For Love Alone (4 page)

“I thought you said it was only rumors.”

Percival looked annoyed. “So you were listening to me, after all! The official verdict is that he died in a fall down the stairs, but I was there that night—and I think she killed him.” When Ives cocked an inquiring brow, Percival added, “I fell in with Marlowe's crowd when I first returned, which is how I know so much about his reputation. I do not want to make excuses for myself, but I had just come home after years of fighting in the wars and had seen and done things that were undoubtedly the substance of the most terrifying nightmares imaginable. Suddenly I had a great deal of time and money at my disposal. Marlowe and his friends were just the sort of wild and randy fellows to appeal to someone like me let loose in London, looking for adventure. It took me a while to realize that there is a great difference between wildness and wickedness. Marlowe was a downright nasty fellow, his friends not much better.” Percival took a deep breath. “I am not proud of my actions that first year or two when I returned to England . . . but that is all behind me now.”

“If the official verdict is accidental death, why do you still think she killed him?” Ives asked idly.

“Marlowe was drinking heavily that night, but I know that he was not
that
foxed. And, there had been a terrible argument between them only minutes before he fell to his death. It was well-known amongst us that he had been denied his wife's bed. He complained bitterly about it when in his cups. And it was equally well-known that his wife despised him
and
his friends.”

“And that is the basis of your belief that she killed him?” Ives's incredulity was obvious.

“Of course that is not all!” Percival replied testily. “Not only had they just had an ugly row, but she had shot at him.”

Ives's brow rose. “And naturally all this occurred in your presence?”

“No, it did not! But we all heard the shot, and Sir Arthur Bellingham and Lord Scoville—” At Ives's expression, Percival looked uncomfortable, and muttered unhappily, “Yes, Jane's brother was part of the same crowd. He and Bellingham, being Marlowe's closest friends, went to see what was amiss. Marlowe himself told them that his wife had just shot at him. Scoville wandered back and told the rest of us. He was quite proud of his niece's marksmanship. And that was not a half hour before Marlowe's body was found.”

“She shot him?” Ives asked, more intrigued than scandalized.

“Yes—the bullet hole was in the shoulder of the jacket he was wearing when he died. Naturally the officials investigating his death wanted to know how it came to be there, and Lady Marlowe was quite open about it when they questioned her. She admitted that she had shot at him and she made no attempt to hide the fact that she utterly despised her husband. She was
not
a grieving widow.”

“If her husband was the blackguard you claim him to have been, perhaps he deserved to be shot.”

“Are you defending her?” Percival demanded, the expression in his blue eyes clearly aghast.

Ives smiled and shook his head. “No. I am just saying that there might have been a good reason for her to have taken a shot at the departed Marlowe.”

“Well, that may be,” Percival replied, slightly ruffled by Ives's reaction to Lady Marlowe's sins, “but surely you see why she is not a woman that you would care to know more intimately.”

At that moment, almost as if she sensed that she was the topic of the conversation taking place in the small alcove, Lady Marlowe glanced in their direction. As her clear, golden stare moved curiously over him, Ives felt as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt. Every nerve in his body tingled as their gazes met and held.

She was exquisite. Her features had been fashioned by a master hand, the tip-tilted nose, the high brow and delicately sculpted mouth blending perfectly with the determined little chin and stubborn jaw. No simpering damsel here, he decided, as he stared boldly back at her. Not with that jaw and chin. Yes, he could believe that she had shot at her husband. Might even have murdered him, if Percival was to be believed. And she was Jane's daughter.

His reasons for being in London, for being here tonight instantly vanished. He was after something else at the moment. Something that had waited a long time. Something that had eaten at him and fashioned him into the man he had become. Even after all these years, the hunger for revenge for Robert's suicide was not dead in his breast. It did not matter that she was merely the daughter of the woman who had caused the death of his brother. What suddenly mattered was that Jane was beyond his reach . . . but her daughter was not.

