For Love Alone (43 page)

He eyed her speculatively. “I wonder,” he said musingly, “how much you really know.” Then he shrugged. “Oh, well, it doesn't matter. You'll serve your purpose, and if you behave yourself, I might satisfy your curiosity. In the meantime, I am afraid that you are going to have to prepare yourself for an uncomfortable ride.”

It was an uncomfortable ride. Having disposed of her hat and parasol, he wrapped her in a rug and squashed her under the seat of the curricle. Not only was she unable to move, but the ropes bit unmercifully into her arms and legs. It was also dark and stuffy in the small, cramped space where she had been stuffed.

Lying on the floorboards of the curricle, Sophy was subjected to every bump and dip in the road, and she prayed that the miserable journey would end. But where, she wondered bleakly, was Henry taking her? And what, precisely, did he plan?

 

Ives had a very good idea what Henry planned, and that knowledge did not lessen the icy fist of terror which clamped his heart. It was obvious that the Fox was on the run and bolting for France, and Sophy was his ticket to freedom. Henry would keep her alive until he reached French soil, of that Ives was convinced—he had to be or he would have gone mad. It was once Henry arrived in France that he refused to think about. Once the scoundrel landed in Napoléon's domain, there would be no real reason to keep Sophy alive.

Having sent Forrest to check on Dewhurst's whereabouts, Ives wrenched his mind away from that terrible thought, and bounded up the steps to the Berkeley Square house, hoping frantically that he could intercept Sophy. It was a faint hope, and he was not at all surprised when Emerson, his blue eyes slightly worried at the expression in Ives's face, informed him that Dewhurst had picked up Lady Harrington almost an hour ago. He had, also, Emerson added, left a note for the master.

Ives fairly ripped the note out of Emerson's hand and headed for his rooms, taking the stairs two at a time. He snapped over his shoulder, “Have my horse, the black, saddled and brought 'round immediately—and send Ogden, Ashby, and Sanderson to my rooms!”

“Er, m'lord, Ashby is not in. He said that he had an errand for you.”

For a minute, Ives felt a rush of hope. Thank God, he had assigned one of his men to watch Sophy! Perhaps any second now, Ashby would be returning with news of Henry's destination!

Reaching his rooms, he wasted precious time reading Henry's note. The contents told him nothing new. They only confirmed his suspicions: Henry had indeed kidnapped Sophy and would hold her prisoner until he had reached the safety of France. If Ives behaved, Henry's word, Sophy would be returned to England unharmed. If, however, Ives proved to be foolish, again Henry's word, well then, Sophy would die.

His mouth in a grim, thin line, Ives crumpled the note and hurled it onto his bureau. That contemptible little bastard! Tossing aside his fashionable town clothing, he swiftly scrambled into breeches and boots. He was just shrugging into a bottle green jacket when Ogden and Sanderson arrived.

Curtly, Ives explained the situation. Once the shocked exclamations had abated, he said, “I must not linger. I am going to pay a call on Grimshaw. If anybody knows from which port Dewhurst plans to sail for France, it will be Grimshaw. As soon as Ashby returns, and I am sure that he will at any moment, send word to me.”

The sound of thudding footsteps outside his room had Ives striding across the room and flinging open the door. It was Ashby, his face white, his breathing labored.

Gasping for breath, he managed, “It is Henry Dewhurst! He was supposed to take the mistress for a drive in Hyde Park, but he headed straightaway for the Dover Road. I followed for as long as I could on foot, but once he cleared the city, it was impossible.” His face stricken, he said, “I'm sorry, m'lord. I lost them.”

Ives clapped him on the shoulder. “It doesn't matter. You did your best. We will get her back, never fear.”

Turning to the others, he said, “Get yourselves mounted and start riding for Dover. I will catch up with you.” An inimical gleam lit the devil green eyes. “Grimshaw now has only to tell us precisely
where
in Dover we may find our quarry.”

 

Ives was halfway to Grimshaw's town house when he met Forrest returning from Dewhurst's residence. Turning his horse and joining him, Forrest merely gave a shake of his head to Ives's cocked brow. Swiftly Ives imparted Ashby's report.

It was only when they pulled their horses to a stop in front of the elegant building that comprised Grimshaw's London house, that something occurred to Ives. He looked at Forrest. “Dewhurst lives just around the block, doesn't he?”

Forrest nodded, and Ives muttered, “Well, that explains Ogden's odd feeling. While we were wasting our time watching Grimshaw, Dewhurst was, no doubt, watching us! How that must have amused him.”

