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"Welcome to Penford," he said when the servant had left them alone in his study.

"Thank you. It is a lovely estate."

Alec nodded. It was like a boxing match, the two of them circling each other warily. He wasn’t sorry to be leaving Stafford's employ. "You'll have heard from Ian, of course."

The other man's eyes gleamed. "I expect there is more to the story than Mr. Wallace could tell me."

"No doubt." Alec paused, then changed course. “Why did you send me on this job?”

Stafford smiled his thin, dry smile. “A favor for Colonel Lord Pickering.” Alec waited, watching him. “I suspected it might be to your benefit as well.”

“Why?”

His former employer’s mouth quirked. He clasped his hands behind his back and turned to walk over to the window overlooking Penford’s sweeping lawns. “I realize everyone does not always appreciate my methods or means, but I’m not as capricious as some think. This is not a game I play. A wrong guess often leads to disaster. When I send my agents out, I do so after solemn consideration of their skills and talents and what will suit the circumstance at hand.” He flashed a sly glance at Alec. “And, of course, I never forget why my agents have chosen to serve His Majesty.”

“Did you know what Turner⁠—?”

“Of course not,” Stafford interrupted. “Certainly not with regard to you.” His voice fell back into calm, bland tones. “Pickering alerted me that the man had gone missing. He wanted him found, although he did not particularly care if it were dead or alive. Once Pickering was persuaded to reveal the true nature of his concern. . . I daresay Turner thought himself quite clever, but he cast his net too deep.”

Alec had suspected as much. Turner had been blackmailing Pickering, or trying to, and Pickering had panicked. Alec wondered what the man’s secret was, and then realized he didn't care. “All my progress came about because Miss Turner deciphered her father’s journal, which was where he kept his material. She and her sister were upset by the contents and thought it best to burn it.”

Stafford’s eyes narrowed.

“I agree with their wishes,” Alec went on. He didn’t care what Stafford thought of this, because Cressida and her sister had already burned it, page by page. “Burning it ensures no one else will be harmed by what it contains, and they need not live in fear of their father’s actions being known.” Stafford drew a breath, and Alec added, as a sop, “The journal was concealed at Brighampton, Turner’s most recent home. There may be more papers hidden there.”

“I should very much like to look into that,” Stafford agreed at once. And that, Alec realized, was what had brought him to Marston: the prospect of Turner's hoard being exposed. No doubt people like Pickering only trusted Stafford himself to return their shameful secrets discreetly. Or perhaps not. Perhaps Stafford would expose them in his own way. Pickering might well regret setting him on the case.

“But why did you send me?” he asked again, returning to his main concern.

“Your brother’s death was not insignificant.” A rare note of compassion entered Stafford’s voice. “I recruited men like you because I wished to create a more honorable class of agent, men who had honor and could be depended upon to serve the Crown and not merely themselves. Men who could testify in court and not be dismissed by the judges as tools of the government. A security service of sorts for His Majesty, if you will. But when your brother died, Lord Sidmouth directed me to send you home. Your family’s need was greater. As to this last assignment. . . ” He shrugged. “I have seen the French colonel’s letters. After employing you, it seemed incomprehensible that you could have been his correspondent.”

It was an odd comfort to know that Stafford had kept his promise to investigate, even if he hadn’t bothered to inform Alec about it until now. “Thank you.”

“I have done nothing except vouch for your conduct these last four years. Lord Sidmouth persuaded the Duke of Wellington to suspend judgment, based on that conduct. You will be permitted to call on His Grace and explain the truth of the matter. I believe Wellington will be inclined to listen.” He paused. “Lord Doncaster may have also said a word on your behalf, at his son-in-law’s urging.”

Alec started in surprise. Harry Sinclair had been another of Stafford’s spies until falling in love with the Earl of Doncaster's daughter on their last assignment together. Harry must have forgiven him for the thrashing Alec administered over that love affair, which Alec had feared would ruin everything. He’d have to send the man a note of thanks.

“It seemed too convenient that Turner, who had also been at Waterloo and who had schemed to blackmail other officers, had gone missing from your own home village,” Stafford went on in the same idly musing tone. “May I simply say, it was a striking coincidence, and I hoped you might find enlightenment in the course of the job.” He bowed his head. “I am pleased you did."

“As am I.”

“I regret losing you,” Stafford said thoughtfully. “Very thorough, not prone to rash heroics. I admire that.”

“Thank you,” he replied again. Stafford had taken him on when no one else would have considered it, trusted him and vouched for him. Alec knew he was exceedingly fortunate the gamble had worked out this well for him. “What will be done with Mr. Lucey?”

For a moment Stafford said nothing. “That is not my decision. I suppose the magistrate hereabouts will have to decide what to do when a body is unearthed from behind Lucey’s privy. The dead man’s family might demand restitution, but I doubt they will require a prosecution, since the murderer is dead. A gentleman of Lucey’s age might find the shock of the whole affair taxing, and choose to retire to more solitary environs.”

Alec said nothing. He didn’t want to see old Lucey ever again, yet he didn’t feel a burning need for revenge. Lucey had already lost what he cared for most, and George Turner had rubbed salt into that wound. Lucey had celebrated Turner’s death, but he hadn’t killed him. There was no way to know for certain if he had told Morris to do it, or if Morris—a fanatically loyal servant for as long as Alec could remember—had simply taken it on himself. Perhaps there was no more justice to be had.

“A terrible pity, it is, that the man who administered the killing blow has already met with an unfortunate accident.” Stafford’s words echoed his thoughts. “How dreadful that he should trip and fall on his knife.”

“Yes,” Alec agreed dryly. “Terrible.” Stafford had a way with "terrible pities." A great many of them happened in connection with his assignments. After an hour with Stafford, Lucey himself would swear Morris had stabbed his own throat.

The spymaster's mouth twitched. He nodded in farewell and walked out of the room. Alec touched Will's carved wooden horse on the mantelpiece once more, then followed at a slower pace.

Stafford had already gone out to his carriage by the time Alec reached the hall. Cressida was waiting there, pacing and wringing her hands. Her face cleared when she saw him, and she rushed toward him.

“What happened? Julia said there was a man from London come to see you. Was that. . . ?”