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"I've no idea." As usual, Stafford gave 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 had done much the same thing when he was in the army, helping guide Wellington's army around the countryside of Spain and Portugal. This time, though, Alec thought he deserved a little more explanation.

"What's Turner done, I wonder?" James murmured. "Pickering is a proud man. I can't see him taking up for a lowly sergeant."

Alec wondered, too, but Stafford wasn't above doing favors for people with influence, and Pickering was certainly in a position to command Stafford's notice. No, Alec's greater question was 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 revile his name. He would have to return as himself, with all the attendant complications.

"It doesn't matter what he's done, or who he is. Pickering wants him found 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 might have the courtesy to explain that part at least."

James hesitated. “Do you plan to refuse? I believe you should go, but perhaps not like this. . . "

Alec wished he could. But if he said no, how would Stafford react? The man knew who he was and what he was accused of. Alec had made a deal with the devil, and now he was caught in its coils. "What choice have I got? He doesn’t respond well to being challenged.”

"Perhaps this means he's discovered something." His friend sat up straighter. "It would be just like that old parsnip to keep it to himself and squeeze a few more months of service from you. He promised all along to do what he could to restore your name. This"—James shook one finger at the note—"must mean he thinks the time is ripe for you to go home! He'd never expose one of his best men without good reason."

Alec said nothing. It was true that John Stafford and Phipps had known exactly who he was when they hired him as one of their agents. It was true they had pledged to do what they could to help his cause. But sending him home like this could hardly be beneficial.

Part of him wondered if it might be a sign that Stafford had become convinced Alec actually was as guilty as he appeared. Rather than admit that he’d hired a traitor, how much easier for Stafford just to send him on an assignment that would get him killed.

He supposed he would know when he reached Marston. If soldiers were waiting to arrest him, it was over. If not. . . if Stafford’s errand was real. . . Perhaps he had discovered something. Was there any way to know?

Probably not. And he had no alternative.

"Would you write to my mother? Tell her. . . " Alec hesitated. It was unfair to ask James to explain his actions. "Would you tell her to expect me?"

"Of course."

Alec flexed his hands, suffocated by apprehension. Could he do this? What would his family think of him, first for disappearing and then for returning? What had happened in their lives since he became someone else? He had dreamed for so long of going home, but not like this; he had imagined going home an exonerated man, not a spy in truth. "Thank you. I wouldn't want the shock to kill her on the spot."

"I'll send it tomorrow," James promised. He eyed Alec somberly. "Is there anything else I can do? You only have to ask."

As if he hadn't done enough already. James had believed him when he denied committing treason, helped him get out of Belgium right under the nose of the whole British army, given him clothing and money while he recovered from his wounds sustained at Waterloo, and then found him a not-quite-respectable job as a spy for the Home Office. Suddenly Alec felt the burden of that loyalty. If he could never prove his innocence, it would reflect very badly on James.

But James was all he had. The only other friend he could have trusted with his life had died at Waterloo. Without James, Alec would be a dead man and he knew it.

"I'll leave by the end of the week.” He rose and put out his hand. "Thank you for everything."

James shook his hand. "Promise me one thing." Alec raised his brows in question. "When you catch the bastard who really did write those letters to the French, tell me. I want to see him hang."

"You may depend on it," Alec vowed.

His friend didn't smile. “Stay here until you go. You look awful.”

"Small wonder," said Alec wryly. "Don't all dead men, before they rise again?"

Chapter One

Penford hadn’t changed much. Three stories of limestone, stately but comfortable, with a pitched roof he had once skidded off on a sled when the snow was particularly deep. The grounds sprawled about the house, as if the gardener had been let go, but it was by design. His mother had always favored an almost wilderness air to her grounds, and her children had loved it, spending hours scampering through those woods when they were supposed to be at their studies.

Penford looked too much the way he remembered it, as if time had not passed at all. Alec shifted in the saddle, ashamed that he’d unconsciously expected to see some sort of decay, some sign that he—and now Freddie—had been missed. Instead it appeared just as it always had, at least from a distance. He should find it comforting that it was more ageless than he was, still a safe and secure home for what remained of his family.

He hoped the next few days wouldn’t shake that too badly.

Alec gathered the reins and urged the horse forward. He’d had a whole week to prepare for this day, which he had been dreaming of for five long years. Instead he let the horse walk, and had to quell the rising urge to turn and ride the other way, all the way back to London. He had sent word that he was arriving today, and Peterbury had written to them as well. Even without Stafford’s mission, Alec had no choice but to go forward.

When he reached the curve in the drive, a figure emerged from the house. He shaded his eyes and watched Alec for a minute, then strode down the graveled drive to meet him, the tails of his coat flapping in his haste. Alec dismounted the horse when they met, and looked into the curious, wary eyes of his cousin John.

For a long moment they studied each other. John had grown tall and solid, his fair hair cut short and his complexion ruddy. He’d always turned red in the summer, Alec remembered abruptly. John had spent a few summers at Penford after his father died, swimming in the river and riding horses with Alec and Will Lucey until all three were sunburned and wild. Now he was the image of a hardworking landowner, with an honest face—though his expression was pure amazement at the moment.

“Alec? Alexander Hayes?” said John slowly. “Is it really you?”