Alec said nothing. It was true that John Stafford and Phipps had known exactly who he was when they hired him as one of their agents; it was true they had pledged to do what they could to help his cause. But sending him home like this could hardly be beneficial. Part of him wondered if it might be a sign that Stafford had become convinced Alec actually was as guilty as he appeared, but he reminded himself that Stafford was far too ruthless to deal with him this way. If Stafford believed him a real traitor, he’d be dead by now, not sent on another assignment. Could Stafford have some evidence that he hadn’t conspired with the French? He must have made some provision to keep Alec from being arrested the moment he was recognized. Was there any way he could know?
Probably not.
“Would you write to my mother?” he asked. “Would you tell her…” He hesitated. It was unfair to ask James to explain his actions. “Would you tell her to expect me?”
“Of course.”
Alec flexed his hands, suffocated by apprehension. Could he do this? What would his family think of him, first for disappearing and then for returning? What had happened in their lives since he became someone else? He had dreamed for so long of going home, but not like this; he had imagined going home an exonerated man, not as a spy in truth. “Thank you. I wouldn’t want the shock to kill her on the spot.”
“I’ll send it tomorrow,” James promised. He eyed Alec somberly. “Is there anything else I can do? You know you only have to ask.”
As if he hadn’t done enough already. James had believed him when he denied committing treason, helped him get out of Belgium right under the nose of the whole British army, given him clothing and money while he recovered from his wounds sustained at Waterloo, and then found him a not-quite-respectable job as a spy for the Home Office. Suddenly Alec felt the burden of that loyalty; if he could never prove his innocence, it would reflect very badly on James.
But James was all he had. Alec liked to think that his other friend from childhood, Will Lacey, would have stood by him as well, but Lacey really had died at Waterloo. Without James, Alec would have been a dead man and he knew it.
“I’ll leave by the end of the week,” he said, rising to his feet and extending his hand. “Thank you for everything.”
James shook his hand. “Promise me one thing.” Alec raised his brows in question. “When you catch the bastard who really did write those letters to the French, tell me. I should like to see him hang.”
“You may depend on it,” Alec vowed.
His friend didn’t smile. “Won’t you stay here until you go? You look a bit haggard.”
“Small wonder,” said Alec wryly. “Don’t all dead men, before they rise again?”
Chapter 1
Penford didn’t appear to have changed much. Three stories of limestone, stately but comfortable, with a pitched roof he had once skidded off on a sled when the snow was particularly deep. The grounds still ranged somewhat wildly about the house, as if the gardener had been let go, but it was all by design; his mother had always favored an almost wilderness air to her grounds, and her children had loved it, spending hours scampering through those woods when they were supposed to be at their studies.
Penford looked almost too much the way he remembered it, as if time had not passed at all. Alec shifted in the saddle, ashamed that he had unconsciously expected to see some sort of decay, some sign that he—and now Frederick—had been missed. Instead it appeared just as it always had, at least from this distance. Perhaps it was comforting that it was more ageless than he was, that it was still a safe and secure home for what remained of his family.
He hoped the next few days wouldn’t shake that security too badly.
Alec gathered the reins and urged the horse forward. He had had a whole week to prepare for this day, which ought to be filled with joy. He’d only been dreaming about it for five long years. Instead he let the horse walk, and tried to quell the sudden urge to turn and go back the other way, back to the inn where he had stayed the previous night or even all the way back to London. He had sent word that he was arriving today, and Peterbury had written them as well. Even without Stafford’s mission to pursue, Alec had no choice but to go forward.
When he reached the curve in the drive, a figure emerged from the house. He shaded his eyes and watched Alec for a few minutes, then strode down the graveled drive to meet him, the tails of his coat flapping behind him in his haste. Alec drew up the horse when they met, and looked into the curious, wary eyes of his cousin John.
For a long moment they just studied each other. John had grown tall and solid, his fair hair cut short and his complexion ruddy from the sun. He was dressed as any country squire might be, the image of a hardworking landowner. He had an honest face, Alec thought, though his expression was pure amazement at the moment.
“Alec? Alexander Hayes?” said John slowly. “Is it really you?”
There was no denying it now, and no going back. He swung down from the saddle. “It is good to see you, John.”
John’s light green eyes moved up and down,
