For Love Alone (28 page)

“You would be, too,” she said glumly, “if everyone thought that you were the murderer.”

“Do you count me as everyone?” he asked softly.

“Of course not. You are my husband!”

Ives's shout of laughter rang out and they rode together in perfect charity to the Grayson town house.

It was obvious to both of them that Agnes Weatherby knew a great deal more about Edward's plan than she had let on. It was equally clear she had every intention of attempting to follow through with his original scheme, which they strongly suspected entailed blackmail of some sort. It also had not escaped them that Agnes also was able to point the finger of suspicion at Edward's murderer.

“She is running a terrible risk,” Sophy said, as the coach drew up at the house and stopped.

“I know,” Ives agreed. “But right now there is nothing that we can do to stop her.”

As they entered the house, they were met by Sanderson. Taking Ives's hat and gloves and Sophy's pelisse, he said with a telling glance at Ives, “You have a visitor, m'lord. It is the Duke of Roxbury. He insisted upon waiting for you. I put him in the little room behind the library.”

“Will you excuse me, my dear?” Ives asked Sophy.

Her heart sank upon hearing Sanderson's first words, but learning that it was only Ives's godfather, her spirits rose again. She was thankful that it was not Grimshaw or Coleman who awaited her husband.

Ives found his godfather comfortably ensconced in a chair of oxblood leather, his feet propped on a stool of the same material and cup of coffee at his side. “About time you returned,” he growled. “What did you mean by sending me that dashed cryptic note and then taking off?”

Ives smiled. “I believe my note said I would call on you this evening, sir.”

Roxbury harrumphed and muttered, “Never mind that. Tell me about this robbery.”

Succinctly, Ives did so.

Roxbury was frowning when Ives finished speaking. “You really think that this is somehow tied to the Fox?”

Ives grimaced. “I think it is possible. You once said you disliked coincidence—I find that I am of the same mind. It
could
be a coincidence, this peculiar robbery, but I do not think so. I cannot fathom how it is all connected—the Fox, Edward's death, and the assault on Sophy's room—but my instinct tells me that there is a connection.”

“You could be right,” Roxbury finally admitted reluctantly. “But I will withhold judgment for the time being. Now what about Meade? What have you learned?”

“Well, I think that we can safely eliminate one of the names from the list—Etienne Marquette.” Concisely, he brought his godfather up-to-date on the latest events.

“I'm inclined to agree with you,” Roxbury said after taking a sip of his coffee. “It is apparent that the Fox was merely trying to confuse the issue and deflect any interest in himself by sacrificing Marquette. Which still leaves us two names, Grimshaw and Coleman.”

Ives sighed. “I know, and I am no closer to choosing between them than I was at the beginning. Simply because I dislike him and know he was behind that fatal wager, I want it to be Grimshaw, but I can give you no proof that he is, indeed, the Fox. And it could be argued that Coleman's reticent behavior, his habit of not bringing attention to himself, is merely a facade.” He glanced across at Roxbury. “Is there anything new on the memorandum?”

Roxbury shook his head. “No. But if your little plan is going to work, I suspect that something should happen soon. If it does not, then we have to suppose that the Fox was too smart to take the bait.”

 

The Fox was considering the memorandum at that very moment. Instinct told him it was a trap. Ives's sudden affinity for Meade's company, his unexpected desire to consort with the determined roués who surrounded Meade was suspicious in itself, and the coincidence of such an important document surfacing at the same time...

It could be coincidence, he admitted. And it was possible that having tasted the bland delights of polite society, Ives Harrington had decided it lacked excitement and spice and had been drawn to the likes of himself and Meade and the others. It
was
possible, but he did not think it was so.

But the memorandum. An avaricious gleam suddenly lit his eyes. He had been toying for several months now with the idea of making the Fox disappear forever. He'd had a good run; why not quit while he was ahead? Besides, the end would come soon enough. Whatever the outcome, the war with Napoleon could only drag on so long. And he had enough money now.

Yet the notion of making the filching of the memorandum his final act of treason filled him with pleasure. The French would pay a bloody
fortune
to know the movements of Wellesley's troops on the Peninsula and while he did not precisely
need
the money, a man could never have too much wealth. And then there was the sheer excitement of thumbing his nose at those clumsy fools at the Horse Guards. It would be a wonderful coup. And if it was a trap, how thrilling to elude Roxbury's hungry hounds.

But dared he risk it? He rather thought he did.

He had set up a meeting with his French connection for that night. Once the French learned of the existence of the document and the possibility of his laying his hands on it, the die would be cast. The French would want it at any cost, and if
he
did not supply it, they would find someone who would. He had debated the wisdom of what he was about to do for a few days before finally sending word on Tuesday for the need of a meeting. The memorandum smelled wrong, but the smell of gold was stronger.

 

The meeting with the Frenchman was disagreeable. The man was an oaf who had no concept of the dangers involved and little sympathy for the perils the Fox might face.

They sat in a dark corner of a dirty little tavern near the banks of the River Thames, the stink of the river permeating even the endemic odors the Fox preferred not to identify. He was, as usual for this type of foray, disguised. His clothing was worn and tattered. A scruffy beard and false eyebrows stolen long ago from an actor acquaintance completely changed his appearance. A battered black hat was pulled low, almost completely obscuring his face.

No one would recognize him. It had just been damned bad luck that he had been unaware of Simon's presence when the other man had followed him home that night long ago. In the intervening years, having learned his lesson well, he had grown quite adept at spotting and throwing off any followers. He was, he thought modestly, quite without parallel.

The Frenchman did not think so, and he growled,
“Mon Dieu!
I do not see what is so difficult. Simply steal the document.”

“I've told you,” the Fox explained with growing impatience, “that I suspect that the document is being closely watched. A copy would give you the same information, but with very little risk.”

