For Love Alone (12 page)

Anne's relationship with Marcus, however, could only be termed tepid. He politely tolerated her, and she viewed him with a wary forbearance.

While things were going rather well at the moment, Sophy was vaguely aware that something of a more permanent arrangement would have to be made for Anne. As requested, Miss Weatherby had promptly sent over Anne's effects and made no push to change the situation.

Anne's drain upon Sophy's purse, at present, was slight, and Sophy begrudged her not a penny, but she could see that there were going to be problems down the road. What would happen when the Season ended and the Grayson family returned to Cornwall? Of course, they would take Anne with them, but what sort of a dustup would ensue with Miss Weatherby? Sophy would not even let herself think of what might happen in a few years if the situation remained unresolved and it was time for Anne to make her London debut and young men were to come courting, as was certain to happen given Anne's beauty and great fortune.

The state of Anne's affairs worried Sophy and one afternoon about ten days after the interview with Miss Weatherby and Edward, Sophy asked her explicitly about it.

The three ladies were sitting in the small conservatory at the rear of the house, enjoying the spring sunshine as it beamed through the many windows. Phoebe and Anne had been halfheartedly plying their needles on some edifying samplers, and Sophy had been idly leafing through a pattern book sent to her by her favorite modiste.

Sophy had not really been paying attention to the book in front of her. Her mind had been on Anne's situation. Looking across at Anne's industriously bent head, she asked abruptly, “Why is your aunt so set on your marriage to my uncle? What does she gain by it?”

Anne was startled by the question, and for a moment her pansy brown eyes were blank. As comprehension set in, she put aside her sampler, and answered simply, “As I told you that first night, she wants me aligned with the aristocracy and your uncle was going to settle a substantial sum of money on her after we married. She doesn't have any money of her own. My grandfather disinherited her.”

“I know all that, but doesn't she have the ability to draw on your fortune?” Sophy asked, thinking of the way her uncle was raiding her siblings' fortune.

“Only for my upkeep and for that she has to apply to the trustees of my father's and grandfather's estates. Any sums for my care are generally disbursed directly to the creditors themselves, once the trustees determine they are legitimate. Aunt Agnes is given a household allowance for the day-to-day running of my establishment, and I understand that they pay her a sum of her own because she is taking care of me. Since she lives wherever I do, she has no actual living expenses. But the trustees are very strict. She is always complaining that they go over the household accounts rigorously, questioning all her expenditures. They are not stingy. They simply make certain that the money is spent on
me
or for my welfare.”

A frown furrowed Sophy's forehead. “Isn't she your legal guardian? Or are the trustees?”

“She is. The trustees watch over my fortune, but Aunt Agnes supposedly watches over me. My father named her my guardian after Grandfather died. She was my only living relative and he thought, if something were to happen to him, it would be better for me to be in the care of a relative than an utter stranger. He was aware of the safeguards my Grandfather had put in place to protect his estate from her grasp, and he took similar precautions.”

“And when you marry?”

“When I marry I suppose that my fortune will naturally be in the hands of my husband. The trusteeship would be ended.” Anne looked very adult as she said thoughtfully, “I believe what Aunt Agnes and your uncle planned is that once he and I were married, and he came into control of my fortune, he would settle a large portion of my money on her for having helped him marry me.”

“Why, that is utterly Gothic!” exclaimed Phoebe, who had been listening avidly. “It is a good thing that Sophy came along when she did! And I think that my uncle must be a dashed loose screw!”

“Phoebe!” Sophy scolded, choking back a laugh. “You must not talk that way. It is most unbecoming.”

“Marcus says it all the time,” Phoebe countered stubbornly. “And you do, too, so why can't I?”

“Because you are being raised a lady. I am beyond redemption, and your brother is a gentleman—they do as they please.”

“But you are a lady,” ventured Anne, “and you say whatever you want.”

“You forget,” Sophy answered with a dancing smile, “I may be a lady, but I am also a widow, and widows have far more freedom than mere ladies!”

