For Your Arms Only by Linden, Caroline (best ebook reader for ubuntu .TXT) 📕

her. She never would admit it, but I saw the marks on her arms and shoulders. Papa had gone back to his regiment and Granny refused to believe it, for Mr. Phillips was always very charming to her. But my sister stopped laughing and looked ten years older than she was, and there was nothing I could do for her.”

Ah. Alec felt another piece of the puzzle slip into place. Not the puzzle of George Turner’s disappearance, but of Cressida herself. Somehow he found himself far more interested in investigating that one tonight.

She drained her wineglass, as if telling him her sister’s dark secret had finished her. “And now that Papa’s gone, someone has to look out for my family. Callie is too gentle, and Granny is too delicate.”

“What of Mr. Webb?”

“Tom?” Her voice rose in surprise. “Tom was in the army with my father. He came home with Papa on furlough…oh, many years ago, and has just been here ever since. He said he hasn’t got a family of his own to go home to, so he’s adopted us.”

“Then he and your father are friends?”

“Not…Not precisely,” she said slowly. “Papa doesn’t really have friends. He has companions and admirers. He’s the sort of man who can readily charm people into buying him a round at the pub, and have them all roaring with laughter late into the night. Tom is a quieter sort.”

“May I ask why Tom never went searching for your father before you wrote to Hastings? You must have worried much sooner.”

She hesitated again. “He offered, once. We didn’t want him to go.”

Alec added Tom Webb to the list of people who had reason to wish George Turner gone. How very curious that Miss Turner would describe her father so, admitting it wasn’t a personal bond between two soldiers that kept Webb at Brighampton. Perhaps his motives were innocent enough, but Turner had two attractive daughters. Alec wondered which one Webb fancied, guessing it was Mrs. Phillips and then reining in that thought. If Webb fancied Miss Turner, he probably wouldn’t have seen the two of them off to London without protest, but the man hadn’t said a word. Perhaps Turner didn’t think Webb good enough for his daughters, or perhaps Webb grew desperate and wanted to make the lady more in need of a husband. And there was likely more to the story than Cressida had just told him. He tucked the thought away for future investigation.

“Thank you,” she said. “For coming to our aid.”

Alec felt that echo of awareness vibrate across his skin again as he met her open, unguarded gaze. Cressida Turner had the oddest effect on him. She smiled at him and his blood raced. She frowned at him and his stomach tightened. She thanked him for doing his job and he wanted to lay her down before the fire and do all manner of wicked things to raise that fine pink flush over all her skin. He was a bloody fool, and suspected he would be a bigger one before he was done with her, but he blessed John Stafford all the same for sending him into her life. “It was my pleasure,” he replied.

More than you’ll ever know.

Chapter 14

After the trip into London, there seemed to be little trace of Papa anywhere. The major—Alec—said he would begin asking in Marston. Cressida doubted he would learn much there but kept it to herself; hadn’t he already done more than she expected just in locating Papa’s journal and ledger?

She started tinkering with the journal in earnest. Alec had asked her about it on the way home from London, and she was ashamed to admit she hadn’t made much progress. Now she got it out every day and covered page after page with notes. Papa had written the dates in English, which at first frustrated her. It would have helped to have a code whose translation she could easily guess, or at least narrow down to twelve possibilities. She tried the usual trick of counting the most frequent letters, which made little headway. But she worked on, looking for common characters and codes and comparing them to places of battles and persons mentioned in Papa’s letters home. Often it took just a few words solved to make the rest start to fall.

She didn’t know what the journal would lead to. It might be a complete waste of time when she had more immediately pressing concerns, like paying the bills. Tom sold most of the sheep to pay their debts, and she was quietly looking for a new place to live. The horses would go back to Mr. Bickford’s stable as soon as they had moved house. With a little time, they might make it through this tight spot well enough after all. And if she solved the journal, they might even locate Papa as well.

She was scribbling more notes when she heard a horse in the lane a few days after the London excursion. Thinking it might be Alec, she hurried into the hall. The visitor was just lifting his hand to knock when she opened the door.

The stranger doffed his hat. “Miss Turner?”

“Yes,” she said warily. A terrible chill skittered down her spine. This was not a social call.

“Walter Clarke, ma’am.” He bowed, but his expression was not cheerful. It was businesslike and firm. Cressida bobbed a slight curtsey, bracing herself. “Is Sergeant Turner at home?”

“No, I’m afraid he is not. I am his daughter.”

“Ah.” He didn’t even offer to wait until Papa returned. Cressida knew what was coming before he said it. “Then I must inform you in his stead. I am the agent for the owner of this property, and he has leased it to new tenants. Your removal is desired by no later than tomorrow noon.”

“What?” she gasped. “The rent was due but yesterday!”

“Yes, and you did not pay it.”

“No, but—”

“I am