For Your Arms Only

hung his head. “He died months ago, and no one told me.” There was nothing he could have done, but he still should have been told. He rubbed one hand across his eyes, feeling the raw sting of grief in his throat. “Damn it. I should have been told.”
James took the other chair by the fire. “My mother wrote that it was a lingering illness contracted in the winter. No one thought it was terribly serious, but he just grew worse and worse. You know Frederick never was very strong.” The Peterburys no longer lived only a few miles from Alec’s family, but James’s mother and Alec’s mother were still fast friends and wrote each other often.
Alec nodded, swallowing his emotions. He hadn’t thought of his older brother in some time, but James was right. Frederick might not have been as vigorous as Alec, but he had always been wiser, more dependable, and most importantly, always there. Alec had never expected Frederick to die. “And the rest of my family?”
“Your mother and sister are well, as are Frederick’s widow and children.” James cleared his throat. “I understand a cousin has stepped in to manage the estate. I suppose he thinks he’s inherited everything now.”
He knew what James was thinking. That cousin hadn’t inherited anything, because Alec was still alive. But only a handful of people knew that. To most of the world, Alexander Brandon Hayes had died a traitor to his country during the battle of Waterloo, his body ignominiously dumped into an anonymous grave. He had sworn he wouldn’t return home without proving himself innocent, but neither he nor James had been able to do it. For five years James had made every effort to locate the letters from a French colonel, found in Alec’s personal belongings after Waterloo, that branded him a traitor. But with Alec presumed dead—and unwilling to risk prosecution if discovered otherwise—James had had to tread with extreme caution, and had been utterly unsuccessful. Alec had become a spy, hoping his service to the Home Office would win him a reprieve, and instead he was being sent home, unmasked and still shrouded in disgrace.
But Frederick was dead and Alec was the head of the family. James would argue that that duty outweighed all others. Perhaps it did, for the sake of his mother, his sister, his brother’s widow and children.
“I’m returning to Marston,” Alec muttered.
His friend’s face shone with fierce satisfaction. “I knew you would. It’s time, you know, and I’ve been thinking about your situation. Wellington is Master of the Ordnance now and has politics more on his mind than old battles. If we could secure an interview with him, and perhaps have your present employer put in a word—”
“Wellington, who said he would have shot me himself if the French hadn’t been good enough to do it first?” Alec shook his head. “I’m not going to Wellington without proof.”
James fell silent. Both of them knew it was highly unlikely any proof of Alec’s innocence would surface now. “It’s still the right thing to do,” he insisted. “Going home, that is.”
Alec sighed. He held out the crumpled note from Phipps. “I haven’t got a choice.”
His friend took the note and read. Stafford was sending him home to Marston, not out of any tender compassion for Frederick’s death, but to find a missing man. Sergeant George Turner had gone to see Colonel Lord Hastings, a Deputy Commissary General for the army, in London and never come home to Marston. He’d been gone for almost four months now, and his daughters had appealed to Hastings, who had asked Stafford to look into it. Just another spy’s task on the surface, and a routine one at that. Only a terse line at the end—I regret to inform you of the death of Frederick Hayes this past spring—gave any indication Stafford was aware of the ramifications of sending Alec to that particular town, where he would be known and reviled by all.
“Bloody cold of him,” remarked James. “Who is this Sergeant Turner he wants you to find?”
“I’ve no idea.” As usual, Stafford gave very little information. He often sent Alec out almost blind, expecting him to quickly find his way and report back how things stood so Stafford could assign other agents most effectively. Alec was used to that; he had done much the same thing when he was in the army, helping guide Wellington’s army around the countryside of Spain and Portugal. In this case, though, Alec thought he might have earned the courtesy of more explanation.
“What’s Turner done, I wonder?” James murmured. “Hastings is a proud man. I can’t see him taking up for a lowly sergeant.”
He had wondered about that, too, but Stafford wasn’t above doing favors for people with influence, and Hastings was certainly in a position to command Stafford’s notice. By far Alec’s greater interest was in why Stafford had chosen him for this job. There was no question of masquerading as an old army mate of the missing sergeant or a clerk from the Chelsea pensioner board, not when everyone in Marston would recognize his face and know his name. He would have to return as himself, and that would complicate things on many, many levels.
“It doesn’t matter what he’s done, or who he really is. Hastings wants him found for some reason, and that’s enough for Stafford. I wouldn’t think anything of it if Turner hadn’t gone missing from my own village.” Alec took the letter back. “Stafford should have the spine to explain that part at least.”
“Do—Do you plan to refuse? I believe you should go, but perhaps not like this…”
He shrugged. James meant he shouldn’t go home as Stafford’s spy, and with good reason. “What choice have I got? Who else would take a chance on me like he’s done?”
“Perhaps this means he’s discovered something.” His friend sat up straighter. “It would be like that old parsnip to keep it to himself and squeeze a few more months of