“I wish I were a widow,” sighed Anne, and both Phoebe and Sophy burst out laughing.

“For shame,” Sophy said teasingly. “Not even a bride yet, and you are already wishing your poor husband in his grave.”

Having heard Sophy's history from Phoebe, Anne glanced at her through her lashes. “And did you never wish your husband dead?”

The laughter left Sophy's face, and in a hard little voice she admitted, “My husband's death was something I devotedly prayed for nearly every waking moment of my marriage. When he died I felt that my prayers had been answered.”

About to enter the conservatory to which he had been directed by Emerson, Ives paused in the doorway. For a gentleman contemplating a closer, more intimate relationship with the lady, hearing those sentiments fall from her lips was not precisely encouraging.

A little frown appeared between his eyes. He knew all about the death of Lady Marlowe's husband and the speculation that she might have murdered him, but he had dismissed it. Sophy's words, however, gave him pause. He'd not heard that note in her voice before, and, for the first time, he wondered about the circumstances surrounding her husband's death.

Sophy spied him just then, and cried, “Lord Harrington! Whatever is Emerson thinking of, to set you loose in the house unescorted.”

Ives grinned at her and stepped into the room, bowing to the three women. Looking at Sophy, he murmured, “You must not blame your butler. He attempted most earnestly to do his duties, but I convinced him that you would not take it amiss if I showed myself in.”

Sophy's eyes kindled at this further example of his high-handed ways.

“But what if I
do
take it amiss?”

“Ah, sweetheart, you would not punish the man for something not his own fault, would you?”

Having been on the losing end of several tussles lately once Lord Harrington had determined upon a course, Sophy gave Emerson her complete sympathy.

Warily eyeing her guest, she muttered, “Not only are you rude and overbearing, but I see that you have now added intimidation to your many crimes.”

Ives looked injured. “Nay, nay, sweetheart, you are all wrong. I did not intimidate him. I convinced him it was wisest to let me have my way.”

Well used to Lord Harrington's bantering ways, the two younger ladies giggled, and he grinned at them and winked.

Accepting the inevitable, Sophy asked, “Was there a reason for your call? Or have you just come to vex me?”

“Vex you, sweetheart? How can you speak so cruelly to me when you know that your slightest whim is my command?”

His dancing eyes invited her to enjoy the jest, and she gave a reluctant laugh. “I wish that I may live to see the day that you pay attention to any whims of mine!” she retorted tartly. “Now was there a particular reason for your call?”

“Actually there was. I was going to ask you if I might escort you to dinner with your friends, the Offingtons, on Thursday evening at Stephens's.”

Sophy snorted. “I suppose it would do me little good to refuse?”

He smiled. “It would seem a bit silly for you to do so, wouldn't it?”

“Are you ever at a loss?” Sophy asked regretfully, tamping down a strong desire to meet his smile. “Does nothing deter you?”

Oblivious to the wide-eyed stares of Phoebe and Anne, he took Sophy's hand in his and brushed a kiss across the back of it. “Not from something that I want.”

The laughter had faded from his face, and the searching look he gave her made her mouth grow dry, but before she could recover her wits, he took his leave.

He had hardly disappeared from view, before Anne sighed. “Oh, Lady Marlowe, how can you resist him? He is so handsome and so amusing. It is obvious that he finds himself vastly attracted to you. Why do you repulse his advances? I know
I
would not!”

Absently rubbing her hand where his lips had lingered Sophy muttered, “At your age, I doubt that you are an infallible judge of character. Do not be fooled by him. I learned at my own cost that gentlemen are always at their most charming when they are hunting.”

The conversation was dropped, but her own words would not leave Sophy's mind. Hunted was precisely how she felt. Ives Harrington was very definitely, despite her warning to the contrary, pursuing her. And none of her rebuffs, not scathing replies or cool glances, put him off his stride. He appeared to be unstoppable. And the question facing her was, did she truly want to stop him?

