Table Of ContentCaroline Linden
For Your Arms Only
To my dad, whose military history library would
have come in handy during the writing of this book;
and to my mom, who taught me to love the local
public library (which DID come in handy during
the writing of this, and every, book)
Contents
Prologue
It was said that every sort of vice could be…
Chapter 1
Penford didn’t appear to have changed much. Three stories of…
Chapter 2
Alec strode toward the breakfast room early the next morning,…
Chapter 3
Cressida Turner watched until the stranger rode away, down the…
Chapter 4
Cressida’s plans had progressed no further than that when they…
Chapter 5
The moment Alec had been dreading arrived all too soon.
Chapter 6
Alec’s next encounter with Miss Turner happened purely by chance.
Chapter 7
Cressida!” She jumped, startled out of her thoughts, and looked…
Chapter 8
The man he had come to meet was late.
Chapter 9
The invitation to Penford arrived the next morning. Cressida held…
Chapter 10
Cressida found herself having a lovely time as the evening…
Chapter 11
He took her at her word, and arrived early the…
Chapter 12
It was, as Alec had expected, a tedious job. For…
It was, as Alec had expected, a tedious job. For…
Chapter 13
Her curse amused him. She could see the curve of…
Chapter 14
After the trip into London, there seemed to be little…
Chapter 15
Visiting Penford and living at Penford were very different.
Chapter 16
That Sunday Alec agreed to accompany the family to church…
Chapter 17
Do you hear me?” The voice sounded strange, guttural and…
Chapter 18
At the end of the week John Hayes’s mother and…
Chapter 19
Cressida took her time returning to the house. She couldn’t…
Chapter 20
Callie found her an hour after luncheon the next day,…
Chapter 21
It took Alec a few days to recover from the…
Chapter 22
If Alec had feared his confession would cause even more…
Chapter 23
Cressida almost missed dinner. She had spent the afternoon poring…
Chapter 24
Later, Cressida would be very thankful it had been so…
Chapter 25
That day was one of upheaval, as John and his…
Chapter 26
He was halfway down the stairs by the time they…
Chapter 27
Those who had fought with the Duke of Wellington in…
Those who had fought with the Duke of Wellington in…
Chapter 28
But I can’t help,” Cressida said for the fourth time.
Chapter 29
Alec found Angus Lacey in his study, dozing off over…
Chapter 30
Lacey’s incredulity turned to disgust as he turned on Alec.
Chapter 31
They rode home slowly, she before him on the horse.
Chapter 32
To Alec’s great surprise, John Stafford himself arrived the next…
Epilogue
It was a tidy lane, dotted with a few small…
About the Author
Other Books by Caroline Linden
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
July 1820
It was said that every sort of vice could be found in London, if one knew where
to look. In the filthy rookery of St. Giles, one didn’t have to look very hard.
The fight had already started, a bare-knuckle match between two street
fighters in a grimy pub cellar. The favorite, an Irishman native to St. Giles, was
short and stocky and known for fighting dirty; in St. Giles, fighting dirty was
applauded. The challenger was an African, dark and formidable, and jeered by
the crowd. The cellar was packed with men who had paid their farthing at the
door and were intent on recouping their money by placing bets with any and all
takers. A musty odor of old smoke, spilled beer, and dried sweat clung to the
walls; before the night was over, there would probably be a sharp scent of
freshly spilled blood as well.
One spectator, pasty pale and a little too short to see over the rest of the
crowd, wormed his way through the room. From time to time he bobbed on his
toes for a glimpse of the fighters before resuming his search for a better vantage
point. At last he seemed to find one that suited him, settling into a place against
the wall opposite the stairs.
“Five quid on the Moor,” he said to the man beside him, a tall fellow in the
hard-worn clothes of a drayman.
The taller man removed the cigar from between his teeth and blew out a puff
of smoke. “The Irishman’s favored.”
The newcomer, Mr. Phipps, scoffed. “Bloody idiots, the Irish. Look at the
Moor—solid muscle, a long reach, and such ferocity! He could beat a dozen
Irishmen.” In timely demonstration, the African fighter struck, pounding several
quick hits to his opponent’s belly. The Irishman staggered and looked for a
moment as if he would fall to his knees. Phipps raised a fist in triumph.
His companion shrugged. “Perhaps. But the crowd wants the Irishman to
win, Mr. Phipps. If the African wins, the losses will be heavy.”
“You’ve got no appreciation at all for the sport, have you, Brandon?” Mr.
Phipps said crossly.
“No.” In the ring, the Irishman landed a punishing blow to his opponent’s
chin, and the African fell back to his seconds, reeling in pain. The frenzied
crowd roared, and even the colorless Phipps let out a shout. Brandon didn’t
move, his eyes still restlessly roaming over the spectators.