And if her past was anything to go by, she was not going to be the type of weak, innocent creature who might cause him guilt for what had just occurred to him. He was, he admitted unashamedly, going to thoroughly enjoy wreaking vengeance on the already infamous Lady Marlowe.

His fierce gaze never dropping from hers, Ives touched Percival's arm once more. “Introduce us,” he said again, the note in his voice making Percival glance sharply at him.

“Oh, no,” Percival said, “I am not going to be a part of seeing you make a fool of yourself. Find somebody else to help you make a cake of yourself.”

Ives's eyes dropped to him. And he smiled, a smile that made Percival distinctly uneasy. “I have no intention of making Lady Marlowe my bride. But I suddenly have a yearning to meet this remarkable young woman . . . dear Jane's daughter.”

Percival jerked and stared at him appalled. “You mean to punish her for what Jane did?” When Ives's dark head dipped arrogantly in assent, Percival said, “That is the most ridiculously idiotic idea you have had in a very long time. I hold no fondness for her or her mother, but
she
is not responsible for what happened to Robert.”

Ives sent him a bland look. “Indeed not,” he agreed, “but there is an interesting passage in the Bible, something about ‘the sins of the fathers being visited upon the children'—or in this case, the sins of the mother. Now are you going to introduce me to her, or must I find someone else to do it?”

“Oh, damn and blast! I knew I never should have allowed Aunt Margaret to bully me into coming here. Come along then, if you are determined to make a fool of yourself.” Percival shook a finger at Ives. “Just do not blame me for what happens.”

 

Sophy was enjoying herself, or enjoying herself as much as she did at any of these gatherings. She had not wanted to come tonight, but Marcus, unexpectedly in the throes of his first calf love, had begged her to accompany him so that his attendance at such a stuffy event would not be so obvious. She smiled. At nineteen, Marcus had grown up into an extremely handsome and personable youth. His title and fortune only added to his appeal, and Sophy was just a little concerned about his current infatuation. She wanted to assure herself that the young lady was suitable. Not that she cared about fortune or breeding. What Sophy worried about was that the young lady's affections were for
Marcus
—not his title and wealth.

This was Sophy's first trip to London since her husband had died and she had gone to live with Marcus and Phoebe at Gatewood, the Grayson family estate in Cornwall. In the years since Marlowe's death, they had lived very quietly in the country, as much because it was their choice as the fact that their uncle continued to make inroads into the family's wealth. Despite the enormity of the Grayson fortune, funds had not been flowing with any regularity or generosity.

Fortunately, Sophy's monies were hers to command, and she had seen to it that they all three lived comfortably at Gatewood. A season in London was an expensive proposition, and she had not wanted to spend much-needed gold on something so frivolous when there was still so much to be done at Gatewood. But this year, Lord Scoville had experienced a particularly good run of luck. Prompted as much by Sophy's increasingly angry demands for what was due her siblings, as by a sudden prickle of conscience, Baron Scoville had handed over a lavish amount of money for their use.

Marcus, restless and eager to see London, was determined to gain some “town bronze” and join his friends in the city. He had begged that they come to London. Phoebe, only weeks away from turning fifteen, had unexpectedly added her entreaties. Her big golden brown eyes full of pleading, she had breathed, “Oh, please, Sophy. Do let us go! I would ever so much like to go to Hookham's Lending Library and Hatchard's bookstore. My friend, Amanda, says that they have a simply vast selection of books.”

“Books!” Marcus had exclaimed with great disgust. “I swear, Phoebe, all you care about is books. I want to go to Weston's to buy some really fashionable garments. And to Manton's to shoot. And Tattersall's, to look at horses. And—”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Sophy had interrupted with a twinkle in her eyes. “You wish to make a dash.” She smiled lovingly at Phoebe's young face. “And you wish to bury your nose in as many books as you can find. Very well, if you both want to go, we shall!”

“And you, Sophy? What will you do while we are in London?” asked Phoebe.

