James Peterbury hired a cart to drive him back to the farm, and left with a promise to come back as soon as he learned anything. He seemed to be reserving judgment, at least for the moment, and was still willing to help. It was small comfort, but better than none. Alec’s wound had reopened, and Widow Gustave shook her head over him, muttering unintelligibly as she wrapped him up tighter than before. He was sure the widow was ready for him to heal and be gone as much as he was ready to go, but there was nowhere for him to go now. Instead of being on his way back to England, or even lodged in Brussels to recuperate, he couldn’t leave the forest for fear of being recognized by the wrong person—namely, anyone but Peterbury. He had little to do except ruminate on the shocking news that he was considered a traitor to England. All James had mentioned in the way of proof was some papers, allegedly found in Alec’s baggage after the battle. Either it was all a terrible mistake and would be sorted out as soon as someone read the papers and realized they were not his, or someone had put them in his things with this intent.