“You’re the only man I know who wouldn’t relish this assignment,” Phipps
told him in a low voice. “There’s men out doing a lot worse than watching a
good mill.” Brandon just gave a quiet snort. Phipps shook his head and sighed,
reluctantly turning from the fight. “Well, where is Pearce?”
“There.” Brandon tilted his head, indicating a balding man in a green coat
across the room. “He met them just a bit ago and took a packet from them. Paid
in coin.”
“And the Blackwoods?”
“By the ring, near the corner.” Brandon dropped his cigar and ground it
under his heel. “They bet very heavily on the Irishman.”
Phipps nodded. “Good work.” He pushed up the brim of his cap and wiped
his forehead, and his other men, scattered around the room, took note. With
practiced ease they maneuvered toward the three men just identified. The two
Mr. Blackwoods and Mr. Pearce would spend the night in Newgate Prison,
although none knew it yet. Like many others before them, the Blackwood
brothers had been brought low by their gambling, but unlike more ordinary
sinners, they had resorted to embezzling stocks from the bank where both
worked as clerks. Simon Pearce, a partner in the bank, was likely the architect of
the scheme. Sir Thomas Broughton, another partner, was anxious to have Pearce
removed while avoiding any embarrassing publicity that might ruin his bank. For
discretion he had turned to John Stafford, chief clerk of the Bow Street
Magistrates Court and spymaster for the Home Office, and Stafford had set
Brandon to discovering how the Blackwoods transferred the stolen stocks to
Pearce.
Brandon eased away from the wall. His job was done now. “I’ll leave you to
it.” Keeping his head down, he started to head for the door at the back of the
crowded room.
“One moment.” Phipps pressed a folded paper into his hand. “Condolences,”
he muttered.
Brandon automatically closed his fist around the paper and shoved it into his
pocket. “Why?” He looked back at Phipps, but the shorter man had already
disappeared into the crowd surging toward the ring. A scuffle on the far side had
broken out and was growing larger as more men turned from the staged—and
probably fixed—match between the African and the flagging Irishman, and
enthusiastically joined in the fight going on among the spectators.
He had no interest in joining that fight; his responsibility had only been to
keep an eye on the Blackwoods and Pearce until Phipps could arrive to arrest
them. That was Brandon’s specialty as a spy: watching. Now Phipps and his men
would spirit the thieving clerks and banker away, to face who knew what, and no
one in the disorderly crowd would notice or care.
Around him the roar grew louder, punctuated by cracks of a whip as the
fight organizers tried to keep order. Brandon pushed through to the rickety stairs,
taking them two at a time. When he came out into the back of the dingy pot-
house, the owner gave him a sharp glance. The bare-knuckle fight going on in
his cellar was hardly secret, but it was illegal all the same. Brandon’s lip curled
at what the man would think if he knew several fellows from Bow Street were
down there right now. Instead of leaving and fixing suspicion on himself, he
leaned against the counter and motioned the publican over.
“When does the African fight again? He’s lost me some blunt tonight.”
The other man’s expression eased. “Thursday next.”
Brandon grunted and dropped a few coins on the counter. “A pot of heavy
wet.”
He took the mug of ale and carried it to a small table. The room was busy,
with men coming in for a drink before disappearing into the back, going down to
see this fight or the next one. No one noticed him here, just another unlucky
drayman washing down the loss of his weekly pay before staggering home. He
pulled his woolen cap lower on his forehead and drew the guttering candle close
before unfolding the note Phipps had passed him. Stafford didn’t waste a
moment, sending him to spy on someone else before this job was even
concluded.
But that wasn’t all the note said.
The bench scraped along the floor as he jumped to his feet, holding the note
close to his face to reread it. He glanced toward the stairs to the cellar, then
jammed the note into his pocket, leaving behind his barely touched ale and
heading to the door. He strode through the narrow, twisting streets of St. Giles,
jumping over the sewers running in the gutters and ignoring the catcalls of the
whores. As he went north the buildings seemed to expand and brighten, the
cramped poverty of the rookery giving way to more spacious gentility. The
houses here were clean brick edifices, tightly fitted together with neatly swept
steps and painted railings, their windows dark mirrors for the gas streetlamps.
There were still thieves here, but they kept to the shadows.
After a few streets Brandon turned into an alley and went to the back stoop
of a house near the end of a long terrace. The door was surely locked tight for
the night, but he didn’t bother to try it. Instead he braced one hand on the door,
stepped up onto the short railing beside the steps, and reached upward to grab
the ledge of the window. He pulled a knife from the sheath strapped under his
