For Your Arms Only by Caroline Linden

and cities, all at loose ends now that their training was no longer needed. Alec felt their despair and anger and helplessness, both as one of them and as a gentleman who, in the normal scheme of things, might have made a small difference. He had promised to look after Will Lacey’s widow and child, but could not. He might have offered work on his family estate to some of his men, but could not return home. He couldn’t even contribute to the Compassionate Fund for widows and orphans, because he had no money. It had been a year of infuriating frustration.
    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