Fortunately, Grimshaw was at home, although it was obvious he was just on his way out. He did not look pleased to see them, but he also did not seem surprised.

Ushering them into his library, he said mockingly, “This is a pleasure, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

“You can tell me,” Ives ground out, “where Dewhurst has taken my wife!”

A malicious smile curved Grimshaw's mouth. “Oh, dear. Has she run off with Henry? Pity. I always hoped that I would be the one.”

Ives was across the room, his fingers locked around Grimshaw's throat before the words had hardly left his mouth. His green eyes nearly black with fury, Ives said softly, “No games. Tell me where Dewhurst has gone.”

Grimshaw fought to tear loose Ives's iron grip, but to no avail. Ives let him struggle for a second, then increased his stranglehold. Grimshaw's eyes bulged, and he made a series of cawing noises.

The savage expression on Ives's face did not abate. “Tell me,” he said in the same dangerously soft tone.

“Tell me, and I will let you live. Otherwise ...” His fingers tightened.

Grimshaw fought desperately for breath. Reading doom in the dark, savage face in front of him, he finally gasped out, “Folkestone. He keeps a small yacht at Folkestone—the
Vixen.”

“Just the yacht? No house?” Ives questioned swiftly, his fingers not lessening their unrelenting pressure.

“I only know about the yacht,” Grimshaw choked out. “He may have a house there, but I do not know of it. I swear it!”

“And do you know what your dear little cousin has been doing these past few years, hmm?”

Grimshaw hesitated, and Ives's lethal grip tightened. Grimshaw's fingers clawed helplessly at his hand. Desperately, he cried, “Have mercy, m'lord! You're killing me.”

“And I shall, if you do not tell me what I want to know.” Patiently, he repeated, “Tell me about Henry.”

“I don't know anything—” he began, only to add hurriedly at subtle increased pressure of Ives's fingers around his throat, “at least not for certain. But I suspect that he has been in the pay of the French.”

“And did you help him?”

“Good gad, no! I am no traitor.” Grimshaw was clearly appalled at the idea. It seemed the bastard had his limits.

Ives smiled grimly. “No traitor yourself, but yet you suspected Henry and said nothing to the authorities?”

With as much haughtiness as he could muster under the circumstances, Grimshaw muttered, “Henry is my cousin. I would not betray a member of my family.”

“And you are sure, quite sure that you do not know the direction of any dwelling place he may have in Folkestone?”

“I swear to you—on my life! I only know of the
Vixen.
He may have quarters in the village, but I do not know of any.”

Ives regarded him for a long minute, and finally deciding that Grimshaw had told him the truth, he flung him aside as contemptuously as a dog would toss a dead rat.

“I think it would be wise,” he said with terrifying politeness, “if you retired to the country for a while. And I should warn you that in the future, should you cross my path—or any of my family's”—he smiled a smile that had Grimshaw, from his position on the floor, edging warily away from him—“I am afraid that I shall have to kill you. Do we understand each other?”

Gasping and holding his injured throat, Grimshaw nodded.

“Good!” Ives said cheerfully. “This has been a most informative chat. We shan't keep you any longer.”

It was not very many minutes afterward that Ives and Forrest met Ogden and the others. “Folkestone,” Ives tossed at them, as his horse swept by. “And don't spare the horses—he has over an hour's head start on us.”

There was no hope of catching Dewhurst if they stayed on the roads, and so, following the flight of the crow, Ives led his men in a direct line to the small fishing village of Folkestone, just south of Dover. They rode like madmen, taking fences and creeks and ditches at a breakneck clip, trampling over cropland and tearing through orchards, narrowly avoiding the wide, spreading branches of the trees. Only in order to conserve their mounts did they stop, allowing them to drink and rest briefly, before again taking up the chase. The tired horses sailed valiantly over stone walls and careened down hilly slopes as they neared their destination.

Darkness had fallen by the time they pulled their sweating, heaving horses to a standstill near the sleepy fishing village nestled at the foot of the chalk hills on the shore of the English Channel. Leaving their exhausted horses in an abandoned shed at the edge of the village, they dispersed on foot, drifting like ghosts toward the shabby waterfront.

Ives found the
Vixen
easily amongst the smattering of fishing boats anchored in the harbor, her gleaming white sides and sleek lines trumpeting her aristocratic heritage. A fishing boat, she was not.