The Frenchman glanced at him. “You expect us to pay you for a
copy?”
he asked incredulously. “That is impossible,
monsieur! Non.
We must have the original.”

“And if you have the original, the British will know of it and change their plans.”

The Frenchman looked thoughtful. “What do you propose?”

“I propose that I have my underling bring the memorandum to me. I shall show it to you so that you may assure your superiors of its validity, but it will be a
copy
that actually goes to France. The original document will be returned immediately to the Horse Guards, with no one the wiser.”

The Frenchman did not like it, but he could see the wisdom of the plan. “Very well,” he said disagreeably. “When can you have it?”

It was the Fox's turn to look thoughtful. The longer they waited to snatch the document, the less time the French would have to take advantage of the information outlined in it. There was also the fact that with every passing day, there was every possibility that the document would be moved beyond Meade's grasp. But the possibility of a trap worried him a great deal, which was why he had not yet expressed any interest in the memorandum to Meade.

“Well?” demanded the Frenchman. “When?”

The Fox threw him a glance of sheer venom. Did not the fat oaf understand that it was
his
neck he was risking?

“No later than this time next week,” he said finally.

“Sacré bleu!
A week! You expect me to wait a week?”

His mouth tightened. “I said,” he gritted out, “no
later
than a week. I may have it for you as early as Monday, but I cannot deny that it may take longer. I must make certain arrangements, and that will take time.”

The Frenchman regarded him with open dislike. “See that these
arrangements
of yours do not take too much time,
mon ami,
or we may decide to dispense with your services ... permanently.”

The Fox hid his rage, meekly bowing his head in acknowledgment of the threat. The fool dared to threaten him? Once he had been paid for the document, he might just kill this impudent fellow for the pleasure of it.

“You have,” he muttered, no sign of his inner fury apparent, “nothing to fear. The document will be yours.”

Leaving the Frenchman, the Fox scurried to one of several safe hiding places he had scattered throughout London. Changing back into his normal clothes, he slipped out into the night and, by a circuitous route, made it to his own home.

Pouring himself a large snifter of brandy, he sat down and savored the bite of the liquor on his tongue and throat as he slowly drank. Contacting Meade, he decided a few minutes later, must be his first step, and there was no time to lose.

Setting aside his brandy, he reached for writing materials. Disguising his hand, he quickly wrote a note that would, no doubt, titillate Meade and bring him salivating for gold to the place the Fox had directed for their meeting. It was too late to find some anonymous urchin to deliver the note tonight, but tomorrow morning, first thing, he would see to it.

Feeling rather satisfied with events, he sat back and took another sip of his brandy. He would meet with Meade tomorrow night and, if things went well, by Monday evening he would have the document and the copy.

There was just one little blot on his rosy horizon—that damned ruby pin! He scowled. It had been, he admitted sourly, a dashed bloody mistake to attempt to rob the Grayson house Wednesday night.

Edward had not said outright that it was Sophy who found the pin, but he suspected that it was so. Who else could it have been? Certainly not Edward. If Edward had found it, he would have attempted to blackmail him years ago. No, it had to have been Sophy who showed it to Edward.

Knowing that Harrington and Sophy were not in residence, it had seemed a propitious time to look for it. He had stolen the conservatory key when he had come to call with his friends earlier in the day, so entering the house that night had occurred without incident. Taking a few items on his way up the stairs had been easy, and he had planned to create more havoc in the remainder of the house on his way out.

Grimly he realized that he had run a terrible risk and all for nothing. Despite the destruction of Sophy's room, he had not found the cravat pin. If only he'd had a little more time....

A thrill of fright ran through him as he relived that terrifying moment when Marcus Grayson opened the door and stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief. If he had hesitated even a moment, the boy would have roused the house. By Jove, but it had been a near thing.

That damned pin. It haunted him. For the time being he had to hope that with Edward dead, no one else would connect it to him. But where, he wondered uneasily, was the damned pin? Who actually possessed it? His mouth thinned. Just because he had not found it in Sophy's room did not mean she did not have it, but the idea that someone else, someone utterly unknown to him, might have it sent a chill down his spine.

He took another swallow of brandy. Only Edward, he told himself reassuringly, had connected him to the pin and from there to the Fox. It was the Fox who was a danger to him, not the pin. He had been, he realized, a fool to lose his head and try to find it. He would forget about the pin and, if it surfaced, act as surprised as anyone else that it had been found after all this time. He had been clever and cautious all these years, and he was
not
going to be undone by something as small and insignificant as a cravat pin!

 

The Season was nearing its end and in less than a month London would be barren of most of the members of the ton. The frantic rounds of balls, soirees, and routs had increased dramatically in recent days, and the news of Sophy's sudden wedding to such an eligible bachelor as Viscount Harrington only added to the frenzy of activities.

Everyone—having learned of the marriage from the announcement in the
Times
that Roxbury, at Ives's request, had placed the previous Tuesday—seemed determined to be among the first to greet the new couple. That Saturday morning, having learned that the newlyweds were once more in residence, found Sophy flooded with cards and invitations—and callers. In desperation, having waved good-bye to the last of several grandes dames of the ton who had come to call, Sophy ordered Emerson to tell everyone that she was not at home. Ives, the wretch, perhaps guessing how it would be, had escaped earlier in the day with Marcus to look at a new horse her brother was thinking of buying at Tattersall's.

Sinking down onto the sofa, Sophy looked across at Lady Beckworth, and said, “I never thought that my marriage to your nephew would arouse such interest. I must confess that I am not used to being so ... so popular with the ton. I am certainly grateful you agreed to stay here with us for a few more days. I do not know what I would have done if you had not been here to help deflect some of the attention.”