For Love Alone (36 page)

“So let us assume that Marlowe had discovered the identity of the Fox—and, if my father's suspicions are correct, our leading candidates are Grimshaw and Coleman, well-known to be part of Marlowe's milieu—so we may also assume that the Fox was a guest at the house party the night Marlowe died....”

“And at some point during that house party,” Roxbury mused, taking up the tale, “Marlowe hinted at what he knew or even confronted the Fox. And the Fox killed him.”

“Inadvertently leaving behind his cravat pin,” Ives said quietly. “Sophy found it and put it in her jewelry box, where she forgot about it until just a few weeks ago when she showed it to Scoville and told him how she had found it. ”

Roxbury took a deep breath. “The entire premise is flimsy, but not without merit. Considering what happened last—er, this morning, your idea looks to be our only hope. How do you plan to proceed?”

“One place to start would be with the guests at that last house party of Marlowe's. If we knew who was there, we might be able to eliminate some suspects,” Ives said decisively.

He cast a bland eye at his godfather. “Of course, other than relying on Sophy's memory, you would have no idea where such information could be obtained, would you?”

Roxbury snorted. “You know very well that I kept at least a nominal track of Marlowe and Scoville back then.”

A great yawn overtook him, and, delicately covering his mouth, he mumbled, “I shall have someone go over the old reports and see what can be found.” He rose to his feet. “And now, if you do not mind, I am going to bed!” He glanced at Ives's obviously exhausted features, and said, “You would be wise to do the same.”

For once, Ives was not averse to following directions, and leaving Roxbury, he repaired immediately to Berkeley Square. Discovering that Sophy had kept a previous engagement and had gone out driving with friends, he saw no reason not to seek out his bed. He did so, falling deeply asleep almost the instant his head hit the pillow.

He slept several hours, and it was nearly eight o'clock that evening before he woke and rang for his valet. Despite still feeling a trifle tired, a bath and fresh clothing made him feel as if he just might rejoin the human race. After a hearty meal of rare sirloin and eggs, he was ready to descend the staircase and face the world once more.

From Emerson, he learned that Sophy was again away from the house. She had gone out to dinner with the Offingtons and was expected to attend the theater with them afterward. She would be home late.

Sophy was only following the pursuits and manners of many a fashionable wife, but that did not exactly sit well with Ives as he realized sourly that he wanted far more from his marriage than a charming companion and a sweet armful in bed. He wanted, he concluded firmly, to share his life with Sophy, and to his mind, that did not mean jointly using the same house and only meeting when necessary. He sighed. He was being unreasonable, and he knew it. He had never given her any cause to believe he wanted anything different. As long as he was condemned to playing the role of dissolute libertine, he had scant chance of showing her precisely the sort of marriage he had in mind.

But for the first time since Meade had disappeared so disastrously last night, Ives was hopeful he could still hunt down
Le Renard.
He was not yet certain how he was going to do it, but he was confident that the possession of the ruby cravat pin was a powerful weapon. He just had to figure out the best way to use it.

He had considered various schemes as he bathed and dressed, but had discarded most of them. He could hardly assemble the most likely candidates and simply ask them which one owned the pin. There was no use identifying the owner of the pin if it sent the man scurrying for cover before they could connect the murders of Scoville and Miss Weatherby to him. And as for connecting the pin to the Fox ... Ives scowled. That was going to be extremely tricky, if he managed to do it at all.

So how was he going to use the pin?

Wearing it himself would be one way of identifying the pin. Someone was bound to recognize it and comment on his possession of it. Which left him where? The pin's owner would be identified, which was vital, but it would be inevitable that word of the pin would come to the wrong ears, and he would be right back where he started.

He was beginning to become quite annoyed. He had the bloody pin. He was confident the pin was the catalyst behind the two murders and the housebreaking incident. He was thoroughly convinced that the pin would lead him to the Fox. Yet he could think of no way to use it without tipping his hand and sending his prey racing for the safety of Napoléon's arms.

A grim look crossed his face. There was one way, he thought slowly, an astounding idea unfolding in his brain. What if he were to play
Marlowe's
original game? Blackmail. Not for money. It was well-known that he—even at the rate he had been gambling lately—had no need of money, but for power and control. Control such as Marlowe had enjoyed. The power to make someone dance to the tune of one's own making.

