Any hope to catch Meade red-handed in an attempt to return the document to its file at the Horse Guards was dashed when the memorandum unexpectedly turned up, that very morning, on the desk of a Captain Brownwell whose office was several doors away from Meade's. That unpleasant news was brought to Ives while he was still examining the warehouse where Meade had disappeared.
The captain had been astonished to find such an important document mixed in with the papers on his desk, and he had immediately alerted his superior officer. Since only a few select people had known about the document, there was quite an uproar before one of Roxbury's men, in the guise of an officer assigned to Meade's division, had swiftly stepped in and delicately defused the situation.
Having now gone without sleep for over twenty-four hours, Ives was not in an amiable frame of mind when he met once again with his godfather that morning at the Green Boar. Before Roxbury could be seated, his face showing the signs of lack of sleep, Ives asked harshly, “So who returned the document?”
“I do not know,” Roxbury replied grumpily, looking as weary as his tall godson as he settled gingerly into a worn leather chair across from Ives. It had been a long disappointing night for both of them.
Glancing at Ives, he asked, “And Meade? Has he returned to his lodgings?”
Ives shook his head. “Not yet. And it worries meâhe should have returned to Half Moon Street by now. Was he expected at the Horse Guards this morning, do you know?”
“As a matter of fact, he wasn't. Took a fortnight of leave. Said he was going to Brighton.”
“And when did you learn this interesting bit of news?” Ives asked sourly.
Roxbury sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just before I came here to meet you. It seems that the good colonel arranged it with his superior officer only yesterday,
late
in the afternoon, I might add. And there is no use firing up because we just found out about itâMeade's superior officer was
not
in on our little plan or even aware of our suspicions. I intend to keep him that way.”
Moodily, Roxbury admitted, “We cannot let all and sundry know what is happening. I have deliberately kept the number of people who know about Meade to a minimumâthere are only four people in the entire Horse Guards who know of our suspicions.”
“But if Meade was going to Brighton,” Ives said slowly, a frown wrinkling his forehead, “why didn't he return to his lodgings before departing? Assuming he is actually going to Brighton.”
“You tell me.”
Ives rose from the chair in which he had been sitting. Stalking restlessly around the room, he said meditatively, “I do not think he went to Brighton at all. I'll wager a monkey he is already dead. And I'll wager two monkeys that our friend, the Fox, convinced him to put in for that leave, knowing that Meade was never going to arrive in Brighton. No one is going to be very concerned about Colonel Meade's absence for at least a fortnight.”
“And the document? How did it get on Captain Brownwell's desk? Fairies?”
Ives smiled slightly. “That is probably simplest of allâa straightforward bribe to some underling. There is, in all likelihood, someone at the Horse Guards this very moment who was paid to return the documentâeither by Meade, who concocted a believable story to explain why he had it in the first place, or by the Fox, and we both know how clever he is! My money is on the Fox.”
“And of course, without exposing our game, we cannot question anyone about it,” Roxbury said wearily.
“Exactly.”
It was silent in the room for a few minutes, Ives staring blindly at the floor, Roxbury gazing into space.
It was Ives who broke the quiet. “It seems to be our morning for bad news, sir,” he said abruptly. At Roxbury's wary glance, he made a face and added, “The men assigned to watch Grimshaw and Coleman reported that both men returned directly to their lodgings after they left the Pigeon Hole last night, and neither one ventured forth until this morning.”
“Damme! If the Fox is not one of those two, who the hell is he?” burst out Roxbury, banging his fist on the table.
Thoughtfully, Ives said, “I would not exonerate them yet, sir. It
is
possible that one of them left his lodgings and was not seen by my men. Don't forget, we have just learned, to our cost, about secret passageways.” Ives paused, then added, “There is something else, too, that I have not mentioned before because I thought it meant nothing, but I think it might be pertinent now.” Reluctantly, he went on to explain Ogden's odd feeling of being watched that one night.
