For Your Arms Only

staying anywhere for long, always listening, always watching…But if he took this position, all that might come to something useful. He had a feeling Phipps would be very pleased to have a dead man working for him. That way, if Alec erred too badly, it would be no trouble to get rid of him. Dead men had no rights—and made no protests.
John Stafford, Magistrates Court, Number 4, Bow Street. Alec turned the card over and over in his hand. It went against everything he thought right. Spies were rabble, not gentlemen. Some would view turning spy as an admission of guilt, a continuance of past sins. In other circumstances, Alec would believe the same. But what choice did he have? Peterbury had discovered nothing in almost a year. The documents that proved his guilt might exist, or not, and Alec had no way of knowing. If he didn’t know, he could hardly refute them, and if he couldn’t refute them, his best option was to take this job. If such damning documents existed, Sidmouth would be able to find them. All Alec asked was a chance to see them, to defend himself against them, and this might be the price of that chance.
And if it led to a noose around his neck…he was hardly any worse off.
He slipped the card into his pocket and walked out of the pub.

Chapter 9
July 1820
The invitation to Penford arrived the next morning. Cressida held it a moment, admiring Mrs. Hayes’s elegant script. She still hadn’t decided if she wanted to go, but it was very lovely to be invited.
“What is that?” Callie had heard the servant at the door. She paused on her way through the hall to look. “Oh my.”
“Julia told me about it,” she said, ignoring the curiosity in her sister’s tone.
“We’ve never been invited to such an event at Penford before.”
“Er…no.” She handed the invitation to Callie and picked up her basket. Callie followed her out into the garden.
“What sort of party is it?”
“I think it’s to celebrate the major’s return home.” Cressida bent over the herb garden. She cut some lavender, breathing the soft scent with a sigh of pleasure.
“Oh.” Callie fingered Mrs. Hayes’s note. “We haven’t anything grand enough to wear.”
“Not nearly.”
“And you still don’t like him.”
Cressida concentrated on cutting some sage, laying each velvety sprig carefully in the basket.
“Well, shall we go?” Callie kicked her foot lightly.
“I don’t know.” She cut some mint for Granny’s tea. Perhaps it would settle her digestion. The expensive tonic had made little difference.
“You don’t have long to think about it.”
“I know!” For a moment she considered telling Callie what the major had said yesterday, that they might not really want to find Papa after all, and his advice on horse stealing. They didn’t know anything about that man, and she was not wrong to be cautious, she wasn’t…Except that he had been right, curse him, about everything. She hated it when going against her instinct was the sensible thing to do. “We’ll talk about it later,” she said. “At dinner.”
Callie brought up the Hayes party as soon as they sat down to eat. For once Cressida was relieved Granny had taken to her bed; her grandmother would be so pleased to hear they were invited to the best house in the neighborhood, she would have no choice but to go. More and more Granny seemed to live in her own world where worries about money and proper clothing didn’t intrude. As it was, she and Callie talked the matter over while Tom ate in silence, his head lowered over his plate. But they couldn’t reach a conclusion
“I’m sure it will be a lovely evening,” said Callie wistfully as they cleared the table. “But we’ve really nothing to wear.”
“No.” Cressida felt a mixture of relief and resignation. Relief that she wouldn’t be required to face the major any sooner than three days hence, resignation because…Well, because she hated being poor and shabby and it would have been nice to go to a fine party. But, like much else in life, it couldn’t be helped. She told herself she would send a polite refusal in the morning.
But she still hadn’t written it by midday, when Tom came into the kitchen and handed her a package.
“What is this?” She pulled the string. She hadn’t asked him to purchase anything, not when they didn’t have any money. The package was round and soft, like a cushion, and wrapped in a generous length of linen. Tom didn’t answer, and was halfway to the door by the time she got the string off and unfolded the linen to reveal a bundle of silk the color of spring roses.
“Oh, Tom!” She was almost speechless. The silk spilling out of the linen wrapping was far finer than anything Papa had ever bought them. “What on earth…?”
“You and Mrs. Phillips need nice dresses.”
“But—Tom, wait!” Hand on the doorknob, he stopped and turned back, eyebrows raised. Cressida stroked the silk, unable to repress a sigh at the cool softness of it. Underneath the rose she saw a shimmer of blue-green, like water captured in fabric form. “I can’t pay for this,” she blurted out.
“Do you not like the colors?”
“Yes! No! It’s beyond beautiful, but—”
“’Tis my gift to you both,” he said. “For the party. I wanted you to have enough time to make something nice.”
“Tom…” She shook her head to clear the haze of delight, and carefully folded the linen back around the shimmering fabric. “It’s too much.”
“That’s my decision,” he answered gruffly. “I sold a few of my consuls and had some coins in my pocket when I saw the bolts in the shop, and thought it would become you well. I’ve still got my pension,” he said at her expression. “Don’t worry about me. You told me I’ve been like a brother to you, aye? Can’t a brother give his sister a