They watched for several minutes, and it soon became plain that they had reached Folkestone in time. There was no sign of activity on board the
Vixen.
But that situation was not likely to remain so for very long. They had, Ives estimated, minutes at most before Dewhurst arrived—with, pray God, Sophy.

There was a hurried exchange between Ives and Forrest as they continued to scan the yacht and surrounding area. “Are you insane?” Forrest hissed, when he heard of Ives's plan to board the yacht. “We outnumber him. We can take him here, before he ever reaches the damned boat.”

“And while we are falling upon him,” Ives asked levelly, “what do you think he will be doing to Sophy? Don't you think that he is going to have a pistol pointed right at her heart? If we make a move,
any
move, he will kill her.”

Forrest hesitated. “We might be able to surprise him and overpower him before he can fire,” he offered lamely.

“And we might
not,”
Ives retorted. “I am not taking any chances with her life.”

“And you think you'll stand a better chance alone at sea with him? Are you daft, man?” William Williams blurted out, anxiety etched on his long face. Appalled, he blushed and muttered, “Beggin' your pardon, m'lord.”

In the faint light which came from a nearby ramshackle tavern, Ives grinned at him.

“No, you were right to question my wisdom. But, hear me, we dare not try to attack him as long as he has Sophy. He is going to be prepared for us to try to stop him from reaching his yacht. We will have no element of surprise, no opportunity to prevent him from hurting my wife.”

His grin faded, and his eyes moved from face to face as he added fiercely, “And you can be bloody well assured that he will if he is cornered. Our only chance is to let him
think
he has escaped. Once on board the yacht and having put out into the Channel, he will drop his guard, confident that he has slipped past us. He will not be expecting me.” Something ugly and deadly moved behind his eyes. “And then I will be upon him.”

“I don't like it!” Forrest said vehemently. “It is too dangerous. We may lose both you and your lady. There must be some other way.”

“There is not,” Ives said flatly, and turned to look back at the yacht.

Despite some low-voiced, almost desperate arguments to the contrary, Ives would not be dissuaded. Unhappily, Forrest and the others kept vigilant watch as he crept aboard the yacht. Only when he gave a wave of his arm and disappeared below did Forrest move.

Sinking deeper into the shadows, he said gruffly, “If he thinks that we are going to let him risk his fool neck like this without doing something about it, he has lost his wits.”

“But what are we going to do?” Ashby asked, his brown eyes fixed on Forrest's face.

Forrest cursed and despairingly looked out over the small waterfront. Spying a small, neatly crafted sloop, moored not far from the
Vixen,
his eyes narrowed.

“We,” he said slowly, “are going to pirate a boat of our own and follow him—discreetly, of course.”

Ogden grinned, his bad teeth glinting in the shadowy light. “Of course.”

W
hen Henry finally pulled his pair to a stop, Sophy breathed a fervent sigh of relief. Gagged and bound, she had been in that musty, cramped space for what seemed like forever, and for the last several miles she had been in the grip of a severe case of claustrophobia. Feeling as if she were smothering, as if the rug was pressing down against her nose and face, she had struggled to keep from screaming, terrified that if she started screaming, she would never be able to stop.

She forced herself to take deep, steadying breaths through her nose, to think of something else, to focus on anything but where she was and what was happening. Every part of her body ached—where it wasn't numb. She was certain she would never be able to walk again; her legs had to have become frozen in their bent position.

“Well, my dear,” Henry's voice floated to her, as he leaped down from the curricle, “your current ordeal is almost over. Give me a moment to unharness my horses, and I shall let you out of your, er, rug.”

The interval seemed to take hours, but true to his words, Henry eventually returned and dragged her out from her hiding place. A few minutes later, the rug dispensed with, she was blinking owlishly in the light from a small lantern sitting on a rickety wooden bench.

As her eyes adjusted, she looked around and discovered that she was in a building hardly big enough to hold the curricle and the two horses. The place appeared to be seldom used; cobwebs draped the rough beams, and a thick coating of dust and debris lay over the flat surfaces.

“Not precisely what you are used to,” said Henry politely. He studied her for a second. “I should tell you that this place is quite isolated. If I were to remove your gag and you were foolish enough to start screaming, it would do you little good. No one would hear you, and it would make me
very
angry. So, would you like your gag undone?” Meekly, Sophy nodded, and he reached down and removed the wad of rags from her mouth.

It was heaven to have her legs stretched out and the rags out of her mouth. For a second, she simply savored the sensations. Glancing up at him, she asked, “Where are we?”