The notion was not so far-fetched. Wasn't he currently doing his damnedest to present himself as a man without character? A libertine? A hardened rake? None of his recent London acquaintances knew him very well, so his descent into naked despotism would not necessarily be greeted with astonishment.

And of course, there was Marlowe's example; it had never been money which had driven him into playing traitor nor had money been a factor in his acts of calculated dominance. Going on the assumption that the Fox had been closely acquainted with Marlowe, the man had to have known Marlowe's penchant for getting his own way. So, Ives concluded, if he were to put himself forth as a creature in Marlowe's mold, why wouldn't the fellow believe it?

The more he considered it, the more Ives liked the idea. All he would have to do would be to decide upon the most likely candidate for the Fox and show him the pin. A few well-placed hints, and then he could sit back and see what happened. He smiled. Unpleasantly. One thing was for certain: He did not intend to end up like poor Scoville.

Knowing his absence tonight from his normal haunts might cause speculation, especially in view of Meade's sudden trip to Brighton, he finally left the house in search of his usual companions.

It did not take him long to find them in another disreputable hell off St. James's Square. He wasn't surprised to find them all together—Grimshaw, Coleman, and several more who made up the nucleus of the group—but he
was
a bit taken aback to see a new set of features amongst the other jaded faces, Percival Forrest's. And Percival did not look very happy. He looked in fact somewhere between a man whose dearest friend had just died and a man spoiling for a fight. Having a good idea what had brought him here in this mood, Ives sighed. Things were definitely getting complicated.

Having greeted everyone and once the others had turned back to their gambling, under the cover of a noisy background, Ives stood just a little apart from the group with Forrest, and said quizzically, “I thought you told me that you had given up this sort of thing.”

His blue eyes hard and determined, Forrest said almost accusingly, “And I thought I knew you well enough to believe that you wouldn't be fool enough to allow yourself to be drawn into this group of disgusting libertines! What has possessed you? Have you lost your senses? I even warned you about them. Why, for Jupiter's sake, have you allowed yourself to be sucked into their rotten core? I did not believe what I have been hearing lately, and cannot even now credit my own eyes. To think that I find
you
in such a place and on such easy terms with these ugly rogues! Good gad, Ives, what are you thinking of? You are acting in a manner that is totally foreign to the man I gladly served under, and admired and respected as I do few men.”

Repressing the urge to shut Percival's mouth in the swiftest possible way, Ives glanced idly around and was greatly relieved to see that no one was paying any attention to them—yet.

Keeping his face bland and his voice low, he murmured. “If you love me, dear fellow, please reassure me that you have not been spouting that point of view to all and sundry.”

Percival looked startled before his brows snapped together in a frown. “What sort of rig are you running, man?” he demanded urgently. “Don't you know these fellows are not the type who take being made to look ridiculous lightly?”

Ives sighed, wishing Percival had chosen another setting in which to express his worries. Noticing that Grimshaw was watching them through narrowed eyes, Ives smiled sweetly and with a deceptively light grasp of Percival's arm, inexorably ushered him to a quiet table in one corner.

His eyes meeting Percival's puzzled blue gaze, Ives said, “Dear fellow, I do appreciate your concern, but for the present, could you please forget that you ever knew me that well? Especially do not sing praises of my supposed virtues, hmm? Or if you cannot do that, at least pretend that my actions come as no surprise to you.”

Percival's frown only increased. “What the devil are you up to, Ives?”

Keeping a bored smile firmly in place, Ives glanced with apparent disinterest around the room. Grimshaw was still watching them. Damn. He had to think fast and make a decision immediately. He could continue to fend off Percival's concerns or let him in on the chase. It was not a difficult choice.

Looking back at Forrest, he said softly, “I cannot tell you anything right now. It is too dangerous. But if you will call tomorrow morning at Roxbury's town house, I will explain to you what I can. I might even be able to use your, er, talents.”

He shot his former lieutenant a commanding look. “In the meantime, keep your mouth shut and forget that I ever possessed any sort of virtue.”

Percival's eyes suddenly blazed with excitement. “By God, sir, it will be good working with you again. Does this have something to do with Bony?”

