For Your Arms Only by Caroline Linden Page A

had never done anything wrong. But if he succeeded…If Phipps really could secure him a reference from the Home Secretary…If Phipps could locate those letters and deliver them into Alec’s hands…He felt strangely distant from the rancid little pub, as if he merely watched and heard the scene instead of being part of it. He could almost feel the specter of Faust at his side, as he contemplated selling his soul to this cold-eyed fellow for an ephemeral chance at regaining his name.
    “I’ll consider it,” he said at the end.
    “Consider it well.” Phipps leaned back in his seat. “You’d still be serving your King, you know. We’ve need of intelligent, capable men here at home. Having defended England so well overseas, I’m sure you’ll see the necessity of defending her in her own cities.”
    Alec ran one hand along the table’s edge, studying the grain of the wood. It was dark and smooth, even the gouges worn to a satiny sheen. Every indignity this table had suffered had been ground down and smoothed over until the casual observer would almost think it crafted that way. “Why would you take a chance on a turncoat?”
    “Peterbury says you are not.” Phipps cocked one eyebrow. “Is he wrong?”
    “No. But no one else believes it.” And it was telling that Phipps was taking Peterbury’s word for it, against the word of the whole English army, including its immensely popular and politically ambitious hero. “You’d run counter to Wellington’s own opinion on the matter.”
    “But I do not come on behalf of Wellington.” He lowered his voice again. “You’ll be paid, of course—”
    The mugs of ale rattled as Alec slammed his palm down on the table. “I don’t want money ,” he bit out. “I am not a mercenary.”
    This seemed to please Phipps. His flat smile spread once more across his face. “Good. The payment will not be much. We prefer to deal in other compensation. Let me know your decision by noon on the morrow.” He got to his feet and dropped a card on the table. “Good eve to you, Mr. Brandon.”
    Alec finished his ale before he touched the card. He didn’t know what Peterbury might have told this man about him to make Phipps so confident in his offer, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Could he become a spy? A black smile crossed his face; hadn’t he already done so, changing his name and altering his appearance, moving around from place to place without 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
     

    T he 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