Roxbury stared fixedly at him. “I cannot tell you,” he said hollowly, “how reassuring I find this new information. Do you mean to tell me,” he went on with growing anger, “that your men may have missed him? That the Fox has been slipping in and out of our net at will? Scampering about right under our very noses?”
Ives grimaced. “I don't like it any better than you do, sir, but it is possible, especially in view of Ogden's report. And I would prefer to know that we have been, er, outfoxed, if you will pardon the pun, than to admit that we have been chasing the wrong man all this time, that neither Coleman nor Grimshaw is the Fox.”
Roxbury sank back into his chair. “I hope you are right. What do you intend to do now?”
Ives shrugged. “In order to make certain that the Fox
isn't
somehow avoiding detection, I'll have to double the men watching Grimshaw and Coleman. I favor Grimshaw for the Fox rather than ColemanâOgden was watching Grimshaw the night in question, and Grimshaw seems to be paying an uncomfortable amount of attention to my behavior of late.” Ives suddenly grinned. “Besides which, I don't like the fellow. He's too smoky by half.”
“Do you think it will do any good?” Roxbury asked, defeat in his gray eyes. “I think we have to face the fact that the Fox has bested us. The contents of the memorandum are no doubt already on their way to France, the Fox has his gold, and Meade is very likely dead. The trap is sprung, my boy, and there is no trail to follow. We are back where we began.”
“That may be. But, then again, perhaps not,” Ives said slowly. “The trap may have failed, sir, but don't forget there is every possibility that the Fox murdered Edwardâand Agnes Weatherby. It may be that in investigating these two crimes we shall pick up a new trail, one that will lead us directly to his den.”
Roxbury looked interested. “You may be right.” His lips twisted. “And we certainly have no other avenues open to us at present.”
There was no denying that Ives was bitterly disappointed at losing Meade and the opportunity of exposing the Fox, but he was in a decidedly better mood when he eventually left his godfather and began to make his way home.
He would have to talk to Sophy, he realized. About her uncle. And about that puzzling robbery. There had to be a connection. All he had to do, he admitted wryly, was to find it, hope it led to the Fox, and use it to fashion a snare that the Fox could not escape!
As luck would have it, Sophy was just descending the main staircase when Ives entered the house. That he had been out all night and was just now returning home was apparent by the dark shadow of beard on his face, and the fact that he was still wearing the same clothes she had seen him in last. Her lip lifted contemptuously, but when she would have brushed past him, Ives caught her arm.
“Take your hand off of me,” Sophy said in an arctic voice, her gold eyes as cold and brittle as ice.
His hand dropped as if scorched, but he blocked her way with his body. “I need to talk to you. Privately. Now.”
“I cannot imagine why,” she returned acidly, attempting to step around him.
“Sophy,” he said in a voice that made her look at him sharply, “this is important. Please.”
Not liking the way her heart was fluttering in her breast, she sniffed, and said unenthusiastically, “Oh, very well, my lord. Shall we use your office?”
He smiled at her, such a tender and charming smile that, in spite of herself, Sophy felt herself melting. “Thank you, sweetheart,” Ives said softly. “You will not regret it. I swear to you.”
Sophy snorted, but she meekly accompanied him to the small room at the rear of the house. When the door closed behind them, Sophy took another look at his haggard features and rumpled clothing, and marched over to the bell rope in one corner. Giving it a yank, she said firmly, “I think you will feel better if you have something to eat and drink.”
He smiled gratefully at her. Shrugging out of his jacket and tossing aside his once-pristine cravat, he said, “Some strong coffee would certainly not be refused.”
Emerson answered the summons, and, after hearing Sophy's request, he departed.
Left alone, Sophy and Ives warily regarded each other across the short distance separating them. Sophy held out for as long as she could, and only when the room suddenly seemed claustrophobic did she speak. “Well?” she demanded. “What is it?”
Ives shook his head and sat down with obvious weariness on the small green-leather sofa that sat against one wainscoted wall. “If you do not mind, I would prefer to wait until after Emerson returns. Once we start talking I want no interruptions.”