“I shall go to the British Museum and perhaps Westminster Abbey,” Sophy stated calmly. The look Marcus and Phoebe exchanged made her laugh aloud.

The decision made, it did not take the siblings very long to set their plans in motion. They had arrived in London in March and had been settling very nicely into the Grayson town house on Berkeley Square. Marcus had already paid several visits to Weston's for his new wardrobe; Phoebe had been transported with delight over the number of books to be found at Hatchard's; and Sophy had found the British Museum positively fascinating. There were, of course, other entertainments that they had attended, either together or separately, and all three were feeling rather pleased with this first sojourn in London.

Despite her preference for quieter entertainment, Sophy had attended a few routs and balls during the past weeks and, to her astonishment, had thoroughly enjoyed herself. It was true that her path occasionally crossed that of her uncle and that there had been stiff, uncomfortable exchanges between them. There had also been unavoidable meetings with several of her late husband's friends, and the rumors about her part in Simon's death continued to be whispered about behind her back now and then. But all in all, she thought the trip to London had been a success; the ton had readily accepted them, and, though there were still a few raised eyebrows, most people had been surprisingly kind.

Edward's presence and the meetings with Simon's more disreputable friends were, at present, the only blights on her horizon. And since an “at home” was not the kind of entertainment which would normally appeal to Edward or Simon's other friends, she was fairly confident of enjoying the fifteen minutes allotted for this sort of entertainment without meeting any of them.

The circle of gentlemen presently surrounding her was mainly comprised of her brother and his friends. Two of them, Thomas Sutcliff and William Jarrett, she knew rather well—they lived in the vicinity of Gatewood and had grown up with Marcus. Since her return to Cornwall, she had become very used to them constantly being underfoot. At twenty-two, Thomas was the eldest and the acknowledged leader of the trio. Since this was his third London Season, he considered himself quite the man about town. Andrew, a year younger than Thomas, was affable and too easygoing for his own good. They were basically nice young men, and Sophy did not worry about Marcus when he was in their company.

Her gaze fell on another member of the group around her, and a faint ripple of unease dimmed her smile. Sir Alfred Caldwell was a new acquaintance of Marcus's, and Sophy could not say that she cared for him. At thirty-five, with a decided air of dissipation about him, he was much older than Marcus and his friends, and she worried that Sir Alfred's reasons for attaching himself to a green youth like her brother might not bode well for Marcus. Telling herself that she was being overly protective, she promptly put her concerns away. Thomas and William would keep Marcus from falling too deeply under Caldwell's influence.

There was one other member of the group surrounding Sophy, and she was not certain how she felt about him. One of Simon's more respectable acquaintances, Richard, Lord Coleman, had come to call at the Grayson town house within days of their arrival in London. He had been extremely polite and had proved himself to be very helpful. It had been Lord Coleman who had advised Sophy where to hire the extra servants they needed; Lord Coleman who had gone with Marcus to his first sale at Tattersalls; Lord Coleman who arranged a delightful outing at Astley's Royal Amphitheatre for the entire family; and it was Lord Coleman who frequently accompanied Sophy about town. He had never acted anything but polite and proper, yet Sophy could not forget that he had been part of Simon's cortege and that he had been at the house the night Simon had died.

She did not know why he had attached himself to her side, but she suspected that, like her first husband, he had reached an age where the production of an heir was beginning to prey upon his mind. He had not yet reached forty, but she guessed he was not very far from that age, and she rather thought that he was angling for a wife.

A distinctly cynical smile curved her mouth. No doubt he thought that having been married to one roue she might be agreeable to marrying another. Her fingers unconsciously tightened around her gold-spangled fan. She would die before she married again! And certainly never to a man of Coleman's stripe or one whose only use for her was that of broodmare!
If
she ever married again, and she sincerely doubted that she ever would, it would be for love alone.

Suddenly, she felt that she was being watched. When they had first arrived in London, there had been a lot of stares and whispers when she entered a room, but most of that had died away by now. This felt different. She felt almost as if she were the object of some large predator's assessment.