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“Of course.” It would give him an excuse for closer proximity to Cressida. Alec tried to quell the fierce surge of exultation at the prospect.

"Is that all?"

He closed his eyes. "No," he muttered, hating the word. "There’s a possibility Turner is dead."

"'Tis always a possibility," said Ian. "The man's been gone—what?—four, five months?”

"You have a suspect," said Angelique softly. "Who? And why?"

Alec hesitated again. He wished they hadn’t come, because now he had to tell all. Perhaps if Angelique agreed with him that he had explored every possibility, she would simply tell Stafford it was hopeless, and Alec would be free of the man. "Turner's eldest daughter is newly engaged to Thomas Webb. Webb was in the army with Turner and came home with him after the war. He’s been with the family ever since. The daughter was married once before, to a man who beat her. Miss Turner told me her father blessed that marriage because it would keep Webb from having her sister, and that Webb knew it."

Angelique exchanged a glance with Ian. “That is suspicion, nothing more."

"Of course not," Alec snapped. "But it’s a possibility. Webb never seemed particularly keen to find Turner. Every time I spoke to him about the man, he put me off or said he knew nothing."

"Would you be eager, in his place?" Angelique shrugged. "Perhaps he views it as divine providence. You said they were recently engaged, but the lady has no fortune and no connections. Perhaps it is nothing other than desperate love. If he has been waiting for years while she was married to another man⁠—"

"I realize all that!" Alec inhaled a deep breath. "I fervently hope that’s the case. I believe Webb does love her. In truth, I think he adores her."

For a moment she was thoughtful. "Love is a powerful motivator, but if you have evidence. . . "

"No," he said in relief. "Not a scrap."

She smiled gently. "Then I think we cannot do anything."

Alec hadn't planned to do anything about it, but Angelique's agreement reassured him. She wouldn't hesitate to tell him if something changed her opinion. He recalled one other point that niggled at him. “What did you mean to say earlier about Pickering, Wallace?”

Angelique paused in the act of rising from her chair. Ian cleared his throat. “Ah. Not so much—more an impression, I suppose. He's been to the Den, see." Ian usually called Stafford an old fox, and referred to his offices in Bow Street as the Fox's Den. "Bit of an odd one, if you take my meaning. Pompous and cold, but with nervous eyes.”

"He's a Deputy Commissary General of the Army," Alec said.

Ian's smile was flat. "All the more reason to suspect something's nae right, if you ask me. But like you, I've got no proof, just that I've seen him at Bow Street more then once. Angelique might know more. Old Staff's set his cap for her, has her ‘round to tea all the time."

"Nonsense," she said in her usual cool manner. "I know nothing of this Pickering."

Alec didn't quite believe her, but if she didn't want him to know, he would never learn it from her. Angelique had all the reticence of a sphinx when it suited her. He got to his feet as Ian did the same. “Will you stay for long?” he asked. He didn't like his two lives brought face to face like this. If he could have bundled Angelique and Ian off the property at once, he would have happily done so.

Angelique's smile hinted that she knew that. “Not long. Might I have the tea in my room?"

"Of course," Alec said. The maid was just tapping at the door with the tea tray. He went and opened it, instructing her to serve it in his guests' room.

"Do not worry, Alec." Angelique laid one hand on his arm as she passed him. "Not every puzzle can be solved."

He just gave a slight bow as she left with Ian, leaving unspoken his next thought: nor should every puzzle be solved.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Cressida almost missed dinner, having spent the afternoon poring over Papa's journal and its infuriating code until her head ached. She knew it probably would amount to little, but pure stubbornness kept her at it for hours.

After Alec laid out the results of his efforts, Cressida, Callie, and Tom had agreed that Papa was probably gone for good, or at least until he wanted to be found. Even if something ill had befallen him, the result was the same. They also agreed it was unfair to ask Alec to keep searching, particularly with such thoroughness. Cressida had been slightly shocked when he explained all that he had done, all the places he had gone, and the possibilities he had pursued. He truly had devoted an enormous amount of time—and, she suspected, money—to it.

Tom and Callie were anxious to find a house in Portsmouth, because Granny's health grew more fragile by the day. She rarely left her room now. If they waited too long, she might be too weak to make the trip, even though she’d been overcome with happiness, and somewhat revived in spirits, at the news that Callie was to be married.

So while Tom went ahead to Portsmouth in search of a house and Callie sat with Granny to sew her wedding dress, Cressida returned to the journal. She hadn't exactly told her sister she intended to stay at Penford, although she wondered if Callie might have begun to suspect it. Callie seemed to glance her way an inordinate number of times whenever Alec spoke to her—and, to Cressida's private exhilaration, he came to speak to her a great deal. Now even she couldn't deny that he looked at her often. She didn't want to deny it. She wanted him to look as much as he liked.

And she didn't want to miss dinner. Since Alec was no longer riding far and wide in search of her father, he dined with the family almost every night. She bundled her notes away, rushed through her dressing, and hurried down the stairs.

Guests had arrived. Not neighbors, but a couple Cressida had never seen before. The man was a big, redheaded Scot with a ready laugh. The woman was petite and exotically beautiful, with sleek black hair and dark eyes. No one else seemed to know what to make of them, leaving only Mrs. Hayes and John to talk to them.