For Love Alone (44 page)

She would not accept defeat, she told herself stubbornly. There had to be something. The yacht gave a sharp lurch as it was buffeted by a particularly large swell and the lantern swung wildly, shining its light into one of the shadowy corners of the room. Sophy's heart leaped as she caught sight of a stout, long-handled hook. A gaff. Standing in the corner. A large, wickedly curved gaff....

She flew off the bunk, grateful for the whim that had led Henry to tie her hands in front of her. Determinedly, her fingers closed around the handle of the gaff, and a feral smile curved her mouth. When Henry returned, he was going to be
very
surprised.

But Henry was already surprised, and not pleasantly. He had been busy with setting sail for the coast of France and had not been overly attentive to other events. The unexpected sight of a small sloop, her running lights fully lit as she tacked to the starboard side of the
Vixen,
sent a disagreeable chill through him.

He told himself that it was coincidence that the sloop left Folkestone right behind him. Despite his note to Harrington, he could not believe that Ives had found his trail that quickly. Few people knew about the
Vixen,
and the few who did would be unlikely to simply volunteer the information. No, no, it would take Sophy's wretched husband hours to pick up his direction, and by then, it would be too late. He was quite safe. The sloop was, no doubt, on a perfectly innocent journey.

He frowned. It was, however, an odd time of night to be crossing the Channel, and the vessel seemed to be keeping pace with the
Vixen.
The other boat would bear watching, but he was certain its presence had nothing to do with him. Almost certain.

He'd known, once Grimshaw told him about the ruby cravat pin, that he could not afford to linger in London.

Fleeing to France was the only course open to him. It was time. Remaining in England would have left him too vulnerable—once Roxbury and Harrington homed in on him there was no telling what they might discover. Henry sighed. He had enjoyed his run as the Fox, but it was over.

His gaze traveled to the trunk of gold sitting on the deck of the yacht. At least money would not be a problem, and naturally he would offer his services to Napoleon. Perhaps he could be of use ferreting out English spies in France. He smiled. He would like that. It would be a perfect revenge against Roxbury to find the old bastard's men and identify them for the French.

And as for Sophy. A distinctly carnal gleam lit his eyes. Of course, he would have to dispose of her, but not before some, er, time had passed.

All in all, he was not displeased with the circumstances. Grimshaw would help him transfer his assets from England to France, and even if he did not offer his services to Napoleon, he would be quite comfortable. Perhaps he would simply retire to his château in the Loire Valley, purchased some years ago during the Peace of Amiens.

Contemplating his future, Henry's gaze traveled fondly over his yacht. The
Vixen
had always been ready for an exigency such as this one. It was why he had bought and outfitted her in the first place. It was also why he had purchased a French château and maintained a generous sum in French banks. A spy always had to have his escape route planned.

Yes, the
Vixen
was a good little boat, and he was as familiar with her as he would have been with a mistress, which was why when his gaze fell upon the hatch cover of the small cargo hold near the stern of the boat, he stiffened. The cover was slightly askew ... as if someone had lifted it and put it back carelessly....

He glanced at the sloop, still relentlessly tacking along his starboard side. Henry cursed under his breath. Not only was the boat staying abreast of the Vixen, but the distance between the two boats had narrowed.

His gaze went back to the hatch cover. Had it moved? Pulling forth his pistol, he said sharply, “I know you are there! Come out immediately! Show yourself, or I shall shoot!”

Beneath the deck, crouched in the cramped space of the small hold, Ives swore viciously to himself. He'd known he was moving too quickly, known he should have waited until he was certain that Henry had gone below before attempting to leave his hiding place. But knowing Sophy was on board, having heard her voice, knowing she was alone and frightened and thinking herself beyond hope had made him reckless—and careless, he admitted savagely. Now what was he to do? Surrender to the bastard? Join Sophy in confinement?