Ives only shook his head and murmured, “I can tell you nothing at present. I would rather you were not here to see me descend once more into my trough of depravity.” He smiled crookedly.

Forrest nodded, and, rising to his feet, said, “I understand. I shall see you at Roxbury's tomorrow morning.”

Ives watched him go, noting with dismay the jaunty spring to his step. Someone, he felt certain, was going to comment on Percival's sudden change in demeanor. He was not wrong.

Strolling up to join the others a few minutes later, Coleman demanded, “Whatever did you say to Forrest? One minute he looked blue as a dog and the next he was fairly skipping from the room.”

Ives shrugged. “A little matter of a debt I owed him. He thought that I was, er, avoiding paying him, but it was merely that I had forgotten about it.” He yawned delicately. “These late nights I spend with ruffians like yourselves has had a detrimental effect upon my memory, you know.”

“You were in the army with him, weren't you?” asked Grimshaw, his gray eyes fixed on Ives's face. “His commanding officer, if I remember correctly?”

Ives bowed. “Indeed. I had that pleasure.”

“Forrest used to be a much more enjoyable fellow. When he first sold out, he fit right in with us,” Coleman said, glancing indifferently at the cards he held in his hand. “Then respectability must have attacked him because he drifted away and became quite, quite dull.” Coleman's hazel eyes lifted. “Do you think that will happen with you?”

“Oh, I doubt it very seriously. You may ask anyone who knows me—I am
never
dull,” Ives returned sweetly, carelessly motioning for a servant to bring him a glass of wine.

Dewhurst bit back a snort of laughter, as did Coleman himself, before he turned his attention back to his cards. But Grimshaw did not apparently share the general amusement. His unfriendly gaze still fastened on Ives's dark face, he muttered, “A clever turn of phrase, but I wonder if you are not, my lord, too clever for your own good.”

Ignoring the antagonism in Grimshaw's voice, Ives shrugged. “We shall just have to wait and see, won't we?” he murmured and smiled challengingly at Grimshaw over the rim of his glass.

I
ves remained with the others only long enough to see if Meade's sudden disappearance aroused any comment. He was both relieved and disappointed when someone—Coleman? Caldwell?—made mention of Meade's unexpected decision to visit Brighton and no one seemed the least bit interested or surprised by Meade's defection. Having learned what he had come for, Ives wandered away and slowly strolled back to Berkeley Square.

His return coincided with Sophy's arrival at the Grayson town house from her evening's engagement. The sight of her golden head emerging from the carriage made his pulse leap and, increasing his stride, he arrived in time to escort her up the steps and into the house.

Sophy was surprised, astonished actually, to see him home this early in the evening, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Her lovely features revealed nothing but politeness.

Ives had been right. He might have barreled back into her bed, and though they had collaborated easily enough together this morning in the matter of the cravat pin, there were still large areas in their relationship in which Sophy was quite wary of his motives.

She couldn't help but be pleased to see that, for tonight at least, he had forsaken his debauched companions, but she did not delude herself into believing that this signaled any major change in his behavior. Even Simon had not gambled and whored
every
night.

“Did you enjoy your evening?” Ives asked, as they entered his study, having decided to partake of a cup of tea and some biscuits together before retiring for the night.

Sophy nodded. “Hmm, yes. The aquatic spectacle was particularly entertaining this evening.” She cast him a glance from under her curling lashes. “And your evening? It was pleasant?”

Ives shrugged. “Tolerable.” He flashed that brigand's smile of his, and murmured, “I would have much preferred to spend the evening in your charming company.”

Sophy's brows rose. “Indeed. I find that most interesting since you have shown no predilection for my company recently.”

“Ah, now there you are wrong, sweetheart,” Ives said with a gleam in his green eyes. “I seem to remember that very recently I displayed a most
determined
predilection for your company.”

Sophy blushed, the memory of their lovemaking suddenly vivid in her mind. She was quite thankful that Emerson entered the room almost immediately with a tray of refreshments.

Only after the butler had departed and they had served themselves and were seated comfortably across from each other, did Sophy attempt further conversation. Having taken a fortifying sip of her tea, over the rim of her cup she looked at him, and asked, “Did your godfather recognize the cravat pin?”

