For Love Alone (19 page)

It came again, louder this time, the sound of someone in pain. Forgetting for the moment her own danger, Sophy rushed over to the table and stared in shock at the body of her uncle lying on the floor. He was moaning and attempting to sit up as he muttered, “My bloody head. Oh, my bloody head.”

Contempt flashed across her face. He was drunk. That was her last thought. A stunning blow crashed into the back of her head, and she fell soundlessly to the floor almost at Edward's feet.

Edward stared at her crumpled shape, stupefied, and then at the dark figure who appeared out of the darkness. “I say,” said Edward, perplexed, “what is Sophy doing here? And what happened to her? Never say she is foxed?”

The other man smiled. “No, my dear fellow, she is not foxed.” He daintily stepped around Sophy's sprawled form and gently took the pistol from her limp hand. Leveling it at Edward, he murmured, “Her presence, however, was most necessary.”

Edward frowned, too drunk and dazed from having suffered Sophy's fate a short while ago, to understand his own peril. “What are you doing with that pistol?” he asked idiotically.

The Fox smiled more broadly. Aiming at Edward's head, he said softly, “Simply tying up some loose ends, my friend.” And calmly shot Edward between the eyes.

The sound of the shot echoed throughout the house, but moving with unruffled haste, the Fox made certain that Edward was truly dead, then placed the pistol back in Sophy's hand before swiftly leaving the library.

As he stepped into the hall, he could hear the noises of the roused house and smiled to himself. Right on time. Carefully smoothing the lapel of his black-silk robe, he disappeared into the shadows at the end of the hall and waited coolly to melt into the crowd when they came tumbling down the stairs to find the results of his work. A yawn escaped him. Murder was such an arduous business.

T
he stealthy opening of Sophy's door brought Ives instantly awake, and, barely taking time to fling on a robe to cover his nakedness, he sprang across the room. The click of the closing of her door made him stiffen. Had someone entered her room?

The faint gleam of light peeping under his own door, told him that such was not the case. Someone was standing in the hallway right outside her door. When the light receded, disappearing in the direction of the main staircase, a terrible fear struck him. Was he too late? Had someone already entered her room and ravished her while he slept? Was it the
departure
of the villain which had roused him?

His face grim, Ives warily opened his door. The hall was in darkness except for the faint light drifting down the stairs. Concern for Sophy overrode his instinct to follow the predator, and Ives slipped into Sophy's room, calling softly, “Sophy, do not be fearful. It is Ives. I heard a sound. Is all well with you?”

Complete silence followed his words. He swiftly crossed the room and discovered that Sophy's bed was empty. It had been
Sophy
descending the stairs?

Utterly perplexed and not a little worried, Ives stepped back into the hallway. What the devil was she up to? The unwelcome thought occurred to him that she might be meeting a lover. It did not seem likely, and he banished the idea almost as quickly as it had occurred. So what was she doing?

The light from her candle had already vanished when he reached the top of the stairs. He hesitated a moment, debating the wisdom of his next actions. The lady already believed the worst of him, and he doubted that if she discovered him creeping after her in the darkness that she would readily believe that he had only her best interests at heart.

Yet, he simply could not go back to bed and forget about her. There could be some innocent reason for her to be wandering about the house at this ungodly hour, although he could not imagine what it could be. If this were the case, she could find herself in a rather vulnerable position if she were to stumble across one of the drunken revelers.

He grimaced. It seemed he had no choice but to follow her and make certain that she was unmolested. He suddenly grinned. Except, of course, by himself.

Ives had almost reached the bottom of the staircase, when the sound of a shot exploded throughout the house. Leaping down the remaining stairs, he hesitated, trying to get his bearings in the blackness and attempting to get a fix on the direction from which the shot had come.

As the seconds passed and he stood there indecisively, he heard the sounds of the first doors opening and apprehensive exclamations from the floor above. He had to find Sophy.

After one false start, he caught a glimpse of the faint glow of light from beneath a door midway down one of the long halls that snaked through the house. Only moments ahead of the others, Ives plunged into the library to find a dazed Sophy half-standing, half-leaning on a table . . . a very dead Edward nearby.

