For Love Alone (16 page)

Roxbury beamed at him. “I could not have described the man better myself!” Clapping his godson on the back, he urged, “Now go and become one of our dear colonel's most cherished friends.”

Ives made a wry face. “Thank you, sir. Just what I always wanted, to consort intimately with suspected spies and traitors.”

Returning to his town house, Ives immediately called a meeting of his men and gave them a recital of the facts. The men seemed heartened by Ives's plan, and it was decided, since one of them would be tailing their quarry at all times, that they would work in relays watching Meade. Ashby, Ives's valet, drew the first watch.

“I want to know everyone he meets and everywhere he goes,” Ives said grimly to his former batman. “At no time do I want him
un
observed. I want you on his heels like a hound on a hare.”

Ives grinned at him. “However, I would prefer that you not bring attention to yourself. The same goes for the rest of you,” he added as he glanced around the room. “Remember, all is secrecy. We must not let him know that we are shadowing him.” He frowned slightly. “And be on the lookout for others watching him—my godfather may set his own dogs on him, and I do not want us tripping over one another. If you suspect that others are interested in him also, let me know instantly.”

The men nodded. William Williams asked, “And you, sir? What are you going to do?”

Ives grimaced. “I have the pleasant duty of becoming the blasted fellow's bosom friend.”

 

Becoming Meade's friend was not arduous. They had the military as common ground as well as several mutual acquaintances. Dining with Lieutenant Colonel Meade that evening and later accompanying him to one of the more popular hells, Ives was astonished at how easily he managed to ingratiate himself with the other man. But then Meade, despite being a suspected spy, was a rather likable fellow, a trifle simple but with an easygoing, undemanding personality. By the time Ives returned home that evening in the early hours of the morning, after a night of gambling, drinking, and whoring, there was little doubt that Meade considered them brothers under the skin.

Cultivating a friendship with Meade entailed many nights that were a boring and predictable repetition of the previous evening's entertainment. It also, to Ives's growing disgust, entailed becoming very friendly with the suspects on his list as well as several other gentlemen who had formed the nucleus of Simon Marlowe's set.

His nocturnal activities left Ives with little time in which to pursue the fascinating and elusive Lady Marlowe, but he did manage to call several times during the following weeks at the Grayson town house, and twice he managed to coax Sophy into driving in Hyde Park with him.

The fact that Ives was no longer frequently seen in her company at the various balls and routs she attended did not pass unnoticed, and Henry Dewhurst twitted her on it. Approaching her one evening at a ball, after they had exchanged warm greetings, Henry did a discreet double take, and murmured, “Is it my imagination, or has the rather large gentleman who has been taking up so much of your time lately vanished from the lists?”

If anyone else had made that comment, Sophy would have been deeply chagrined, but her relationship with Dewhurst enabled her to see his words for the gentle teasing they were. She smiled faintly at him. “Alas, you see that he has abandoned me—thank goodness!”

Dewhurst laughed. “I wondered how long you were going to put up with his commanding manners.” He flashed her a keen look. “You were seen so often in his company that I began to speculate that perhaps you changed your mind about never marrying again. Have you?”

“Good heavens, no!” Sophy said gaily, although the smile that accompanied her statement was a trifle forced. Despite her light words, Ives's defection hurt. Not a great deal, she told herself quickly; but she could not deny that she missed his company—far more than she liked to admit.

Lord Grimshaw wandered up just then, his gray eyes appreciative as they roamed over Sophy's slender form. She was clad this evening in a gown of palest gold silk, which left her shoulders bare and displayed a generous amount of her breasts. As always, just Grimshaw's look made her flesh creep. Of all Simon's friends, she disliked him the most.

The rakish manners and coarse activities of Marquette and Lord Coleman—in fact, most of Simon's friends—had repelled her when she first met them, but the moment she laid eyes on Grimshaw, she had been aware of an instinctive revulsion for him.

The others had flirted scandalously with her, had even attempted the occasional stolen kiss, but there was nothing frightening about them. They were simply hardened rakes reacting to the proximity of a pretty female. With Grimshaw it was different.

Sophy had swiftly learned how to repulse the others, and they took it in good stride, but Grimshaw . . . Grimshaw had been appallingly persistent. Nothing seemed to deter him, and after a particularly ugly scene when she had to fight her way free of his lascivious embrace, Sophy had taken to making certain she was never alone with him and kept to her rooms when he was a guest at Marlowe House. Telling Simon would have been useless; he would have thought it a great jest and chastised her for being such a little prude. Grimshaw frightened and repelled her, and in the ensuing years he did nothing to change her initial feelings about him.

Almost as if he guessed her thoughts, Grimshaw smiled. Not a nice smile. “How is it,” he asked carelessly, “that you are out and about these days without the hulking viscount lurking in the background? Does he allow you to run tame, or did you freeze him out?”

Sophy stiffened, and Dewhurst sent Grimshaw a pained look. Putting a restraining hand on Dewhurst's arm, she said levelly, “I am afraid that my relationship with Viscount Harrington is none of your business, and I would remind you, that these days, no man
allows
me to do anything!”

“Which is unfortunate,” Grimshaw returned with a gleam in his gray eyes. “I have always thought that you needed the hand of a strong man. Since Simon died, you've developed into quite a shrew, my sweet. If you don't watch that sharp tongue of yours, you may find that you have driven off every member of the male species.”

Controlling her temper with an effort and reminding herself that she did not have to put up with his presence if she did not wish to, she said bluntly, “You are entitled to your own opinion. Now if you will excuse me, I intend to go in search of more congenial company.”

