For Love Alone (10 page)

He suddenly found himself the object of two pairs of decidedly hostile eyes. Drawing herself up grandly, Sophy said stiffly, “I really do not see how it is any concern of yours, Lord Harrington. It is a perfect solution.” She glanced over at Anne. “Don't you agree?”

“Oh, yes,” Anne breathed ecstatically.

Sophy smiled warmly at her, the smile dying as she looked toward Ives. “Please have the driver change directions,” she commanded coolly, “and take us to Berkeley Square.”

Ives shrugged, rapped on the panel behind his head, and gave the change in destination to the driver. Thoughtfully he stared across at Sophy as the carriage swayed and bounced upon its way. It seemed that in addition to being imprudent and impetuous, the lady also had a mind of her own. It was something he would do well to remember in the future when dealing with her. He grinned. He had always enjoyed a lively tussle and was rather certain that Lady Marlowe was going to provide him with one.

Sophy glanced at him suspiciously. “Why are you smiling?”

Ives looked as innocent as someone with his marauder's features could. “At the happy ending of tonight's events?” he offered angelically.

Sophy stared hard at him. What was the man up to? Except for having swept her rather unwillingly down the Dark Walk, he had been all that was polite, and she had to admit that he had done nothing improper during their walk. He had even taken her side against Edward. Even now, he was behaving in an exemplary manner. So why didn't she trust him?

 

Le Renard
had watched Ives escort the two ladies away with a speculative eye. Did the dolt actually believe that he stood a chance with sweet Sophy? He smiled nastily.

After being married to Simon, it was unlikely that Sophy would ever chance the hallowed state of marriage again. Certainly not with someone like Harrington, a former military man, whose air and manner gave clear evidence of a man well used to command. Sophy, he admitted with a great deal of ambivalence, was not a woman who took kindly to being ordered to do anything. And Harrington? He had been what? A nobody, a major in the cavalry who had been fortunate enough to exchange a military career for a title. Thinking of Ives's inheritance, he chuckled suddenly. I wonder if the fellow is grateful to me? He should be. After all, he owes his sudden rise in the aristocracy to me.

But he was not chuckling a few hours later when he had finally detached himself from the others and made his way home. It occurred to him that he had dismissed Harrington too swiftly. It was possible that the new viscount might bear watching. He had almost underestimated the Harringtons once before, and he was not about to do it again.

He did not think there was any real danger from Harrington's direction, but he was an extremely crafty, careful creature—one of the reasons he had not been caught all these years. Because of his success, he conceded reluctantly, he had perhaps grown too confident in his ability to throw pursuers off his trail.

The brush with Adrian and Richard Harrington had changed all that. They had not been as close to discovering his identity as they had assumed, but just the fact that they had been casting about for his scent a little too near to home alerted him to the dangers of overconfidence. And so, he thought with a malicious smile, he had taken care of them.

Dismissing his hovering servant, he poured himself a brandy and settled comfortably into a chair in his study. At the moment, he was rather pleased with life, although Sir Arthur Wellesley's arrival in Portugal did give him pause.

Napoléon had done very well on the Continent, but placing Wellesley in command of the British troops might change all that. He sighed. If Napoleon were to be defeated, his long run as
Le Renard
would be over and all that lovely French gold would stop pouring into his hands. He sighed again. Ah, well, he had made fortune enough to keep him in ease for the rest of his life.

He smiled. He would retire in glory, his identity unknown. There was, after all, very little to connect him to the Fox. He frowned. That damned ruby cravat pin, he thought irritably. Where had it gone?

He had worn it frequently. The size and brilliance of the ruby had been remarkable. Dozens of people could identify the pin as his.

Worse, he knew he had been wearing it when Simon had drunkenly announced his intention of letting his wife know who was master in
his
house. He clearly remembered stroking it as he considered Simon's actions. It had been at that very moment that the plan to waylay Simon had sprung into his mind, and it had taken but a moment to slip away from the drunken crowd and lie in wait for his prey. And upon confirming his worst suspicions, that Simon had identified him, why, he'd had no choice but to kill the bounder.