“At Folkestone. I keep a small yacht here and, of course, a rather unpretentious little dwelling. I am sure that you will find its limited accommodations far more appealing than your current place.”

Sophy was a little unnerved by Henry's polite, almost teasing manner. He was acting as if this were some sort of social call, as if he found the situation vaguely amusing, and not as if he had kidnapped her and kept her bound and gagged for the past several hours. He was a murderer twice over—and possibly a spy, a traitor who was responsible for the deaths of scores of men fighting against Napoleon. She shuddered, wondering how she could have been so misled, how she could ever have considered him a friend. He was a monster.

Something of what she was feeling must have shown on her face, for Henry smiled, and said bracingly, “Oh, come now, my dear, I am not all bad. And if you are a good little girl and do exactly what I say, you shall be set free to fly to the arms of your rather doltish husband.”

Her eyes met his, and what she glimpsed in his was not reassuring. Ignoring the slur against Ives, she said bluntly, “I do not believe you.”

Henry shrugged and bent down to drag her upright. “It doesn't matter whether you believe me or not. Behave yourself, and you might just get out of this alive.”

It was awkward trying to walk, bound as she was. After a few difficult moments, Henry simply lifted her over his shoulder and traversed the short distance between the shed and the house. Inside, he dropped her into a chair and quickly lit some candles.

The house was no more impressive than the shed, but at least it appeared clean, and there was some degree of comfort. She was in a small room, furnished with a few comfortable leather chairs and some tables; a faded Turkey carpet in crimson and gold covered the floor. A tiny fireplace was against one wall, a pile of neatly stacked kindling lay on the hearth.

As she looked around, considering her chances of escaping, Henry pulled out his pocket watch and, seeing the time, made a clucking noise.

“Our journey took a trifle longer than I expected,” he said conversationally. “But never fear, we shall not remain here for very long.”

Crossing to her, he stood her up and explained, “Now listen to me, my dear, I must rearrange your ropes. Do not try to do anything stupid. Continue to be your sweet, docile self, and this ordeal will be far less painful than it could be. Do you understand me?”

Sophy was not deceived by his polite words or manner—it was clear that if she tried to escape, he would not hesitate to hurt her, and that he would enjoy doing it.

She remained stiffly upright as he worked, and she wondered why he had even bothered to warn her. He took no chances, and while she was soon no longer trussed up like a fowl at market, she was still just as securely bound. Dispensing with most of the rope, he fashioned a pair of efficient shackles for her ankles out of some of the lengths he had cut, leaving her just enough room to take small, mincing steps, but not enough to allow her any degree of freedom. The rope shackles were hidden beneath her skirts and her hands were resting in her lap, securely tied in front of her. At first sight, the bindings were not visible.

“You will, of course, be wearing a cloak when we leave for the yacht, and I shall have my pistol aimed directly at you,” Henry said, as he surveyed his work a few minutes later. “I do not expect that we shall meet anyone, but all you have to do is simply smile and look pretty.” His blue eyes hardened, and she wondered how she had ever thought them merry. “I will not hesitate to kill you if the need arises. Remember that, will you?”

Seating himself across from her, he took out his watch again and frowned.

“Are we waiting for someone?” Sophy asked politely.

“Yes, a, er, colleague. He seems to be running a trifle late.” Henry smiled. “I suppose he is rather flustered by my unexpected change in plans; he had several arrangements to make. We were not to meet until tomorrow night. But I have complete faith in him—he has never failed me yet. Once he has arrived, we shall board the Vixen and be off to France.”

“Is he a Frenchman by any chance? The gentleman to whom you have been selling military secrets?” Sophy inquired sweetly.

Henry's face darkened. “So, you know that, do you?” He eyed her narrowly. “I am surprised that your doting husband let you in on the game. I would have thought that Roxbury would want to play everything close to his vest.”

Sophy shrugged. It suddenly occurred to her that perhaps it was not wise to reveal what she might or might not know.

Her mouth tightened. What did it matter? Henry was going to kill her. She was convinced of that, despite his assurances to the contrary. Her breath caught on an anguished sob. She would never see Ives again, never again know the sweet magic of his embrace ... never grow old with him.

A rap on the door broke into her gloomy thoughts, and she glanced curiously at the fat gentleman who entered the room a few seconds later. He was a stranger to her, and from his clothes, though costly, it was immediately apparent that he was no member of the ton; a decidedly slovenly air entered the room with him.

It was also apparent from the ghastly expression on his face that he was horrified to see her.