The ugly hole in the center of Edward's forehead and the pistol clasped in Sophy's hand told the story, but Ives could not credit his eyes. Sophy, a cold-blooded murderess? Even enraged, she would not shoot a defenseless man. He would stake his life on it.

He smiled grimly. It looked as if he was going to have to do just that.

The progress of the other inhabitants cautiously coming down the stairs could be heard, and Ives knew he had only seconds in which to act. He snatched the pistol from Sophy's slack fingers and concealed it in the deep pocket of his brocade robe. Pulling Sophy into his arms, he shook her slightly and gave her a smart tap on the cheek.

“Look sharp, sweetheart! We haven't a moment to lose.”

Sophy groaned and put a trembling hand to her head. She stared uncomprehendingly at Ives's dark, tense face. “My head,” she muttered. “Someone struck me.” She blinked. “Edward,” she said weakly. “My uncle. He was here. Drunk.”

“Well, he is dead now,” Ives said coolly. “Very dead. And if we are to brush through the next few minutes without you ending up on the scaffold, you will have to trust me and hold your tongue. Let me do the talking.”

“Dead!” Sophy gasped, horrified, as she gazed up at him. “But he cannot be. He was alive, I tell you, only a moment ago. I spoke with him.”

“Let me assure you, you will not be speaking with him again,” he retorted bluntly, uneasily aware that they were on the point of being discovered. He swung her around and pointed to Edward's corpse. “As you can see, he is quite dead. And
you
were lying beside him with a pistol in your hand. Now keep your mouth shut and follow my lead.”

At his words and the sight of her uncle's lifeless body, Sophy instinctively shrank back against Ives. “But what happened?” she asked, shocked and shaken by the scene. “Who shot him?” An urgent look on her lovely face, she said, “I swear to you that I did not!”

His features softened, and he gripped her shoulders reassuringly. “I never doubted it, but I am afraid, dear Butterfly, that someone arranged it to look as though
you
had.” It was the only explanation that fit the scene, Ives thought grimly. Sophy had a very bad enemy.

There was no time for further speech. The door to the library was slowly pushed wide, and Allenton, followed by several of the other gentlemen garbed in hastily thrown-on robes and carrying candles, came into the room.

“Good gad!” exclaimed Allenton as he took in the scene before him. “Someone has shot poor Scoville. Murdered him.”

All eyes went from Edward's body on the floor to Sophy firmly clasped in Ives's protective embrace. “It would appear so,” Ives said levelly. “We heard the shot and found him like this.”

“Together?” drawled Grimshaw, a decidedly unpleasant look on his saturnine features.

Ives nodded curtly.

“But how is it,” inquired Lord Coleman, his eyes full of suspicion, “that you happened to arrive here ahead of all of us? Hmm?”

Ives grinned at him and dropped a kiss on the top of Sophy's head. “The lady,” he said smoothly, “had a notion for a moonlight walk.” His smile fading and his gaze boring into Coleman's, he added, “We were already downstairs when we heard the shot.”

“Now why,” asked Grimshaw, “do I have trouble believing you? It is just a little too convenient.”

Sophy felt Ives stiffen. “Are you implying that I am lying?” he asked very softly.

Realizing his danger, Grimshaw said hastily, “Ah, no. Not at all.” He cleared his throat and muttered, “But what was Edward doing here? And who killed him? And why?”

“Do you think it might have been a robbery?” asked Allenton, glancing nervously around the room.

“It could have been,” Ives answered slowly. “But we have no idea what occurred. We are as puzzled as the rest of you.”

Etienne Marquette, who had entered the room a few minutes behind Henry Dewhurst, said bluntly,
“Mon Dieu!
But this is all very odd. Lady Marlowe's animosity toward Edward was well-known,
oui?
Recently many of us have heard her threaten to kill him. Even this very evening there was that scene between them in the saloon. If I had to choose someone who might have murdered Scoville, my first choice would be, I regret to say, Lady Marlowe.” He bent a hard eye on Ives. “Are you saying that Lady Marlowe has been with you the
entire
evening? That she has never been out of your sight?”

Ives's clasp tightened around Sophy when he felt her stir in what he suspected was vehement denial. “Not only with me,” he replied levelly, “but hardly out of my arms.”