 

Sitting alone in her bedroom that evening after dinner, Sophy stared sightlessly into space, considering the problem. Her decision never to marry again had not changed, and to be honest, she was not certain it was her hand that Ives was seeking. Her eyes narrowed. Knowing the gentleman, a mistress was more than likely his goal.

That aside, however, she could not deny that she found Viscount Harrington too attractive by half. More attractive than any man she had ever met, even Simon, before he had shattered her illusions. In her idle moments she had considered what it would be like to have an affair with Ives. A very, very discreet affair, of course. The fact that she was even considering such an idea stunned her and made her decidedly uneasy.

But the idea did have merit. Once she had allowed him the intimacies that Simon had taken, she would be able to view Ives with disinterest, even revulsion, as she had her husband. More importantly, it was likely that she would no longer be plagued by indecent dreams of Ives kissing her, touching her . . .

A tap on the door distracted her unsettled thoughts and, at her command, Phoebe and Anne came into the room. They were both dressed for bed and, following their routine on the evenings Sophy was at home, they had come to spend some time with her before retiring.

Conversation was light and desultory, the girls teasing her a little more about Ives and discussing plans for the following week. Phoebe was sitting at Sophy's dressing table, idly fiddling with the various brushes and combs and bottles of scent scattered across the top of it. Anne was curled up at Sophy's feet, her head resting on Sophy's knee as they talked.

The small, ornate jewelry box that always remained on Sophy's dressing table eventually caught Phoebe's attention, and, glancing across at her sister, she asked, “Is that the jewelry box that Mother gave you?”

Sophy nodded, a sad little smile on her face. “Indeed it is. You may look at it, if you like.”

Reverently, Phoebe picked it up and promptly dropped it, spilling a sparkling array of bracelets, rings, and pins across the floor.

“Oh! I am sorry, Sophy. It just slipped from my hand.”

“Do not worry,” Sophy replied as she and Anne began to help Phoebe retrieve the scattered trinkets. “There is nothing of any great value in it, anyway.”

In a few moments all had been set to rights and Phoebe was about to put the box back in its place when Anne exclaimed, “Oh, wait, I see something shining under that chair.”

Crossing the room, she bent down and retrieved the object. Holding it up to the light, she gasped. “Never tell me that this is paste, Lady Marlowe! It is the most gorgeous ruby I have ever seen in my life. Surely it is real.”

Sophy's face drained of all color as she stared at the glittering ruby cravat pin in Anne's hand. All the ugly memories of the night Simon died rushed back: the fight with Simon, the flashes of lightning, the booming thunder and the half-seen—half-imagined—figure of a man pressed against the wall near the head of the stairs. Reliving the terrifying moments of seeing Simon's body lying so still on the floor below her, she was not aware of the passing seconds or the look on her face.

“Sophy!”
cried Phoebe, alarmed. “Are you all right?”

Sophy gave herself a shake and managed a weak smile. “Sorry. I do not know what came over me. And to answer Anne's question, I have no idea whether the stone is real or paste. I found it at Marlowe House. I'd forgotten that I even had it.”

“Forgotten!”
exclaimed Phoebe. “How could you forget about it?”

Sophy shrugged. “It was right after Simon died, and I was very busy. I simply thrust it into the jewelry box and never gave it another thought. It must have slipped beneath the other jewelry, and since I seldom wear anything from this box, I never noticed it.”

“You found it?” asked Anne. “If it is not real, it is a very good paste. I would have thought the owner would miss it and ask after it. Did no one ever inquire about it?”

“No,” said Sophy slowly, realizing disturbingly that Anne was correct. She took the ruby pin from Anne's hand and examined it closely. Holding it up to the crystal chandelier overhead, it flashed and sparkled with a deep bloodred glow. Surely paste would not be so vivid? And if it was real, why had no one ever mentioned that it had gone missing?

Long after the girls had departed for bed, Sophy sat staring at the ruby pin. Tomorrow she would take it to her jeweler and have him examine it. Perhaps then, at least, one question about the ruby would be answered.