Simon had been his first kill, and he admitted that he had been rather nervous about it. The thunderous raging of the storm that night had not helped his nerves in the least. And that one frighteningly illuminating flash of lightning! He had been almost certain Sophy had seen him lurking against the wall. But she had not.

His frown deepened. Mayhap, she had, and had kept quiet all these years for her own purposes.

He snorted. How illogical! He was, he decided, being rather melodramatic this evening. He took a sip of his fine, smuggled French brandy.

If Sophy had seen him, she would have given some sign by now, and as for the cravat pin . . . He had considered briefly having a duplicate made, but there was the fear that the duplication would become known.

No, he had concluded he was better off letting sleeping dogs lie. The pin was probably resting in some crevice in Marlowe House. After all this time, who would remember when he had lost it? Or connect it with Simon's death? He needn't worry about its loss coming back to haunt him. As for Harrington, if the viscount proved troublesome, why he would simply have to dispose of him.

 

Harrington was in Sophy's thoughts that night also, but she did not come to any firm conclusions about him. She was wary of him, but could not deny he had been very helpful. She told herself she was grateful, but she admitted she was also suspicious and not a little mistrustful of him, too. She made a face as she lay sleepless in her bed. Being married to a beast like Simon could do that to a woman.

Not only was she wary of Harrington's motives, but there was also the fact that since Simon's death, she had run her own affairs and those of her siblings with no help from anyone else, and she was not certain how she felt about Harrington's intervention. Ruefully she admitted that mixed in with her gratitude was just a bit of resentment at the way he had coolly whisked her down the Dark Walk, then been amused at her reaction.

A yawn overtook her, and she snuggled down into her bed, feeling rather satisfied with the night's doings. Anne was safe from Edward's clutches and sleeping soundly just two doors down the hall. Phoebe and Marcus had been slightly taken aback when Sophy presented them with an utter stranger and blithely informed them Anne would be staying with them indefinitely. After their initial shock, they had taken it well. Phoebe had been her usual sweet self, shyly welcoming the other girl and making Anne feel instantly at ease. Marcus had been almost indifferent to Sophy's stray, but he had bowed politely and murmured that he hoped she would enjoy her stay with them.

It was not until the next morning that the ramifications of what she had done were brought home to Sophy. After the stress of the previous evening, she had slept in. She had just finished a leisurely morning tea, Phoebe and Anne sprawled indecorously on her bed, when the unpleasant message was brought to her that her uncle and an unidentified lady were waiting for her in the blue saloon.

Anne gasped and jerked upright. “It is my aunt. I know it is. She has come to drag me back to Russell Square.” Brown eyes imploring, she had gazed beseechingly at Sophy. “Oh, please! I beg of you, do not let her take me away!”

“Nonsense,” said Phoebe stoutly, despite the faint shadow of unease in her gaze. “Sophy will not let anyone wrest you away from here. You are safe. Sophy will protect you.”

“You do not know my aunt,” Anne replied piteously. “She is most determined, and she has brought
him
with her.” A sob came from her. “If I am returned to her, I am lost! No one will be able to save me from the horrid fate that was almost mine last night. I am doomed.”

It was not too dramatic a reading of the situation, as Sophy knew full well. It occurred uneasily to her that she might have acted hastily. She had brought Anne into her house, but she had no legal right to keep her there. If her aunt demanded Anne's return, and it was very probable that she would, legally Sophy would have to comply or find herself on the wrong side of the law.

Her thoughts jumbled and unpleasant, Sophy reassured Anne as best she was able and, once both girls had been shooed from her room, hastily scrambled into her clothes. Feeling decidedly apprehensive about how to proceed, she descended the stairs not half an hour later. One thing was very clear in her mind. She would not desert Anne.

The memory of her own desperately unhappy marriage came back to her. Law or no, she could not stand helplessly by and allow Anne's aunt to thrust her into the arms of a blackguard like Edward. A militant gleam entered the gold eyes. There had been no one to save her from Simon, but Anne was not without protectors.
She
would see to it that no one forced the girl to suffer the same ugly fate she had endured at Simon's hands.

