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He found it near the back, still folded and sealed and slightly wavy, because it had got damp and then dried. Alec took out the letter and set aside the journal without a second glance. He broke the seal and unfolded it, the sight of his friend’s handwriting making his throat grow tight. And then he read the words—words never meant to be read by anyone other than Angus Lucey.

He sank back on his heels as grief spilled through him. The terrible story that had begun forming in his mind as he read Cressida’s neat writing was confirmed here, in damning detail.

“I put it here to keep it safe.” His voice seemed to echo as if he spoke from the depths of a tomb.

“What is it?” Julia whispered again, sounding cowed. She and Cressida huddled together, clutching each others’ hands and watching him with apprehensive eyes.

He didn’t respond. Leaving the contents of the trunk strewn about the attic floor, he got to his feet and made his way toward the door.

Chapter Thirty-One

Cressida had no idea what Alec had been looking for, but she was horribly certain he’d found it.

“What is that?” Julia had whispered anxiously as they watched him read through his journal.

“I don’t know,” she replied, hoping her suspicions were wrong. In a panic she said a quick, desperate prayer that whatever Alec had found, her father had nothing to do with it—though deep in her heart she was terribly sure he did.

When Alec got up and left the attics without a word, they followed him, Julia in growing indignation, Cressida in growing fear. “What did you find?” Julia called. “Alec! You’re frightening me.”

He just shook his head and kept walking.

Julia stopped. “Alec!” Still he ignored her. She turned to Cressida. “What on earth?”

“I don’t know,” she said, watching him head toward his chamber. “But I don’t think this is a good time to ask.”

“It was a fine time to go rummaging in the attics,” Julia protested. "It must be something!"

Cressida gave her a helpless look, then followed Alec, slipping into the room as he opened the wardrobe.

“What did you find?”

He pulled out a coat and tossed it on a chair, stripping off the coat he wore. “A letter.”

Cressida chewed the inside of her cheek, then forced herself to speak. “It—it’s about my father’s journal, isn’t it?” He didn’t reply, rummaging around in a drawer. “Do—do you know what Papa spoke of? The man who. . . ” Words failed her, and she stopped.

If Alec was the man in her father’s journal, it proved his guilt. Her father’s as well, but that was immaterial; he was gone, while Alec was still here to bear the shame and disgrace, and her heart was splitting in two at the thought.

“I can burn the journal,” she said a little wildly. “No one else has seen it—it was in code, not even Tom knew what was in it⁠—”

“You don’t have to burn it, Cressida.” He took a knife from the drawer and slid it into a sheath with a strap attached. To her alarm, he swung the strap over his shoulder and buckled it, settling the knife and sheath under his arm. “Translate the rest of it. I daresay it will answer all your questions.” He put on the coat he had just taken out, patted the pockets and ran his palms down the sleeves, and strode past her to the door. The dagger under his arm made the barest ridge, although to Cressida’s panicked eyes it looked to be the size of a battle saber.

“Where are you going?”

“To see an old friend.”

She wedged herself between him and the door to block his path. “Why? Tell me, damn it. It involves my father in some way—do you think I’m a complete fool? I translated that journal, I know what it said. Are you—?” Her voice shook appallingly. It was impossible, but she had to ask anyway. “You can't be that man, the one he described."

His jaw hardened. “No.”

She almost sobbed with relief. “Then what? Don’t brush me aside. What caused you to go running off to search the attics for a trunk you could have had brought down any time in the last month?”

The dark, focused look faded a bit from his face. “Cressida, let me by.”

She set her chin. “Not until you tell me where you’re going, and why you have a dagger.”

Alec exhaled. “Later. I will explain, I swear to you I will. Just. . . not at this moment.” She shook her head, holding tight to the doorknob and refusing to yield. He ran one hand through his hair and swore under his breath. “I think I know who your father describes. He. . . was a friend of mine. I thought I knew him, and yet he betrayed everyone.”

“Including you?” Her question was just a breath of sound.