“Harrington, is that you?” Henry demanded, as the moments passed and nothing happened. “I know it is—it could be no one else. Only a lovesick sapskull would be so foolhardy. Come out. Show yourself, or I shall have to bring that lovely wife of yours on deck and convince her to add her voice to mine.” Henry chuckled. “And you won't like what I shall do to her to make her obey me.”

That threat decided Ives. Resignedly, he pushed aside the hatch cover and stood up. He had lost the element of surprise, but at least he was on board the yacht with Sophy. Surely he would be able to overpower Henry before the situation became fatal?

His back to the door leading down to the galley, Henry regarded him almost with amusement. The pistol was aimed at Ives's heart, but Henry's voice was most pleasant as he said, “So good of you to join us. In a way I was hoping for this—I so dislike leaving loose ends.”

Ives smiled, forcing himself to adopt the same manner. “Is that what I am? A loose end?”

“Not precisely, but since I managed to rid the world of most of the Harringtons last year, it seems only fitting that I add you to the lot, doesn't it?”

Only by the deepening green of his eyes did Ives betray that the shaft had gone home. “So you admit that you sank their yacht and sent them to their deaths?”

“Oh, yes.” Henry smiled. “I admit everything, my dear fellow. Why not? You are not going to live to tell anyone about it.”

Peripherally, Ives caught a glimpse of the sloop, although some distance away, still loyally tacking alongside the
Vixen.
Forrest? It had to be! Feeling marginally more confident, Ives coolly climbed the rest of the way out of the cargo hold.

“So what are you going to do now?” Ives asked. “Shoot me?”

“Well, yes, that is precisely what I intend to do,” Henry said amiably. “You didn't think I was going to take you to France with me, did you? No, no, dear fellow, I am not such a fool. You, I am afraid, are about to go into the Channel. Such a tragedy! I shall have Grimshaw send me the English papers—they will no doubt be full of the sad story of your demise.” Henry glanced in the direction of the sloop. “And as for your friends, I'm afraid that there is little they can do to stop me—”

“But
I
can!” snarled Sophy, hurling herself out of the galley. Almost stumbling in her haste, she swung the gaff with all her might at Henry's pistol arm.

The sharp hook bit gratifyingly into the flesh of Henry's upper arm, and a yowl of shock and rage erupted from him as the pistol went flying. His face contorted by fury, he jerked the gaff free and braced to meet Ives's charge.

Like a jungle cat, Ives sprang across the short distance separating him from Henry. They grappled, Ives's powerful hand locked around Henry's wrist, keeping him from bringing the gaff into play. It was an ugly fight. The rocking of the boat kept both men off-balance, the knowledge that only death would be the final outcome driving both to brutal violence.

Sophy spared only a glance at the struggling figures as she scrambled after the pistol. It took a few minutes to find it, but her heart sang when her questing fingers finally closed around it.

Her bound hands hampered her movements, but not enough to make her helpless. Henry had made several mistakes tonight, Sophy thought fiercely, including leaving her hands tied in
front
of her, which allowed her not only to untie her feet, but to strike him with the gaff.

“Enough!” she cried. “It is over, Henry. I have you in the sights of the pistol.”

But Henry was too maddened to pay her any heed. He was also aware that, locked in mortal battle with Ives, if she did fire the pistol there was every chance she might hit her husband instead. He was gambling that she would not risk it.

He was right. In mounting frustration Sophy watched the two men as they lurched and thrashed across the deck in front of her. Once she thought she had a clear shot, but the moment was lost instantaneously. Angrily, she lowered the pistol, still poised, however, to intervene at the first opportunity.

Larger and stronger, Ives had no doubt that he would overcome his opponent, but Henry was like a cat, supple and quick, and the fight went on longer than Ives would have thought possible. But the end came quickly; Ives tightened his hold on the arm which held the gaff and brought it down with one powerful motion against the railing of the boat. The sound of bone snapping hung in the air, and the gaff dropped from Henry's nerveless fingers.

Ives immediately stepped away, watching carefully as Henry stood there swaying near the edge of the boat, his broken arm hanging useless at his side. Sophy moved up to Ives's side, their shoulders almost touching.

