The door slammed shut, and Alec took a quick glance. A bland, doughy little man stood there, a nobody of a fellow whose eyes flickered around the room in a second. Without hesitating he came directly toward the small corner table where Alec slouched.
“Brandon?” It was barely a question, but Alec nodded once. The colorless fellow pulled out the chair across the table and sat down, leaning forward on his elbows. “Phipps here. You know what I’ve come about?”
“Not precisely. Peterbury said you might have something of interest to offer me.”
“Perhaps.”
Alec shrugged. “Perhaps not.”
Mr. Phipps’s mouth pulled into a thin, straight line. “All I can offer is an opportunity. Should you accept, it would be up to you to distinguish yourself.”
“Is it legal?”
Phipps paused, his eyes narrowing.
“Never mind,” muttered Alec. “Go on.”
“It will require a great deal of discretion. Our first concern is success, and with as much honor as possible…but sometimes honor has no place in this business, as we are well-aware.”
“Morality is permitted. How refreshing.”
Phipps sat back. “Do I bore you? I begin to think this wastes my time and yours.”
Alec reined in his temper and forced himself to remember that James Peterbury had thought this a good offer, and that being churlish and impatient was never the way to accomplish anything. Who was he to talk of honor and morality anyway? “No,” he said. “Go on.”
Mr. Phipps tapped his fingers on the table. “Peterbury indicated you had…requirements.”
Alec leaned against the wall, tired of being coy. “What I need, you cannot give.”
“Perhaps not.” Phipps leaned forward. “I cannot give you back your good name, no; but I have it in my power to lend you another’s.”
“Oh?” Alec smiled faintly. “Whose would that be?”
“Lord Sidmouth’s.” The other man’s eyes gleamed as Alec’s face went slack with surprise in spite of himself. The Home Secretary’s name was possibly the last one he expected to hear. Who was this man Phipps? How had Peterbury come across him? And what exactly had Peterbury said about him? “His lordship is most appreciative, when he has cause to be,” Phipps added. “Do well for him, and he’ll do well for you.”
A squirrelly fellow, cagey and secretive, but with powerful connections and willing to take chances—that was how Peterbury had described Phipps. Alec dipped his head, thinking hard. “How well?”
Phipps’s smile was cold and calculated. Mephistopheles must have smiled just so when he struck his infamous bargain with Faust. “Very well.”
Very well. Sidmouth had power, even though he was far from popular among the people. He was a member of the Cabinet, certainly well-placed and well-connected enough to get what Alec wanted—if he chose to do so. “What does he require?”
He listened expressionlessly as the other man outlined what would be required. Disguise. Subterfuge. Lies. A willingness to set aside, or at least overlook, certain laws and morals in pursuit of his objectives. Although neither said the word aloud, Alec was under no illusion about what he was being asked to become. How cruelly ironic that his only chance at restoring his honor was to become wholly dishonorable, that to prove he hadn’t been a spy, he would become one in truth. If he failed, he would lose whatever shred of protest he had that he had never done anything wrong. But if he succeeded…If Phipps really could secure him a reference from the Home Secretary…If Phipps could locate those letters and deliver them into Alec’s hands…He felt strangely distant from the rancid little pub, as if he merely watched and heard the scene instead of being part of it. He could almost feel the specter of Faust at his side, as he contemplated selling his soul to this cold-eyed fellow for an ephemeral chance at regaining his name.
“I’ll consider it,” he said at the end.
“Consider it well.” Phipps leaned back in his seat. “You’d still be serving your King, you know. We’ve need of intelligent, capable men here at home. Having defended England so well overseas, I’m sure you’ll see the necessity of defending her in her own cities.”
Alec ran one hand along the table’s edge, studying the grain of the wood. It was dark and smooth, even the gouges worn to a satiny sheen. Every indignity this table had suffered had been ground down and smoothed over until the casual observer would almost think it crafted that way. “Why would you take a chance on a turncoat?”
“Peterbury says you are not.” Phipps cocked one eyebrow. “Is he wrong?”
“No. But no one else believes it.” And it was telling that Phipps was taking Peterbury’s word for it, against the word of the whole English army, including its immensely popular and politically ambitious hero. “You’d run counter to Wellington’s own opinion on the matter.”
“But I do not come on behalf of Wellington.” He lowered his voice again. “You’ll be paid, of course—”
The mugs of ale rattled as Alec slammed his palm down on the table. “I don’t want money,” he bit out. “I am not a mercenary.”
This seemed to please Phipps. His flat smile spread once more across his face. “Good. The payment will not be much. We prefer to deal in other compensation. Let me know your decision by noon on the morrow.” He got to his feet and dropped a card on the table. “Good eve to you, Mr. Brandon.”
Alec finished his ale before he touched the card. He didn’t know what Peterbury might have told this man about him to make Phipps so confident in his offer, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Could he become a spy? A black smile crossed his face; hadn’t he already done so, changing his name and altering his appearance, moving around from place to place without