“Mon Dieu!”
he cried, greatly agitated. “What is
she
doing here? Have you gone mad? First you upset all our plans with this wild scheme, and now
this
!”

His speech clearly betrayed his origin, and Sophy's spirits sank lower—the Frenchman. She was running out of time. Once they left England's shore, she knew that there was no escape.

She did not have time to consider that terrible prospect; Henry jerked her to her feet and settled a cloak around her shoulders. Showing her the pistol he kept concealed underneath his jacket, he said, “You worry too much, my friend. Lady Harrington is my voucher for a safe crossing. With her on board the
Vixen,
even if Roxbury or her husband were lucky enough to have found me out, they would be helpless to strike at me.” His voice hardened. “If they ever want to see her alive again, they have no choice but to let me go.”

Some of the Frenchman's first alarm faded, and a crafty expression entered his eyes. “Perhaps you are right, but I tell you,
mon ami,
I do not like this. And what Paris will have to say, I dare not think.”

“Paris,” Henry said easily, as he guided Sophy toward the door, making sure she felt the barrel of his pistol in her ribs, “will be too busy crowing over the copy of the memorandum I carry with me to be overly concerned with my defection from England.”

“You are probably right,” the Frenchman answered resignedly, following close behind as they left the room.

“I usually am,” Henry replied. “But of more interest to me is your part of our bargain—did you bring the gold?”

The Frenchman nodded.
“Oui,
it is outside in my carriage.”

“Good! Once it is transferred to the
Vixen,
I shall be off for France.”

Although it was a goodly distance from Henry's small cottage at the edge of the village to the harbor, to Sophy it seemed like an all-too-brief ride in the Frenchman's carriage. Her plight was hopeless; she knew that. Even if help were to miraculously appear, Henry's pistol jammed against her ribs precluded her from taking any action. But she was not ready to concede defeat. Not yet.

While the Frenchman and his driver unloaded a heavy trunk and placed it on the yacht, Sophy peered intently into the night, urgently looking for something she could use to her advantage. Nothing met her gaze. The streets appeared abandoned and lifeless. Despite the cold knot of fear in her chest, she told herself that she was not going to give up. Not even when Henry bid the Frenchman good-bye and the coach rumbled away did her determination to escape abate.

Looking Henry in the eye, she said levelly, “You will not get away with this. Ives will not let you. He will find me and when he does ...”

Henry smiled at her. “Such loyalty does you credit, my dear, but I am afraid that your belief in your husband is overrated.” He ran a caressing finger down her cheek, and she flinched. “If your husband were foolish enough to follow you to France, it would be too late, my sweet. By then you would be, ah, tarnished goods, and I do not believe that his pride would allow him to take you back.
If
he were to find you. No, I am afraid that you must resign yourself to pleasing me. Allow me to assure you that you shall not find me an ungenerous protector. Now shall we go below?”

“You bastard!” Sophy said forcefully, her eyes glittering like burnished gold.

Henry chuckled, and murmured, “Such passion! Do you know it was all that suppressed vitality I often glimpsed in your eyes when you defied Simon that first aroused my interest in you? I knew then that you were not as cool as you appeared. I suggest, however, that you save some of your righteous passion for when we are alone, my dear—I shall enjoy taming it.” And then he forced her below into the galley.

To Sophy's great relief, after seating her on one of the bunks and checking her bonds, he went aloft. She swiftly scanned the small space for something, anything, to use as a weapon, but nothing met her gaze.

Hope that she might escape finally died when the
Vixen
weighed anchor and she felt the rocking motion of the Channel's waters against the hull. Blinking back tears, she stared dismally at the wall opposite her.

She would never,
ever
see Ives again! That thought disturbed her more than the knowledge of her own impending dishonor and probable death. Oh, Henry might keep her alive for a while longer, as long as she was useful to him, but she had no illusions about her fate: He intended to dispose of her at the first convenient opportunity. She had read it in his cold blue eyes.

Angry at herself, she berated herself for giving up so easily. If she believed she was defeated, then she well and truly was.

When Henry had gone up on deck, a small lantern had been left hanging from one of the beams of the yacht, its fitful light dancing and swaying with the motion of the yacht as it sailed deeper into the choppy waters of the Channel. Taking her time, she again looked carefully around the room. At first glance, nothing seemed to have changed. It was a small, simple galley, lined with a pair of bunks attached to each side of the hull: A heavy scrubbed oak table sat between them. A series of narrow cupboards and counters ran the length of one wall and, except for a few odds and ends of a nautical nature, the room was bare.