She was on the point of turning away, when Grimshaw murmured, “Like the viscount? I see that he has arrived and is fast making his way to your side.”

Sophy spun around to see that Grimshaw spoke the truth, and a tingle of delight shot through her at the sight of Ives's tall form striding determinedly across the floor in her direction. The evening, which had seemed oddly flat, suddenly became dazzlingly vibrant, and the smile Sophy gave Ives when he finally reached her side brought a dazed expression to his craggy face.

Bowing low over her hand, he murmured, “Can it be that you are actually pleased to see me, sweetheart?”

A flush stained her cheeks at his public endearment, and her fingers trembled unaccountably in his warm grasp, as she muttered, “Viscount Harrington! If you would only learn to keep a civil tongue in your head, I am certain that our acquaintance would proceed more smoothly.”

“But tediously, do you not agree?” he returned with a twinkle.

Sophy snatched away her hand, which he was all too inclined to retain, from his, and said politely, “You remember Mr. Dewhurst and Lord Grimshaw?”

Ives bowed to both men. “Of course. Lately I have been seeing a great deal of them. They need no further introduction. Good evening, gentlemen.”

Sophy looked puzzled. “You have become friends?” she asked uncertainly. Dewhurst might be a favorite of hers, but she knew that he was as reckless a gambler and hardened a rake as all the others. And of course, Grimshaw . . . The thought of Ives becoming friends with a man whose mere glance filled her with revulsion was disquieting.

Grimshaw laughed. “Ah, yes, the viscount has been joining your beloved uncle and me and several other friends for some enjoyable evenings lately.” He looked at Ives. “How much did you drop last night playing with Meade and Caldwell? Five thousand? Ten?”

“Enough,” Ives replied lightly, “to make me wonder if I am a gambler, after all.”

Ives was very aware of Sophy's dismay that he should be losing such vast sums as well as the fact that he was apparently on such easy terms with a fellow like Grimshaw,
and
her uncle. He sighed inwardly. The lady was elusive enough, but if she thought he had turned into a reckless gambler and enjoyed the company of men like Grimshaw and Scoville . . .

Dewhurst spoke up. “Did you receive the Allentons' invitation for the weekend house party planned for mid-May?” he asked. “Allenton said he intended to invite you. It should be amusing. There will be some deep drinking and heavy gambling if I know Thomas Allenton and his lady. You should find it enjoyable.”

“The Allentons' house party?” Sophy inquired sharply. “You have been invited to stay at Crestview?”

Ives flicked a brow upward at her tone of voice. “Yes, I have, but I have not yet made up my mind whether to attend or not.”

“Oh, you will find it most amusing,” Grimshaw said. “Sally Allenton puts on a fine house party.” He cast a sly look at Sophy. “Unlike some hostesses, she is very easygoing and does not cast a rub in a fellow's way.” He winked. “She also has some of the most... accommodating . . . female servants.”

It was a most improper conversation to be having in front of Sophy, but she did not appear shocked by it, Ives thought. But then if everything he had heard of her husband was true, she would not be. In fact, she had probably been exposed to far worse.

For a moment Ives was conscious of a great burst of rage within him at what Sophy must have endured. Simon Marlowe, he thought savagely, should have been drawn and quartered!

Hiding his distaste for Grimshaw and the entire episode, Ives murmured, “Hmm, so I have heard. But I have also heard that there are many members of the ton who do not approve of either Allenton or his dashing wife. They are considered far too fast and careless of convention to suit many people.”

“Only by stiff-rumped old harridans,” Grimshaw drawled. “I tell you, the Allentons are most amusing. You should accept the invitation. The company will be uncommonly gay.”

Henry glanced at Sophy, who had been listening to the conversation with growing dismay. “And you, Lady Marlowe? Are you attending the house party?”

Her refusal of the invitation was sitting on her writing table at home. She knew
exactly
the type of party it would be—she had survived too many similar orgies at Marlowe House while her husband was alive—and had thought that there was nothing on earth that would compel her to willingly attend such a wretched affair again.

Allenton had been a frequent guest at Marlowe House, and he was of the same ilk as Grimshaw. The unsettling news that Ives appeared to be firmly clasped to the bosom of the most depraved of Simon's friends gave her pause. She could not credit that he was as immoral a fellow as this conversation would lead one to believe, yet what else could she think? Perhaps, she thought unhappily, she should attend the Allenton party and see for herself.

Sophy smiled weakly and admitted, “I have not yet made up my mind. I have heard that Crestview is very beautiful, and May is a lovely month. It might be pleasant to leave London briefly for a weekend in the country.”

“I would not have thought that such a party would be to your liking,” Ives said slowly, a slight frown growing between his brows.

“Oh, and what gave you that idea?” Sophy asked lightly. “I assure you that I have attended many parties of this sort.”

Ives shrugged and let the subject drop. This was not the time to convince her that the last place she wanted to be was at Allenton's house party. If he understood it right, it was going to be nothing short of a drunken bacchanalia and an excuse for the others to commit any sort of depraved excess which crossed their minds. For all her fashionable ways, Sophy was not
that
sophisticated, and he did not want her subjected to any unpleasantness. More importantly, he thought grimly, he did not want her to see him in his current guise of flagrant degenerate!

The chance for private conversation between them did not occur until the next day, when Ives came to call. To Sophy's annoyance, he showed himself into the conservatory where she had been reading a new novel from the Minerva Press. Ignoring the flutter in her chest, she told herself that he was too arrogant by half and that he was in desperate need of a sharp set-down. Show himself in, indeed!