Her color high, her back rigid, she marched toward the blue saloon. Righteous determination carried her into the room. Spying Edward lounging in sartorial elegance against the marble fireplace mantel in a plum-colored coat of superfine and buff breeches, she plunged into battle.

Boldly she said, “Strange, I distinctly remember telling Emerson that persons with a certain lack of morals were not allowed entrance to my house. What are you doing here? And how did you manage to force your way past my butler?”

Edward sent her a look of pure dislike. “That is a rather nasty tongue you have, my dear. Someday someone is likely to clip it for you. I only pray I live to see the day.”

“Well, it will not be you, will it? You only prey on the weak and defenseless,” she said sweetly.

Edward's face mottled with rage, and he actually took a threatening step toward her, when he was brought to a standstill by the other occupant of the room. Rising to her feet from the sofa where she had been sitting, the woman said calmly, “My lord Scoville, do not, I pray you, allow this poor, misguided creature to deter you from the reason we are here.”

Meeting Sophy's unfriendly gaze, she said coolly, “I am Agnes Weatherby. I understand that my niece is here. I wish to have her brought to me immediately.” In a scolding tone, she added, “You have interfered in matters that are no concern of yours, and it is only because of my kind heart that I have not laid charges against you for kidnapping. If you prove obstructive, you may be assured that I certainly will see a magistrate immediately. Now where is my niece?”

Agnes Weatherby was a handsome woman. And hard, Sophy thought grimly, as she stared at the chiseled features before her. She had the same color of eyes as her niece, but while Anne's eyes were warm and gentle, Agnes's resembled nothing so much as stones. She looked to be a well-cared for thirtyish. Her dark hair gleamed with health and vitality, and the figure beneath the striped gown was lush and full, but there was no sign about her of concern for her niece's well-being.

Sophy was not certain how to approach Agnes Weatherby. The law was on Agnes's side, and, from the set expression on her face, it was apparent that appealing to her better nature would not suffice. But did she understand the true situation? Perhaps Agnes was not as bad as Anne had indicated. There was, Sophy reminded herself hopefully, every possibility that Edward had poured out only his part of the story, greatly embellished to cast him in the best light possible.

“Did my uncle tell you what happened last night?” Sophy asked.

“Indeed he did! I cannot imagine what you thought you were about barging in on a private moment between an affianced couple.”

“Affianced? Is that what he told you? Well, let me tell you what really transpired,” Sophy began sharply. “When I found them—after your niece had screamed for help—there was no sign of an engaged couple about them. Anne's gown was torn from her shoulder. She was sobbing and obviously terrified. My uncle, it pains me to admit, was drunk and forcing his attentions on her in a most vulgar and brutal way. I shudder to think what he would have done to her if I had not happened along when I did. There is no other way to put it. He was in the midst of attempting to rape a mere child. A child, I might add, almost young enough to have been his granddaughter. It was a disgusting scene, and I did what any responsible person would have done—rescued her from a dangerous and unpleasant situation.”

“I think you misread what you saw, Lady Marlowe,” said Miss Weatherby stiffly. “Lord Scoville may have been a trifle, er, blunt in his attentions, but he is, after all, a mature man deeply in love with my niece.”

“With her money,” Sophy snapped.

“It does not matter,” Miss Weatherby replied tightly, “whether it is her fortune or her face which inflames him. The point is, she is my niece. I am her guardian. And if I give him leave to address her, it is none of your business. Now send for Anne immediately!”

“No,” Sophy said baldly, hanging on to her temper by a thread. “I will not. Anne will stay here with me until I am convinced that you will not force her into an abominable alliance with a dissipated old roué like my uncle.”

Edward let loose with a string of oaths that would have made a pirate blush, but neither Sophy nor Miss Weatherby turned a hair. Nor did any of them notice the door and the soft-footed entrance of a fourth person. A fourth person who, after closing the door, stood there observing the scene.