“It is over, Henry,” Ives said quietly. “You have lost.”

Henry flashed them a ghastly smile. “Perhaps, but I'll not give you the satisfaction of taking me alive.” He looked at Ives and laughed wildly. “It is fitting, do you not think, that I suffer the same fate as your father and uncle?” And with one last, agile movement, he flung himself over the side into the dark waters of the Channel.

Even as Ives lunged after him, he knew it was futile. He caught a glimpse of Henry's head bobbing in the waves and disappearing beneath the dark waters.

“He's gone,” he said softly, turning to look at Sophy.

She flew into his arms. Wrapped protectively in Ives's strong embrace, Sophy's horror of the night faded as their mouths met.

“Take me home,” she said breathlessly, several minutes later. “I find that I do not care for yachting in the least!”

 

It was Forrest's hail as the sloop sailed near that brought Sophy and Ives back to the present. Keeping abreast of the
Vixen,
there was a hurried exchange between Ives and Forrest, and in a matter of minutes Sophy, Ives, and the small chest of gold were standing on the deck of the sloop watching the
Vixen
sink beneath the waves.

Glancing at Ives's impassive face, Forrest remarked, “That was rather a clever idea of yours to sink the yacht. Claiming that Henry went down with his boat is a nice touch, too. It will certainly save his family a great deal of embarrassment and shame.”

“It will also,” Ives said blandly, looking away from the spot where the yacht had finally disappeared beneath the waters, “save us from having to answer a multitude of questions that I would just as soon avoid. As far as anyone is concerned, we went on a spur-of-the-moment sail and, for reasons we can only guess, the boat began to take on water. A fisherman happened by to save Sophy and me, but poor Henry was not so fortunate and went down with his yacht.”

“What about the memorandum?” Forrest asked. “Do you think the French have it?”

Sophy spoke up. “I think I know the answer to that—it went down with Henry. He told a Frenchman that he had it on him.”

“Which doesn't mean that the Frenchman doesn't remember some of the information, but since it was all fake anyway, it probably doesn't matter too much,” Forrest said.

Ives nodded. “I don't think we have to worry about the memorandum any longer.” He looked down at Sophy where she stood by his side on the deck of the sloop. “Can you identify the Frenchman?”

“Oh, yes. But how are we to find him?”

“I suspect from your description that Roxbury will recognize him.”

 

It was not until the next evening that Roxbury heard the entire tale. Their horses worn-out, Ives and Sophy and the others found accommodations in Dover for the remainder of the night. It was late morning before they finally arrived back in London. Another several hours of sleep and a bite of nourishment left everyone feeling almost human.

Ives had written Roxbury a concise report of what had transpired, and though nearing exhaustion themselves, Forrest and William Williams, astride new mounts procured in Dover, had carried it on to London ahead of the others. Consequently, when Roxbury greeted Ives and Sophy the next evening, he was smiling hugely.

Seating himself in one of the chairs in Ives's study, he said jovially, “A most successful ending! Your family avenged,
Le Renard
dead, and the memorandum destroyed. Most successful.”

Ives merely smiled and took a sip of his brandy. He and Sophy were sitting side by side on the small sofa, their hands clasped. Roxbury regarded them for a moment and, his eyes meeting Sophy's, he cleared his throat, and murmured, “I believe I owe you an apology, my dear. And an explanation for your husband's recent activities. He wanted to tell you everything—it was at my insistence that he did not. I am the one with whom you should be angry.”

Sophy dimpled. “You do not have to apologize. I had already concluded that you were the reason he was spending so much time with Simon's old friends—and
not
because he found their activities enjoyable, thank goodness! I could not bear it if I had been so foolish as to marry another callous libertine.” She glanced at her husband. The look she sent him was so warm and loving that Roxbury decided this was one time that silence was the best course.

The possible identity of the Frenchman was discussed and Ives was correct—from Sophy's description, Roxbury recognized him.