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Cressida exchanged a look with Callie. She didn’t remember a word of it, after the dramatic beginning.

“Lovely,” Callie told Granny with a smile, only a faint blush betraying that she knew exactly what Cressida was thinking. Of course they mustn’t tell Granny that Mr. Lucey had screamed “Traitor!” at their host.

“And the sermon?” Granny beamed at them. “Mr. Barton has a lovely voice for Scripture. What was the topic?”

“Grace,” said Callie. “And redemption.”

That explained the furor after the service. Cressida supposed Mr. Barton had written his sermon days ago, with no thought of Alec being there. He hadn’t attended before. He had barely attended today; from the peeks she stole at his expression, he wasn’t retaining any more of the curate’s words than she was. The moment it was over, he escorted his mother to the carriage—Mrs. Hayes showing none of her usual inclination to stop and chat to friends—then mounted his horse and rode off. The anticipation, and curiosity, that had been building throughout the service like a kettle on the hob had finally exploded in a torrent of gossip. Cressida wouldn’t be surprised if the entire town was still on the church steps, seething with speculation.

Granny nodded, sinking back into her pillows. The move to Penford had been good for her, but she was still weak and tired. “Very good.” She reached for Callie’s hand. “I’m pleased at least one of you listened.”

Cressida flushed. “I’m sorry, Granny.”

Granny smiled, her eyes closing. “I know, dear. But you don’t have to worry about us anymore. Mrs. Hayes assured me we are welcome to stay at Penford until your father returns.”

Cressida managed a smile. For the first time in weeks, that wasn’t what had kept her mind from the sermon. “That’s very kind of her.”

Granny nodded. “Such a kind lady she is, girls. We must remember to thank her and Major Hayes. They’ve been so generous to us.”

“Yes,” agreed Callie. Granny nodded again as she dozed off, and Callie adjusted the coverlet over her before following Cressida out.

“Well?” she demanded when they reached the safety of the room they shared.

“Well, what?” Cressida frowned at her reflection and smoothed down some stray wisps of hair.

“What do you make of that? Mr. Lucey.”

Cressida rearranged the brush and comb on the dressing table. “Mr. Lucey’s son died at Waterloo. I imagine if Papa had died, we also would have been inclined to irrational outbursts.”

Callie blanched. “The poor man.”

Cressida gave a soft snort. “It wasn’t Alec’s fault Will Lucey died.”

A moment’s pause. “Alec?”

She cringed. “He asked me to call him that.” She took a breath. “He said he doesn’t like to be called Major as he’s no longer in the army, and. . . Well, I imagine there are several reasons he doesn’t want to be reminded of the army.”

Callie raised a brow. “Reasons like being called a traitor in front of all Marston?”

“That would make me hate it,” Cressida retorted.

Callie came to sit beside her. “Do you think he was a⁠—?”

“No,” said Cressida before Callie could say the word again. “Never. He never would have come back here if he had. Didn’t you see his face when Mr. Lucey said it? Not anger, not shock. . . He looked immediately to his mother. I thought she might faint.” Mrs. Hayes had sat bolt upright, expressionless but chalk-pale, through the service.

“Then what do you think happened?” Callie pressed. “I confess, it seems very unlike the man we’ve met. But he hid for five years, Cressida. Whatever he was doing, he was also hiding,” she said as Cressida frowned. “He knew everyone here thought he was dead.”

“Papa said the war was terrible, and no one here could understand it.” Cressida rose, agitated. “I don’t know why he stayed away, Callie, and I don’t know what happened to make people think him a traitor. But I. . . ” She bit her lip. “I cannot believe he would even consider doing such a thing.”

“Perhaps not the man he is now,” said her sister quietly. “You don’t know what he was like years ago.”

She pictured a man drinking himself into oblivion as he clutched a carved wooden horse, saying he’d deserved to die in battle instead of his friend. She recalled the resignation when he said Marianne quite rightly hadn’t wanted him. She could still see him sitting taut and alert next to his mother as everyone in the church stared accusation and recrimination at him. “I doubt it,” she snapped, seizing a book that lay on the table. She’d taken it from the library to help her fall asleep without roaming the house, but hadn’t even opened it. “I need to put this back.” She was out the door before Callie could say another word.

He wasn’t a traitor. Cressida didn’t know any actual traitors, but she would stake her life that Alec wasn’t one. That would require a conniving spirit and ruthless selfishness he didn’t have. She couldn’t believe it. She would not believe it, not without real proof. . .

She stopped cold in the library room doorway. Alec was there, on his knees—shirtless. A web of scars crossed his chest and arms, some thick, some thin, none of them small. She gasped. One long jagged scar slashed up his ribs toward his throat, across solid firm muscles, through gold-tinged skin, carving a path through the dark hair scattered over his very broad chest.

He looked up. For a moment they just stared at each other, he in anguish, and she in. . .