For Love Alone (7 page)

“And when she sank? Neither of the two boats was close enough to rescue anyone who had been on board the
Elizabeth?”

“Rather interesting that you should mention that . . .” Roxbury met Ives's hard gaze. “There was never a sign of any survivors—the vessel went down with everyone on board.”

“I have always found that impossible to believe,” Ives growled, rising impatiently to his feet. Pacing back and forth in the room, he said, “Even if the ship sank, all the men were experienced enough to swim free. There should have been
someone
in the water near the sinking.”

Roxbury tipped up his snifter. “There was no one,” he said softly. “No one at all.”

“You have a theory.” It wasn't a question, and the dangerous glitter in Ives's green eyes would have given a lesser man pause.

Roxbury nodded. “Indeed I have. I have not said anything before now because I wanted you to have time to deal with the deaths of your family. I wanted you to be firmly settled into your new estates. I wanted you to have no distractions. I would have preferred to give you more time. In fact, I'd as lief not involve you at all, but the situation is such that you are the only man I feel I can trust fully with the truth.”

He hesitated a moment, then said bluntly, “It is my belief that not only did the Fox sabotage the
Elizabeth
so she would sink well away from land, but that he also took out, er, insurance. I think he drugged the barrel of grog which he knew all the men on board would be drinking. If they were all drugged, it would explain the yawing and erratic movements of the vessel just before she went down. There was literally
no one
at the helm. And when she sank, the crew and the others were already unconscious. They sank right along with her.” Roxbury met Ives's eyes. “The Fox,” he said grimly, “killed them all.”

There was a long pause as this sank in.

“And you want me to catch him,” Ives said softly.

Roxbury lifted his snifter, clinking it against the one held in Ives's hand. “And I want you to catch him.”

F
or a long time after Roxbury had departed, Ives roamed the confines of the study, his thoughts dark and deadly. His father had been murdered. Murdered by a traitor.

A cold implacable rage filled him. In the lonely silence of his study, Ives made a vow. The Fox would die.

Dawn was sending delicate pink-and-gold fingers of light over the city when Ives eventually made his way up the stairs to his room. His valet, his former batman, Ashby, had long ago sought out his own bed, and so Ives was alone in his bedchamber as he quickly stripped and crawled beneath the crisp linen sheets.

For a brief moment, the sensation of the cool, clean material caressing his body made him smile. Thinking of the many nights over the years that he had slept in places he would not wish on the worst felon made him appreciate the fine feather bed and the sheer comfort of his surroundings.

But his enjoyment of the physical pleasures faded immediately, and sorrow at his father's death washed over him once again. This time it was deeper and almost more painful than it was when he first heard of the tragedy which took his father's life, along with those of his uncle and cousins. But now! To suspect that it had not been just an act of fate but that it was very likely—nay, almost certain—that they had been murdered, was to rip open the wound anew.

Ives did not allow himself to dwell on the tragedy. During his time in the military, he had seen much death and suffering and had learned quickly to assimilate it, then put it aside. A man could not think clearly, methodically, if his emotions were involved. Now more than ever he needed to be able to keep a cool head.

Roxbury's information tonight had been stunning. Not in his wildest fantasies would he have conceived that not only Adrian, but his own father as well, had been working secretly for his godfather. A grim smile crossed Ives's features. He shouldn't have been surprised. He had known that Adrian was ripe and ready for mischief, and that his father, despite being nearly forty years older than Adrian, had not been much better.

And as for Roxbury's part . . . Ives shook his head. Roxbury was every bit as secretive and conniving as the man known as
Le Renard.
Perhaps more so, since he was a well-known member of the aristocracy and welcomed everywhere.

While there were those who knew or suspected Roxbury's other side, the general public had no idea of how far his tentacles reached; the shadowy figures who wandered in and out of his life as he collected information, like a spider in the center of a web; the cold-blooded schemes he would boldly concoct for England's benefit. It was whispered that few major decisions were made at Whitehall without Roxbury's advice, or approval.