“No, he did not. I did not think that he would, but there was always the chance.” He hesitated before adding, “I will be frank, I am nearly at a standstill. I do have a glimmer of an idea I might pursue, but I am not precisely pleased with it.” The urge to elaborate and more fully explain his plan was almost overpowering, but Ives decided the less Sophy knew the better for her. Not only better, he thought fiercely, but
safer.

Sophy waited for him to continue and when he did not, she was aware of a stab of disappointment. Despite the promising start earlier in the day, it was obvious he was not going to confide further in her.

Pushing away her hurt, she said coolly, “I do not see why it should be so difficult. I am sure any number of people will recognize it once we, discreetly of course, ask around.”

Ives shook his head. “That is not the problem. I am sure you are right—the pin is too unusual not to be easily recognized. The difficulty is that we do not wish to alert the owner of our possession of it until we know who he is. If we make the wrong move, he may vanish without our ever getting our hands on him.”

Sophy appeared thoughtful. She took another sip of her tea as she considered the problem. There was much sense in what Ives said, but she did not believe a solution would be so very difficult to discover.

A little frown creased Sophy's forehead, and, setting down her cup, she said, “We assume that Edward and Miss Weatherby both approached their killer and attempted to blackmail him ... and we assume that their killer also attended the house party the night Simon died and the Allentons' house party.... It seems to me that a comparison of the guests who attended each party would at least eliminate anyone who had not attended
both
functions.”

Ives nodded uneasily. He was full of grave reservations about Sophy's role in discovering the owner of the pin, especially since he had the unpleasant feeling that the owner of the cravat pin and his own nemesis, the Fox, were one and the same. The Fox was already responsible for several deaths, and Ives was grimly certain that he did not want Sophy even
remotely
involved. The notion of the Fox bringing his attention to bear on her sent a chill down Ives's spine and brought all his protective instincts surging to the fore.

Oblivious to Ives's lack of enthusiasm, she went on briskly, “The easiest way would be to list everyone that we know attended both parties—that would give us several possibilities.”

Again Ives nodded, not liking the icy feeling swirling in his belly. She was, he decided bitterly, too bloody clever for her own good.

Sophy rose to her feet, rummaged around in the desk, and found a quill, ink, and a sheet of paper. She sat back down and proceeded to make a list of the gentlemen who had been at Marlowe House the night Simon had died, and right next to it, a list of the guests who had also been at Crestview. When she was finished, she made a face.

“The problem,” she said disgustedly, “is that we are dealing with basically the same group of gentlemen, and so we have several suspects: Edward's boon companion, Lord Bellingham—although I cannot imagine ‘Belly' killing anyone; Marquette; Grimshaw; Coleman; Dewhurst; Allenton himself; and three or four others who, while unlikely, were in attendance.” She brightened. “At least we can eliminate your friend, Percival Forrest. He was at Marlowe House, but not at Crestview.”

“Even if Percival had attended both functions,” Ives said bluntly, “I would never put him on that list. Having fought beside him, I know the man, and he is no murderer.”

“There was a time,” Sophy replied softly, her golden eyes steadily meeting his, “that I would have said that you were no libertine either.”

Ives sighed. Wouldn't you know she would give him a perfect opportunity to explain himself and he would not be able to take advantage of it? Damn and blast the Fox! And Roxbury, too! But her words warmed him and gave him hope for the future.

Sending her a wry smile, he murmured, “Sweetheart, we are not talking about my behavior. Let us, for now, concentrate on finding out who murdered your uncle and Miss Weatherby, hmm?”

Her chagrin apparent on her expressive face, she replied somewhat stiffly, “Of course.”

Her gaze dropped from his, and she asked neutrally, “Is there anyone on the list that you favor above any of the others?”

If he had been able to talk freely, he could have told her to mark off Marquette—Roxbury and he were in agreement that Marquette was not the Fox. In fact, he admitted sourly, if she knew the truth, they could probably dispense with all the names on the list except for Coleman and Grimshaw. But even if he could not fully explain matters to her, he was not going to send her haring after a false scent. There was enough deception between them as it was, and if they were collaborating together, even in a limited manner, she deserved a measure of truth.

“Well, I like Grimshaw for our villain,” Ives confessed, before he fully considered what he was saying. The instant the words left his mouth, he cursed himself for a fool. Determined to keep her safe, what did he do but point her in the very direction he most desperately did not want her to go? Bloody hell!

