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

He rode for a long time. At first the desire to keep heading south, back to London, was almost impossible to fight. Not to hide, but to break into the War Office and search for those damned incriminating letters. What had patience and caution gained him—a five-year delay in being convicted of treason? He was used to it for himself now, but his mother had been steadfast in her loyalty and love for him, as any mother might be for her son. When Lacey had snarled that last vicious word, Alec had felt her flinch beside him. She’d sat like a stone throughout the service, and his thoughts had run on very unchristian paths regarding Lacey.

It certainly was no surprise to him that Lacey hated him. When he and Will were lads, Mr. Lacey had blamed most of Will’s misbehavior and disobedience on Alec’s bad influence. It must seem the worst sort of cruelty to him that his son had died while fighting valiantly for his country, while Alec had survived after apparently betraying it. As Cressida had said the other night, it was crushing to lose someone so beloved, and Lacey had settled all his hopes and affection—whatever that amounted to for him—on Will. Alec understood that.

But the man went too far by insulting his mother, in front of all Marston, while they were ostensibly gathered for prayer. Why was Lacey entitled to blind affection for his son, but Alec’s mother was not?

When the road crested a rise, he halted the horse. A few more miles away lay the turnpike into London. In a few hours he could be in town; he could go to Stafford and demand an inquiry, even a trial. His years as a spy had been very instructive, and Alec was almost ready to take his chances in the dock. At least it would provide an end to the matter, and if the government must make a case against him, he would at last know just what had cast suspicion on him. And if he was found guilty anyway, then the hangman would be all too willing to put him out of this miserable existence.

The horse snorted and tossed his head. Alec realized he was holding the reins too tightly, and let them go slack. He took one more look down the road toward the city, and knew he couldn’t ask his mother to endure a trial, not now. If he were going to put his family through that, he should have done it five years ago. He turned and started for home.

At Penford he went straight to the library. The best brandy was still kept in there, in the rosewood chiffonier. He poured a generous glass and took a long sip.

“There you are,” said Julia from the doorway. “Where did you disappear to?”

“Just out riding.”

She came into the room. “Mother was worried. You should go to her. She’s been imagining all sorts of horrid things. I think she feared you would do yourself harm.”

“No.” He squeezed the back of his neck. The glass was already over half empty, and the more Julia talked, the more he thought about pouring more.

“Or perhaps do harm to sour-faced old Lacey. That man hates you.”

Alec inhaled. “Do you really think so? Imagine.”

“He’s been very cool to Mother, but I never thought he’d cut her directly. In church, too.”

Alec swallowed the rest of his brandy. “Is there something you wanted, Julia?”

“Yes, now that you ask.” She came to stand in front of him, hands on her hips. “I wanted you to stand up and tell him differently when he called you a traitor.”

“In the middle of the church?”

“What better place to tell the truth?”

Alec finally realized what made his sister so angry with him. She wanted him to explain, to tell her where he had been and why he had let them believe him dead. She wanted a rejoinder to fling against the slurs and insults that must have dogged her as his sister. But mostly she wanted him to fight, with passion and fearlessness and ruthless disregard for the casualties. She saw the truth as a cannon, obliterating everything in its path. Alec knew it was more like a finely honed saber, capable of decapitating one opponent with a stroke but insignificant against a hydra of rumors and gossip. He put down his glass. “Julia, it isn’t that simple.”

“Why, Alec?”

“I can’t prove it,” he growled. “Not any of it. I did nothing wrong, but I can’t prove one bloody word of it!”

She stared at him incredulously. “I didn’t ask for proof!”

“But Lacey would,” he retorted. “It’s my word against his, against popular opinion, against Wellington’s condemnation. Think for one moment what people will say if I declare I committed no crime and never conspired with the French. ‘Where is your proof?’ they will cry.”

“Only because you were missing for so long—”

“Do you think I don’t realize that?”

Julia stamped her foot. “Oh! Damn you, Alec! You did do something wrong. You let us believe you were dead for five long years! Do you know what that did to Father—to Mother? To Frederick and to me?”

“I don’t need a scolding about that.”

“And why not?” she flung back at him, her voice quivering. “What have you been doing since you vanished? Since we received that short, grave letter saying you were dead, not gloriously or bravely but lost on the battlefield? Since we heard you had not only died, but died a traitor? Have you been happy without us, or did you even bother to think that we might be suffering without you?”

Alec’s temper finally gave way under the lash of her tongue. Julia, his beloved younger sister—a woman now, a stranger—cut him more deeply than he ever could himself. Before he knew what he was doing, his jacket was on the floor, then his waistcoat. With shaking hands he ripped off his cravat and yanked open the collar of his