Because of his relationship to Roxbury, Ives had been aware that his godfather was not quite the dilettante he appeared to be. During his years in the military, there had been one or two odd activities he had been asked to undertake that had come at the direct behest of his godfather. He had always been puzzled by the apparent control Roxbury exerted over his various commanding officers, but he had not thought too deeply about it. He had been, he admitted with a wolfish grin, too busy trying to stay alive. Tonight, however, Ives had discovered that the hints and whispers he had heard since childhood, all his suspicions about his godfather, were true.

The prospect of tangling with this fellow known as the Fox could not have given Ives more pleasure. He was used to action and danger, and aside from his grieving, these past months in England had been boring and all too predictable. Even if there had been no connection between the Fox and his father's demise, Ives would have leaped at the chance to track him down. That the Fox had no doubt murdered his family made it fiercely personal. A smile that would have made even Percival's blood run cold curved his mouth. Oh, but he was going to enjoy hunting the Fox to his lair.

 

It was well past five o'clock the next afternoon when Ives descended the main staircase of his town house. He was freshly bathed and barbered and looking forward to a quiet evening at home. The hunt for a suitable wife had been temporarily put aside, with no little relief. But that was not to say that he was no longer hunting—he was, for a far different prey.

Vengeance was a great tonic, Ives thought sardonically, as he sat down in the dining room and heartily ate the meal waiting for him.

Since his was a bachelor household and he had only himself to please, he ate at hours that suited him, whether it was fashionable or not. Fortunately, his cook, Ogden, was also a former military man, much to the dismay of several of the London staff, and knew precisely what his employer liked to eat and when. Consequently, it was a rare sirloin, spring peas, and roasted potatoes upon which Ives feasted, with none of those fancy sauces to disguise the clean taste of the food.

Ogden and Ashby were not the only former comrades on Ives's staff. Upon leaving the military, he had raided the ranks for those men who had proved themselves useful to him under a variety of conditions. In addition to Ogden and Ashby, Cecil Sanderson, the butler, John Carnes, his coachman, and William Williams, his head groom, were also in his employ. His colonel had accused him of taking half his company with him, but Ives had only laughed. His family had been nearly wiped out and, facing the unknown in England, he had wanted men he could trust around him, men he had come to view almost as family.

Pushing away from the table, Ives said to Sanderson, who was serving him, “Will you get the others and tell them that I need to speak to them in the library? Shall we say ten minutes?”

Sanderson knew precisely who the others were, and, ten minutes later, the five military comrades were standing respectfully in front of their former commanding officer. Ives waved them to seats around his desk and quickly, succinctly revealed all that Roxbury had told him last night.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then William Williams, who had grown up near Harrington Chase, burst out, “Are you saying that the guvnor was murdered? By this Fox fellow?”

Ives nodded.

“And we are to catch him?” asked Sanderson, his usually merry eyes cold and determined.

Again Ives nodded.

Another moment of silence as they considered the situation. It was Ashby who asked quietly, “How much do we know about him, sir? Did Roxbury tell you anything else? Or do we simply start sifting dirt in the dark?”

Ives flashed an icy smile. “Roxbury has little to go on, but he did give me a list of three names for us to start with. Be aware that none of the men on the list may be our quarry. But they were all frequently seen in my father's or my cousin's company during the weeks just prior to their deaths. Which could mean nothing at all, just mere coincidence, but it seems likely to both Roxbury and me that one of them is our man, or may lead us to our man, else my father and Adrian would not have been so interested in them. They were not, according to Roxbury,” he finished dryly, “the type of gentlemen my father or Adrian would normally have found convivial. Each one has a questionable reputation. Roxbury has had his own men watching them for the past several months, but so far they have turned up nothing overtly suspicious.” Ives grinned like a tiger. “We, of course, shall do much better.” He handed the list to Ashby, who was seated nearest to him.

Ives did not have to read the list to know the names on it. They were burned on his brain, and mentally he ticked them off as the list was passed around to his men: William, Lord Grimshaw; Richard, Lord Coleman; and Etienne Marquette.

Two Englishmen and one Frenchman.

“Are we the only ones who know about this, sir?” asked Sanderson.

“Yes, and I want it to stay that way. That, incidentally, is an order.”

“So,” began Ogden, uneasily rubbing his bald head, “how do you want to proceed, sir? Begging your pardon, but seems to me that you should be the one doing the investigating. It is not very likely that any of us could walk smash up to any of these gentlemen and just start a casual conversation. We ain't exactly born to the manor.” He grinned, revealing his broken and missing teeth.