Still half-stunned from the blow to the head and the shock of finding her uncle dead, Sophy had been following the exchanges with difficulty, but she already realized precisely how precarious her position was. If Ives had not reached her first, the scene that would have greeted the others would have, without question, condemned her to the scaffold. She would have been found swaying over the body, a pistol clasped in her hand. All her protests of innocence, of being struck on the head, would have been for naught. She would have hanged.

Gratitude for Ives's quick thinking flooded her, but as the minutes passed she perceived that in trying to shield her, he was digging a trap for both of them, a trap she greatly feared would prove impossible to escape.

Henry Dewhurst approached them. A peculiar expression on his face, he demanded, “Are you telling us that you are
lovers
?”

Dewhurst's incredulity was obvious, and Sophy felt a pang. In his fashion, Henry had been one of her most persistent suitors, and she knew that Ives's words hurt him. But without placing herself in grave danger and publicly proving Ives a liar, she could not refute any of the tale. Miserably she stared back at Henry

“Yes,” she said in a low tone, “we are lovers.”

She was aware that Ives relaxed slightly at her statement. Aware, too, that she had thoroughly ruined herself, she turned her head aside, unconsciously resting her cheek against Ives's broad chest. She supposed a ruined reputation was better than hanging, but at the moment that thought brought little comfort.

“Not only are we lovers,” Ives added boldly, “but the lady and I intend to marry by special license, just as soon as I can arrange it.”

Sophy gasped and stared up at him in horrified disbelief. Fierce protest hovered on her lips, but Ives silenced her by the simple expedient of kissing her, hard and possessively. Lifting his head a brief moment later, he surveyed the startled gentlemen, and murmured, “Our walk in the moonlight was to celebrate our decision to marry.”

“I see,” said Dewhurst tightly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “If that is the case, even under the sad circumstances, I suppose that congratulations are in order.”

“Most unusual,” murmured Lord Coleman, who looked unconvinced by Ives's story. “Man dead on the floor. No time to be thinking of congratulations.”

Since Ives held firm to his story, and no one could contradict his words, attention turned to Edward's corpse. Eyeing the body uncomfortably, Allenton said, “The authorities must be notified. Sir John Matthews is a neighbor and a justice of the peace. He will know what to do.”

He looked around at the others, and muttered, “It is difficult to believe, but someone murdered Scoville, perhaps even someone in this house. We are all going to be under suspicion, and it is going to be damned unpleasant until the guilty party is discovered. In the meantime, I suggest that the library be locked and we retire to our rooms to dress. I shall wake the servants and have one of my men ride to Sir John's place.” He sighed. “There will be no more sleep tonight for any of us.”

Everyone agreed, and, after watching him lock the door to the library, they all returned upstairs to their various rooms. Ives kept a firm hand on Sophy's arm, and when she would have sought out her own room, he gently but inexorably guided her into his chamber.

The door had hardly shut behind him when Sophy freed herself from his grasp and swung round to face him. “I cannot marry you!” she said forcefully. “Whatever made you say such an outrageous thing?” She frowned. “I understand why you had to indicate that we were lovers, but to declare that we are to wed! Are you mad?”

Despite the lateness of the hour and the terrible events of the evening, Ives thought that she had never looked lovelier. It was true that there were purple smudges under her eyes and that her hair tumbled wildly in great golden masses around her shoulders, but those signs of her ordeal only increased her ethereal beauty. Her features were pale and strained, her eyes huge as she stared at him in the dancing candlelight, increasing her look of vulnerability, and Ives was suddenly aware that he would move heaven and earth to see that she never had to undergo a night like this one again. He would keep his little golden butterfly safe from harm, if she would allow it. And from the expression on her face, he thought ruefully, it appeared that he was going to have a fight on his hands.

Smiling faintly, he murmured, “It is true that I am mad, sweetheart. Quite mad. For you.”

Sophy glared at him, her hands on her hips. “Will you cease? This is no time for frivolity. What are we going to do?”

“What we are going to do, dear heart,” Ives said slowly and determinedly, “is precisely as I told the others. I will obtain a special license and we shall marry.”

“I will not marry you!” Sophy said through gritted teeth, her earlier gratitude evaporating, the memory of his deplorable actions during the preceding several hours rushing to the fore.

The man had recently shown himself to be a drunken, hardened rake, every bit as bad as Simon had been. And he thought she would
marry
him?