Sophy's heart nearly stopped. Had he decided that their marriage was a mistake? Was he ... ? Good gad! Could he possibly be considering divorcing her? Chilled as never before, Sophy stared at him, realizing sickly that she wanted no life without Ives Harrington in it.
Emerson's return with a tray laden with food and drink broke into her unhappy thoughts, and she waited with impatience for the butler to cease serving Ives and leave the room. The door had barely shut behind him before she asked, “And now, my lord, perhaps you could tell me the reason for this meeting?”
Carefully setting down his cup of very hot, very black coffee, Ives nodded. “It is about your uncleâhis murder.” He frowned. “And to a lesser extent, about Agnes Weatherby's murder.”
Sophy almost sighed aloud with relief, the dreadful specter of divorce vanishing from her mind. Weakly she sank down in a comfortable leather chair near where he sat.
But she was also puzzled. What had happened last night that had brought him home to immediately seek out an interview with her about Edward? Despite believing she knew
precisely
what he had been doing all night long, an unexpected thought occurred to her: was it possible that he had not been out whoring and gambling last night? Could his abrupt disappearance from home and his weary-eyed return this morning have something to do with Edward's murder? She preferred for such to be the case, but having been previously married for several years to a rakish scoundrel did not engender her with much optimism.
However, she could not help asking carefully, “Does Edward's murder have anything to do with your, er, reasons for being gone all night?”
Ives smiled tiredly. “I do not know. That is why we are having this conversation.”
Sophy frowned and ignored the little bud of hope that curled in her breast. She would not be fooled by him. Simon had played tricks on her too often for her to simply take Ives's words at face value.
“Very well,” she said prosaically, curious in spite of herself. “What is it you wish to know?”
“Just like that? No further questions? You are going to trust me?”
Seeming quite fascinated by the fold of her pale pink gown, Sophy did not look at him as she said, “I doubt you would answer any of my questions if I were foolish enough to ask them. And as for trusting you”âshe glanced up and steadily met his gazeâ“no, my lord, I do not trust you. But I will play your game until I satisfy myself that it is a game.”
He smiled crookedly. “I cannot fault you for plain speaking, can I, my dear?”
“Would you prefer that I pretend otherwise?” she asked coolly. “I can, if you like.”
“No, I admire your honesty, I only wish you would learn to trust me a little.” He smiled whimsically at her. “I am not a bad man, you know.”
Wishing he did not look quite so attractively dissipated sprawled on the sofa before her, Sophy stifled a sigh as she stared at him. His face was worn and creased from his long night, but the weariness sat well on his craggy features, enhancing them rather than taking away from their impact. There was an expression in his bright green eyes that she found far too compelling for her own good. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, his rumpled shirt partially open, revealing the strong column of his neck and a few tufts of springy black hair. She was appalled at how vastly appealing she found him at this very moment.
Agitatedly she rose to her feet. Looking anywhere but at him, she began to pace the small room. “I never said you were a bad man. Simon was not a
bad
man, just a selfish scoundrel who put his own comfort and desires first. I will grant you that you have treated me and my family quite wonderfully. There are times when I believe you are nothing like Simon, but then ...” She stopped squarely in front of him and her lovely golden eyes fixed on his, she said bluntly, “There are times that I think you are precisely like him.”
Ives winced, and leaning his head back against the sofa, closed his eyes. “I probably deserved that,” he said, “but I do not want to discuss my character at the moment.” His mouth twisted. “Or Simon's. In fact,” he said grimly, sitting up and opening his eyes to glare at her, “I would prefer not even to hear his name.”
She dipped her head. “Very well, my lord. We shall not discuss him.” She sat back down and said, “Now, what is it about Edward that you wish to know?”
Ives rubbed his aching head, aware that he should have taken the time to sleep before starting this interview. However, he was conscious of a gnawing need to discover some clue, no matter how small, that would point him in a fresh directionâ
then
he would sleep.