“You are ready?”
“Yes,” she said hollowly. She couldn’t face Julia. “You are right. He writes of it here. My father put the letters in Alec’s effects to cast the blame for Nob’s treason onto him, and then bl-blackmailed Nob’s family with the truth.”
George Turner had been a blackmailer. Alec had seen that quickly enough in the journal account, and he thought Cressida did, too, even if she didn’t want to say it out loud. He could understand that, and even respect it. There was little to be gained 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, though. Turner had wanted more easy money, and in time he found a means to get it, 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 the 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 the intermediary—collecting his fee along the way, of course. For money, Turner had sold out his fellow Englishmen, endangered his mates and the country they all fought to protect, and lured a decent man into dishonor and treason.
The only thing Alec didn’t know was how the blame had been diverted onto him.
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 revenge, no matter how long plotted or well-earned, was rarely satisfying. It wasn’t revenge he sought; nothing could bring back the years of his life or his lost reputation. It was justice, not just for himself but for everyone else mired in this tragedy.
The house was just as he remembered it. Alec’s eyes went by pure habit to the third window from the left on the upper story, where he used to toss pebbles and other items to 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 stern, strict 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. Lacey’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? It caused a dull pain in his chest that he was here to confront a man about his son’s treason.
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 27
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 crackling with thunder and lightning. 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, Major 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. There was nothing he could do for his men. They 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 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 William Lacey slogging through the storm. He and Will had been boyhood friends, growing up near the same town in Hertfordshire and purchasing commissions at the same time. Lacey was attached to the staff of Sir William
