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"And then that villain came and said he would sell me the last of them, save one," Lucey went on, his voice heating with fury again. "He said he intended to move to London, and I suppose defraud other men more prosperously situated. If he had offered every page I would have paid him and been done with it, burned it all and gone to my grave with the shame. That last page, though, he meant to hold forever, no doubt to bleed me even more when he had run through the money. He was a leech, a conniving, amoral excuse for a man, and I am not sorry he’s dead, no matter what it costs me.”

“What did you do to him?”

“Morris took him away,” Lucey muttered. “I don’t know where, nor do I care.” With trembling hands he unfolded the letter and began to read.

Alec watched the lines of his face grow deeper. Will’s last letter was terrible. He wrote of how he had married in a reckless burst of passion and love, how devastating his father’s disapproval had been, how desperate his finances had grown. How he had been seduced into giving information to the French, and the relief he felt when he believed he’d got away with it after Bonaparte was sent into exile the first time, only to realize he had compromised himself too far when the Emperor returned and marched on Belgium. And most heartbreaking of all, he wrote of his belief that the only honorable course for him was death on the field of battle, repaying the blood he had cost England with his own.

Alec felt the crushing weight of his own grief for Will all over again, and at the same time a great emptiness where he had expected to feel vindication. The driving need for proof had nursed him through many a lonely and bitter night, when he had imagined the triumph and the release of clearing his name. He had imagined confronting the true traitor, the one whose sins had been laid at his feet, and never dreamed it would be his dearest friend in the world. He finally had answers, but there was no joy in them.

“His wife and child,” Alec said as Lucey seemed to shrink before his eyes. “Do you know where they are?”

Lucey bowed his head and closed his eyes. He gave a tiny shake of his head.

Alec let out his breath. What ought he to do now? His first instinct was to let Stafford deal with it. Whatever punishment Lucey deserved, Stafford would be better equipped to impose it—unless, perhaps, Stafford was well-pleased to hear Turner was dead. He suspected Colonel Pickering would be, and Stafford had only sent him at Pickering’s behest. Stafford and Pickering might thank Lucey rather than arrest him.

A shriek outside the room interrupted his thoughts. Alec spun around, flexing his hands and automatically sinking into a crouch, ready to defend himself even as he wondered who the bloody hell would be screaming. It was a woman’s scream, and he didn’t think Lucey had any maids, just a footman and butler besides the all-purpose Morris. . .

The door opened and Morris stumped in, dragging a struggling female form in his arms. Alec’s heart seized even before he saw her face.

“Morris,” cried Lucey in astonishment. “What the devil?”

“She was lurking by the road,” the servant said. He had one arm around Cressida, his hand wrapped around her throat, but his other hand held Alec’s attention. The man had a pistol. “One of them Turners.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Lucey’s incredulity turned to disgust as he glared at Alec. “What do you mean by bringing her here?”

“I didn’t.” Alec kept his voice low and even, his gaze never leaving Cressida. She had agreed to stay behind. He couldn’t believe she would follow him, yet here she was. Bloody hell.

“I don’t approve of killing women, Morris,” Lucey snapped. “Not even that one.” The sight of Cressida—a Turner—had revived the old man’s bilious spirit.

“Let her go,” said Alec. “She had no part in any of this, and knew nothing of it.” Cressida was watching him with wide, frightened eyes, but no panic. He felt an absurd spark of admiration, that she could be dragged about by her neck with a gun to her ribs, and yet not dissolve in terror. Of course, it would have been even better had she kept her promise and remained safely at Penford. Bloody, bloody hell.

“It appears she’s a lying, sneaking thief like her father.”

“Let her go,” Alec repeated, ignoring Lucey’s snide comment. “For your own sake, Morris.”

Morris grunted. He shifted Cressida’s weight to the side, as if tucking her under his arm. Her feet swung helplessly, like a doll's. Morris moved the pistol muzzle to her ribs, right at the level of her heart. “You want to take her place?”

“Lucey,” said Alec in warning.

The old man glowered. “Get her out of here, Morris. I never want to see another Turner on my property.”

The servant grinned. “I’ll put her with the other one.”

“Where is that?” Cressida squeaked. She had begun struggling again at Lucey’s words, twisting against Morris’s thick arm.

Morris’s grin grew wider. “Buried behind the privy, miss, right where he belonged.” He jerked his chin at Alec. “You come along, too. It's not good to call on a man and make threats.”

"Lucey," said Alec again, more loudly. A faint buzzing filled his ears.

“Morris!”

“It's my duty to Master William, sir,” replied his servant, ducking his head. “I owes him this, too. Never you mind, sir.”

“Let her go, and I’ll come with you instead," Alec said. Morris was a thug, big and brutal, but Alec had learned more than a few tricks as a spy. The first lesson was to abandon honor at the start, and never mind a fair fight. Morris’s pistol was a single shot. All Alec had to do was make sure that shot didn’t go into Cressida or himself.

Morris laughed. “Eh, no. Got you both, don't we? Led the young master into trouble for many years, you did. Got him killed, too, most like. No friends of the family here tonight.”