“Oh, I do, too!” Sophy exclaimed, in perfect charity with him once more. “I have
always
thought him a villain.”

Ives grimaced and attempting to retrieve the situation, said weakly, “Which does not mean he is our quarry. Perhaps we should not neglect to consider someone else first.”

“Oh, fiddle-dee-dee! I prefer Grimshaw above all others. Let us put Grimshaw at the top of the list. He shall be the first one that we approach.”

“Approach?” Ives asked carefully, a knife blade of unease turning in his gut. “Would you care to explain precisely what you mean?”

Sophy smiled sunnily at him. “I have just thought of a wonderful plan—I know you shall believe it shocking, but I think that we should try to blackmail him! Not for money, of course, he would never believe it.”

Ignoring Ives's expression of stunned disbelief, she went on blithely, “Simon, you know, was always attempting to ferret out other people's secrets so he could dangle them over their heads. I think we should try to do the same thing to Grimshaw and see what his reaction is.”

As Ives stared at her in thunderstruck panic, she lightly tapped her lips with one slim finger, and added, “Of course, I should be the one to approach him. I found the pin, after all. And it would be perfectly logical that, after Edward's death, I would begin to add things up and connect the pin to his murder.”

When her husband remained silent—in fact, he looked and acted as one turned to stone—she went on reasonably, “And Grimshaw wouldn't think it the least strange that I was attempting to blackmail him. He knows that I detest him. Besides, he will probably simply assume that I am following in my husband's and uncle's footsteps.” Breezily, she concluded, “It is a very good plan, don't you agree?”

It was all Ives could do to control himself, torn as he was between wildly conflicting urges. He wanted to shake her soundly for terrifying him, and kiss her for simply being the dearest thing in the world to him. His uppermost emotion, however, was one of raw fright at the mere notion of Sophy putting herself in what might very well prove to be mortal danger.

“Are you mad?” he fairly thundered, appalled that she should have so unerringly fastened upon his own plan.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to act calmly despite his violent inner turmoil. In a quieter tone of voice, though not
much
quieter, he said, “Two people are dead, Sophy! What makes you think
you
shall have any better luck approaching him? I tell you, it is far,
far
too dangerous a plan for you to even consider attempting!”

She smiled impishly, not the least fazed by his unflattering reaction. “But you forget, my lord, I have an advantage that Edward did not—I
know
the man is capable of murder. Besides, I shall not be in this alone; we shall be working together. Our murderer will be caught off guard because he will not be aware that there are
two
of us stalking him.”

Ives stood up and loomed over her. “I will not even consider you approaching him, do you hear me? It is out of the question.” Flatly, he added. “I would be a poor husband, indeed, if I countenanced your taking part in something that could place you in deadly peril.”

Sophy stared at him for a long moment. His words and something in his voice made her heart squeeze with delight. But there was something else in his voice that gave her pause and, consideringly, she looked up into his rigid features. One thing was apparent—he had not been surprised by her plan.

On the surface, she thought slowly, his main objection seemed to be that it was dangerous ... for her. She frowned. In fact, she mused, he had not condemned the plan at all, only her role in it. Comprehension dawned.

“You were already planning to approach Grimshaw!” she said accusingly. Her eyes narrowed. “Without telling me, I'll wager.”

A dark flush burned Ives's cheeks. “I am a man,” he muttered. “A man, I might remind you, who has faced an enemy determined to kill him.”

Sophy looked only politely interested. “And?”

“Dash it all, Sophy! You cannot be that unintelligent! I do not want you in danger. Let me handle this.”

“Oh, I see,” she said levelly. “You get to risk your life to find our killer, but I am not allowed even when it is far more logical that
I
be the one to approach our suspect.”

Ives bit back a curse, undecided whether to throttle her or kiss her. “Why,” he asked with an effort, “are you the more logical one of us?”

Since he appeared to be listening to her, she relaxed a trifle, and said coolly, “Because you have been much too busy ingratiating yourself with Grimshaw and Simon's other friends to suddenly turn ugly with them. On the other hand, Grimshaw knows
precisely
how I feel about him. He wouldn't be surprised at all if I tried a spot of blackmail.” Her face twisted. “It's in my blood after all, wouldn't you say?”