There was a general laugh and Ives said, “Your point is well taken, Ogden. I will deal with the gentlemen themselves. That is one of the reasons Roxbury laid the problem before me—his men could only watch from the fringes. Your part will be to discover everything that you can from their servants and tradesmen and the like. You will probably be duplicating Roxbury's efforts, but I prefer to start afresh. Once we have gathered the general information, you will proceed to make friends with the servants, and former servants.” He sent them a cynical look. “It is common knowledge that if you want to know anything disreputable about a gentleman, all you have to do is ask his servants, especially those who have left his employ.”

“What about the lieutenant, sir? Is he going to help you with the others?” Ashby asked worriedly. “Seems to me you need some help. Three to one is not odds that I like.”

“Forrest? More than likely I shall bring him in on this, but until I tell you differently, assume that we are the only ones who know about our friend, the Fox, and this list. You may decide amongst yourselves who is going to infiltrate which household. And do not forget to watch your backs.”

The men nodded and started to rise, but Ives stopped them. “Remember, we must arouse no suspicions. On the surface, keep up your daily routines and carry on as usual.” Ives smiled faintly. “I will, of course, understand the occasional dereliction of duty—provided you have some useful information for me when you return.”

Alone in his study once more, Ives sat back down and studied the list. Lord Grimshaw's inclusion had not been so surprising. After all, he had been the instigator of the wager that had sent the Harrington men to sea in the first place.

It was interesting to note, Ives thought, as his gaze slid down the paper, that he had just met Lord Coleman last night . . . and in the company of the fascinating little golden butterfly. Was she involved? he wondered. Might she know something? He doubted it, but it would be enjoyable to combine a little pleasure with the business at hand. Very soon, he decided with an odd twist in his gut, he would make certain his path crossed that of Lady Marlowe.

 

Sophy did not know whether to be pleased or disappointed when the day following the Dennings' at home brought no sign of Lord Harrington. She had half expected that he would call, and she told herself firmly she was very glad that he had not.

All in all, she had spent an enjoyable day. One of her few favorites amongst Simon's friends, Henry Dewhurst, had taken her and Phoebe for a drive in the park. Phoebe had thoroughly enjoyed it, her big golden eyes glowing with delight at the sights of all the fashionably dressed ladies and gentlemen, the gleaming carriages and spirited horses.

“Oh, Sophy, do look!” Phoebe suddenly cried excitedly, her cheeks flushed and her soft golden curls bouncing near her temples. “Is that not Brummell himself? The Beau?”

Glancing at the neatly garbed young man, impeccably attired in shining Hessians and a dark blue, elegantly fitting coat, Sophy smiled in his direction, and murmured, “Indeed it is.”

At that moment, the Beau looked at them and, recognizing Sophy, tipped his hat to her and bowed grandly. As Dewhurst's carriage swept by, Phoebe, her expression blissful, sank back against the cushions. “Beau Brummell actually acknowledged us!”

Sophy and Henry exchanged a comfortable look. It was one of the many things that she liked about him. He seemed to share her opinion in most things, and they dealt very well together, which surprised her since his cousin was Lord Grimshaw, whom she absolutely detested. The two men were always together and Sophy knew of their deplorable reputations. Yet there was something so very disarming and utterly charming about Henry that she tended to forget his relationship to Grimshaw.

Last year Henry had gently indicated that he would not mind having a deeper relationship with her, and Sophy supposed that if she wanted a lover, she could do worse than Henry Dewhurst.

Nearly forty, Henry was a handsome man, with laughing blue eyes and wavy chestnut hair. His manners were impeccable, and he was rumored to be very wealthy. Gossip claimed that if it were not for Henry, his older brother, the Baron Dewhurst, would be bankrupt.

Everyone liked Henry. He was extremely affable. Gentlemen thoroughly enjoyed his company, and, despite his raffish pursuits, many a society matron's bosom swelled with pride to have him attend one of her entertainments. In fact, the only thing Sophy held against him was his relationship with Grimshaw, which he couldn't help, and his friendship with Simon. He did not seem the type of decadent rogue who made up the majority of Simon's friends.