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Alec put down his coffee and walked from the room.

He rode like the demons of hell pursued him. The horse was Freddie’s, long-limbed and sedate, but under Alec’s hand he stretched his stride and fairly flew over the hills and meadows of Penford. By the time Alec pulled him up on the edge of the ridge, the horse was lathered with sweat and breathing as hard as Alec himself.

He swung down from the saddle. His last few years had not included much riding, but his body remembered the rhythm. As they'd charged up the last hill, his memory flashed vividly back to another charge up a hill, with French bullets whining past him and artillery shaking the ground. He’d had a saber in his hand and the bloodlust of battle in his heart, and no real inkling of what was to come. What a bloody fool.

Alec wound the reins around his hand and walked, cooling the tired horse after his run. He rarely thought about his cavalry days anymore. They were a distant memory from a long-ago life that had little bearing on the present. He turned and surveyed the rolling, verdant lands of Penford, his inheritance, his home. The sight inspired nothing within him. It might have been any piece of land, in England or Belgium or the distant reaches of America for all it meant to him now. For too long he had been no one, not an officer, not a gentleman, not even Alexander Hayes but Alec Brandon, imposter and spy.

Now he didn’t know who he really was.

The horse tugged against the rein, stretching his neck for a bite of grass. Alec roused himself from his thoughts and turned back to what he did know. He still had Stafford’s business to attend to, and right now it was a more attractive proposition than anything at Penford. With a pat to the horse’s neck, he mounted again and turned in the direction of the Turner property.

* * *

Sergeant Turner had taken Brighampton, a modest estate just a few miles from Penford. In truth it was more farm than estate, but Alec noted the fields weren’t well-tended as he rode past them, taking the shortest path instead of going by the main road. Nor did he see anyone working in the fields, another sign that the sergeant’s absence was trouble. Who would lease a property like Brighampton and then not farm it? And when he came in sight of the house, other signs of neglect became apparent, from the overgrown shrubberies to a shutter swinging loose.

The house sat just beyond a wedge of woods. Behind it were a squat stable and a few other outbuildings, with a large vegetable garden that did look neat and tidy. On the other side of the trees spread a wide meadow dotted with grazing sheep. The sergeant appeared to have done fairly well for himself at some point. Perhaps he just didn’t intend to farm the land. Alec catalogued other details about the property as he rode up, trying to form a view of the missing man and his situation before hearing from his family. But then a strange sight caught his attention.

A man was sneaking out of the stable. There was no doubt of it, from the way he glanced left and right every few feet. He was a big man, broad in the chest, with long arms hunched close to his sides and a cap pulled low over his forehead hiding his face. When the man sidled around the corner of the stable and took off at a run, Alec nudged the horse to follow. It could be a servant, shirking his duties. . . but Alec’s instincts said not. Better to take a look and find nothing amiss than to let someone significant slip away.

The man had disappeared into the woods by the time Alec reached the edge of it. He pulled up at the trees, which were quite dense, and stared into the shadows. Birds chattered in the branches and a rabbit darted under a fallen log, but there was no sign of the suspicious character. Alec turned and rode back to the stable, wondering what the man had been doing in there so stealthily.

It was a modest stable. There were two horses munching on hay, but the rest of the stalls were empty and apparently unused. Alec moved slowly and silently, peering into stalls and around corners, trying to see what could have attracted the man who ran off into the woods. It looked very ordinary. He could see no signs of damage or anything maliciously done. The man hadn’t been carrying anything large. If he weren’t a thief or a vandal, what could he be?

He heard the whisper of a footstep just before the question came from behind him. “May I help you, sir?”

Slowly Alec turned. The woman’s frigid tone belied the polite question. Sure enough, his eyes fell first on the pistol in her raised hand, pointed at his chest. He had faced pistols before, though, and more than one of them had fired—not usually at such close quarters, but he’d learned to ignore the urge to flinch and dive for cover. It was much more prudent to be ready to strike back, should the opportunity arise. . . as well it might, he realized, looking the woman in the face.

She was tall and slim, and not half as old as he had expected. Her heart-shaped face was framed by long tendrils of golden brown hair, pulled loose from the knot on top of her head. The heavy pistol trembled almost imperceptibly in her grip, but her eyes—luscious eyes the color of cinnamon and gold and amber—were utterly calm and level.

Alec’s interest rose a notch; he’d never been shot by a woman.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve come looking for Sergeant George Turner.”

Her chin went up. “He doesn’t live in the stables. Perhaps you noticed the house on your ride in?”

His lips twitched. “Indeed. But I saw a man about the stables, and thought it might be he.”

“He would still prefer to receive you in the house, I’m sure.”

She wasn’t giving anything away without being forced to it. Alec had been deliberately vague and she hadn’t corrected him. “No doubt. Forgive me. I’ll go to him there, then.”

She hesitated. “He’s not at home, at present.”

Alec was well aware of that. “When might he be at home?”

This time she bristled. “When he returns. I'm not his keeper.”

Alec’s eyes slid down her figure in quick appraisal. Sergeant Turner was a man in his fifties, with two daughters and his elderly mother in his household. This must be one of the daughters. She was, however, still pointing a pistol at him. “You are his wife?”

“His daughter.” With a click she pulled back the hammer of the pistol. “Who the bloody hell are you?”

“Alexander Hayes, at your service.” He gave a slight bow; he hadn’t even noticed the pistol wasn’t cocked. Damn this assignment. Damn her eyes. “We are neighbors.”

Again she hesitated. She glanced past him to his horse, tied at the stable door, and then slowly lowered her arm. “You have odd manners for a neighbor, sir.”

“Forgive me,” Alec said again. “I merely thought to avoid troubling the whole household.” He noticed she hadn’t suggested he’d seen a groom or other servant. There was no sign of one, and the skulking man didn’t look like a stable boy. He looked like a thief, to be honest. “I apologize, Miss Turner. I shall call at a more convenient time.”

She clearly didn’t like him. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, and she jerked her head in a grudging nod and stepped back, inviting him to leave. Alec bowed. There was nearly as much information in her pose and actions as if she’d actually told him. Either she was of a highly suspicious or secretive nature, or other people had come around the farm before, looking for her father. And how interesting it was that she pulled a pistol on him before bothering to discover his name or purpose.