For Your Arms Only PDF
Preview For Your Arms Only
Caroline 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
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