook Alec for Will?”

"You said the papers were found in Alec's things."

Julia, Alec's sister, looked at her with dawning alarm. "Could—could someone have. . . ?"

Cressida knew by now he might have, but she didn’t see how. Even if Papa had lured Will Lucey into writing to a French colonel, how had the papers got into Alec’s belongings? Everything is chaos after a battle, echoed Alec's words in her memory. The relief that Papa's journal exonerated Alec was eclipsed by the confirmation that Papa had been responsible for the acts Alec was accused of—that Papa had been the real traitor.

She steeled herself and picked up the journal. The code had become almost as clear as English now, and she didn't even have to write it down to know what it said. She was still turning pages when a knock sounded on the door, and Madame Wallace opened it.

“You are ready?”

“Yes,” she said hollowly. She couldn't face Julia. “My father enticed Will Lucey into treason and has been bl-blackmailing his father with the truth. And Alec somehow was blamed for it.”

* * *

His hunch about George Turner being a blackmailer was correct. Alec had realized the journal was proof of it, and he thought Cressida had, too, even if she didn’t want to say it aloud. Ordinarily he would have also left it unsaid. There was little to gain by exposing a man now, when he might well be dead but was most certainly gone, particularly when it was someone she loved so dearly and the sins had occurred so long ago.

But Turner had also been a traitor, selling information to the enemy. A common sergeant couldn’t know much of interest to the French army, so Turner found a means of getting more valuable intelligence, in the form of a British officer in dire financial straits. Alec’s heart burned with fury as he remembered Turner’s account of coaxing that officer to relate intelligence, trifling items at first, then more and more important until finally the officer was writing directly to a French colonel, with Turner as intermediary—collecting his fee along the way, of course. Turner had sold out his fellow soldiers and the country they all fought for, by luring a decent man into dishonor and treason.

And Alec finally knew how letters from a French colonel had come to be in his own writing case. He’d put them there himself.

He knew the road to The Grange well. As a boy he had traveled this path often, and even after all these years he could still do it in the dark. Cracks of lightning split the sky with increasing frequency, but the booming rolls of thunder were far-off rumbles. The stiff breeze stung his face, and Alec welcomed it. It went some small way toward cooling his temper, reminding him that it wasn’t revenge he wanted; nothing could bring back the years of his life or his lost reputation, to say nothing of Will. It was justice he sought, not just for himself but for everyone else mired in this tragedy.

The house was as he remembered it. Alec’s eyes went by pure habit to the third window from the left on the upper floor, where he used to toss pebbles to signal Will. What rapscallions they had been, sneaking off to swim in the river or to run through the woods at night after long days indoors at lessons. Will had been his brother in spirit if not in flesh, his thirst for adventure matching Alec’s own. Will was just as adept as Alec at finding trouble, despite looking so solemn and innocent that many people thought Alec was the one responsible for leading Will astray. As soon as they were old enough, the two of them had bought commissions in the army, determined to see the world and escape their fathers at the same time.

Alec’s father had been relieved to see him committed to something respectable, but Will’s father mightily disapproved of the whole enterprise, and let his son and heir know it. Alec could still see the somber farewell between Will and his father before they rode off to join their regiments. He had seen the tears spring into Mr. Lucey’s eyes when Will turned away to mount his horse, just as he had seen the scars the old man inflicted on Will’s back over the years.

He tied his horse to the paddock fence and walked up to the back door of the house, memories flooding him. How many times had he come this way, full of anticipation to see his friend? Never once had he envisioned coming here for this reason, and it caused a dull pain in his chest.

Alec straightened his shoulders. The dagger under his coat pressed against his ribs. He thought of Cressida, clinging to him with all her strength and begging him to stay, and her last whispered declaration of love. Then he opened the door and let himself in.

Chapter Thirty-Two

17 June 1815

Near the village of Waterloo

Belgium

* * *

Those who had fought with the Duke of Wellington in the Peninsula campaign claimed that great victories were often preceded by great storms. In Wellington’s army, drenched and chilled to the bone by the rain that had started up the previous afternoon and proceeded to turn the Belgian hills and fields into oceans of mud, some were reassuring themselves that this storm was a sign of good fortune for His Grace. That might be true, and perhaps it did foretell another great triumph on the morrow, but at the moment, Alec Hayes would rather have been warm and dry.

He forged through the ankle-deep mud toward the squat little house where he was billeted for the night. His men were managing as best they could, huddling under blankets thrown over their saddles and clinging to the stirrup leathers to stay upright and avoid being trampled. Cavalry always bore bad weather even harder than the infantry. Alec had gone among them, doing his best to raise spirits and morale, making certain they got their rations of grain and gin, but now he had to get some rest himself. The morning promised the exhilaration and madness of battle, when he would need a calm, collected mind more than ever.

“Hayes! Hallo there, Major!”

He stopped and turned, swiping rain from his face and grinning as he saw his old friend William Lucey slogging through the storm. Lucey was attached to the staff of Sir William Ponsonby, the brigade commander, and Alec hadn’t seen him since the Duchess of Richmond’s ball just before the French crossed the border.

“Lovely evening,” he called back. “Care to stop in and have a drink?”

“If you’ve got anything, I’d drink it.” Lucey looked exhausted, his face drawn and gray. “The stronger the better.”

Alec pushed open the door of the farmhouse, but it was crowded. A group of junior officers were clustered around the fire, where a pot steamed. He grimaced; whatever was in the kettle didn’t smell appetizing in the least, not even to a man who hadn’t had a decent meal all day. Combined with the smell of wet wool and too many people, the air in the house was thick and sour. Alec picked up an umbrella someone had left near the door and ducked back outside. He opened it, and Will stepped under it beside him to share the last of the brandy in his flask.

For a while they just watched the rain. When the brandy was gone, Will rummaged in his pockets and found some tobacco. Alec went into the house and got an ember, and they settled in for a smoke to warm themselves.