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“You will be fine.” Madame patted Cressida’s arm. “Wait here. Come no closer. We shall see to Alec.”

Cressida nodded, and the two of them spoke a moment before heading off toward the house. Within seconds they had melted into the shadows, and even the next flash of lightning didn’t reveal a trace of them.

The wind howled, and a shower of acorns fell from a nearby oak tree, bouncing off the carriage roof with dull little pops. The horses tried to rear up in alarm, nearly pulling Cressida off her feet. If she didn’t tie them up, they could take off and drag her along with them, or leave her behind entirely. She managed to urge them onward, to the bend in the road Mr. Wallace had pointed out, and tied the reins to a sturdy branch.

But she couldn’t see the house from here. Anxiously she paced along the road, finally slipping through the trees to peer into the darkness again. The lightning, when it came, was now almost as bright as day, but she couldn’t see a sign of anyone—not Madame Wallace, nor Mr. Wallace, nor Alec.

What was happening? Even though she’d told Madame she ought to have stayed at Penford, she was practically shaking with the desire to see better, to know what was going on inside the house. Was Julia mistaken? Perhaps the journal hadn’t referred to Will Lucey at all. If they’d come to the wrong house. . . She laughed in despair. Madame and Mr. Wallace would be breaking into the wrong house, Alec would be off somewhere completely on his own, and she would be standing here in a thunderstorm with two terrified horses, biting her fingernails to the quick worrying about all of them.

She couldn’t even comprehend her father’s actions. It was there in his own hand, baldly spelling out how he had persuaded Peacock into treason and profited from it, then again from Peacock’s death. She thought of all the times Papa had gone off and come home flush with cash—blood money, most likely.

Perhaps that was why he went to see Colonel Pickering. He’d never given them a good explanation of how he knew a colonel. Bitterly Cressida wondered what secrets the colonel might have, and if Papa had held something over him, too.

The wind whipped through the trees where she stood, making the branches creak and moan as they swayed. It was a mourning sound, wrenching and sorrowful, and tears leaked from her eyes as she acknowledged that her beloved Papa, with his booming laugh and affectionate embraces and the way he always made them smile, had been worse than a scoundrel. He had lived on money wrung from other people’s guilt and shame. She had suspected for a while that he was dead, but for the first time, Cressida thought it would be a blessing if they never knew, if Papa just disappeared and was never heard from again.

The wind was rising. The interminable heat hadn’t abated when they left Penford, but she had snatched up a cloak out of habit. It was still in the carriage, and as the wind changed and became noticeably cooler, she shivered. No rain had fallen yet, but the air was thick with it. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, and turned to go back to the carriage. She should check on the horses, and the cloak would feel good. There was nothing to be seen in the darkness anyway. With any luck, Madame Wallace and Mr. Wallace would return soon, with Alec in tow, and they could go home.

She made it three steps.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Angus Lucey was in his study, dozing in a chair by the fireplace. For a moment Alec stayed in the shadows, noting how much the man had aged. The hand that lay on the book in his lap was gnarled and crooked, veins standing in blue lines across the back. His head drooped to one side as he slept, and for a moment he looked almost dead.

Alec stepped into the room. He had already made sure Morris wasn't about, and the footman and butler were securely locked in the butler's pantry. Alec didn't want to hurt anyone any more than he wanted to be interrupted.

At his footstep, Lucey started awake. "Eh? Morris, close the window," he muttered, then jerked as he saw Alec. For a moment they regarded each other in silence.

“How dare you,” growled Mr. Lucey. He struggled to his feet and gripped his cane. “Get off my property at once. I have nothing to say to a traitor and a liar.”

Alec stood his ground. “I, however, have something to say to you.”

The old man’s lips curled in a sneer. “Nothing you say can interest me. Get out.” He started toward the door.

“No, this time you won’t walk out on me. I haven’t come for my sake.”

Lucey glared at him with hatred in his eyes. . . and fear. Alec saw the apprehensive loathing and it struck not fury, but pity, in his chest. Mr. Lucey knew why he had come. He didn’t want to hear, not because of his revulsion for Alec, but because he knew Alec had come to confront him with his own sins.

“I don’t care whose behalf you’ve come upon,” Lucey said. “Say your piece and remove yourself from my sight. If I were a younger man, I’d thrash you for coming here.”

He smiled grimly. “No doubt. I think you’ll find my explanation an interesting tale. Sit down.”

Lucey’s face turned red, but he was swaying on his feet. He sank back into his chair.

“I came back to Marston to inquire into the disappearance of Sergeant George Turner.” The other man’s flinch was small, but Alec saw it. “Sergeant Turner was, to all appearances, a man of modest means with a few army connections and boundless ambition. From what I can gather, he traded on every favor he’d ever done anyone, and his considerable personal charm, to move up in the world. He took a house near Marston and set up there with his family as a comfortable man of means and expectations. No one seemed to know much what those means and expectations were, but he paid his bills and behaved with propriety.”

“This is hardly interesting,” Lucey said, his voice freezing with contempt. A vein pulsed at his temple. “I didn’t know the man.”

“And then one day he simply disappeared," Alec went on. "He went to London for an interview with an army superior about a post he wished to be appointed to, and then vanished. No word to his family, no letter, not even funds sent on to pay the accounts due a fortnight after he left.” Alec paused, but Lucey’s expression was stony. “Eventually his family grew worried enough to inquire of the man he was to meet in London and ask for help finding him. And so I was sent back to Marston—rather reluctantly, might I add."

“As well you should have been, bringing your shame back on your family! The shock of it might have killed your poor mother—it did your father,” Lucey added venomously.

Alec bowed his head. “Yes. My shame, as you call it, was terribly hard on my family. But that leads me to another story I would like to tell you.”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Lucey lurched back to his feet and circled the chair. Alec moved with him, always keeping between Lucey and the door, like a hunter monitoring his prey.

“I think you do. It begins several years ago and far away, in Spain. When Will fell in love with a Spanish lady.”

Lucey’s eye began twitching. “Do not speak of my son.” His voice was the low growl of a cornered animal.