For Love Alone (26 page)

“I am inclined to agree with Dewhurst's assessment of the situation,” Ives said slowly. “The murder of your uncle was too elaborately arranged, especially your sis—” He shut his mouth, remembering that only he and Sophy knew the exact details of what had transpired that night.

“I have never been particularly fond of Monsieur Marquette,” Sophy said in troubled tones, “but I cannot picture him a thief. There is no need of it—the extent of his wealth is well-known. His was one of the few émigré families fortunate enough to escape France with the majority of their fortune intact. There is no reason for him to steal.”

“Again, I agree. But it is interesting,” Ives murmured. He looked at the rapt faces of the two young ladies on either side of Sophy and added with a grin, “And certainly not the topic of conversation for such young and pretty ears.”

“Oh, but you will not exclude us from the mystery, will you?” Phoebe cried. “It is my uncle who was murdered. Surely that is reason enough for us to know everything.” She looked stubborn. “And we are not
children,
you know.”

Sophy patted Phoebe's hand. “Of course you are not, and naturally we shall make certain that you know everything that we know.” She shot a speaking look at her husband. “Won't we, dear?” she added sweetly.

“Of course. I shall be guided by you in all things, sweetheart,” Ives replied with a deep bow in her direction and a twinkle in his green eyes.

Leaning closer to Sophy, Anne muttered, “I did not like Lord Scoville, but it seems so odd to think of him being
murdered
!”

“It wouldn't if you really knew my uncle,” Marcus retorted bluntly. “Sophy and I thought often of murdering him.”

“I would not,” Ives commented dryly, “go about telling that to all and sundry.”

Marcus flushed. “I am not a fool, my lord.”

“I never thought that you were,” Ives said with a smile. “I was, in my ham-fisted fashion, merely warning you to watch what you say. Until Edward's murderer is exposed, we must all guard our tongues.”

“But surely no one would suspect one of
you
of murdering Lord Scoville?” Lady Beckworth asked anxiously.

Ives shook his dark head. “Of course not. But the less we comment on the murder, the less the gossips will have to say.”

There was a knock at the door, and Emerson entered the room. Looking at Ives he said, “My lord, you have callers. Lord Grimshaw, Sir Alfred Caldwell, and a Colonel Meade. I took the liberty of putting them in the blue saloon.”

It was all Ives could do to keep a pleasant expression on his face. Meeting with those three undesirables was the last thing that he wanted to do at the moment, or any other moment for that matter, and he had a very good idea of why they had come to call. He vaguely remembered having made plans to visit a particularly unsavory hell with them before Edward's murder and his subsequent marriage to Sophy.

Being the type of men they were, not one of them would think it odd to leave a new bride to cool her heels while they followed their usual pursuits. And since he had done his best to ensure that they considered him of the same ilk, he could not change his manner now. Not if he wanted to track down the Fox.

The look Sophy gave him when he took his leave of her and the others made his mouth tighten. She did not trust him, and God help him, until the Fox was snared he was going to be able to do nothing to dispel her mistrust.

His guess for the visit by the three men proved correct and after they had shared a glass of hock and congratulated him in a most unbecoming fashion on his marriage, they bore him off for an afternoon and evening of amusement.

Knowing he was damning himself, Ives sent Sanderson with a message to Sophy that he would not be at home for dinner and would be returning late. She could make her own plans for the evening.

Ice settling in the region of her heart, Sophy listened to Sanderson's words but outwardly she kept a serene expression on her lovely face. When she told the others that Ives would be out that evening, Marcus looked askance, and Phoebe asked with obvious puzzlement, “He is leaving you alone on your first night home?”

Rising with regal grace to her feet, Sophy said carelessly, “Of course. Do not forget we are both sophisticated adults and know the way of the world. It would have been most strange if we sat in each other's pockets. He shall have his amusements, and I shall have mine.”

“You do not mind?” Anne asked uncertainly.

“Why should I?” Sophy replied, her heart aching in her breast. “I have his name and his fortune to command, and I am sure that he will do all that is proper to assure the success of our marriage.”

“That he will,” Lady Beckworth agreed. “Although I must confess that I am most surprised that he would forgo an evening with his bride in order to be with his friends.” She sighed. “But then that is the gentlemen. They so often simply please themselves.”

 

Sophy's thoughts were not pleasant as she lay alone later that night in her new bedroom, a bedroom she would share with her husband. A husband of less than four days who had deposited her in her home and then gone blithely off to gamble and drink the night away. She had no doubt Ives was doing precisely that at this very moment. It was bitter knowledge, and she had not even the solace of being certain that he would abstain from sampling the charms of the nearest available wench. Hadn't she seen him less than a week ago leering at one of the Allentons' maids?

A terrible feeling of déjà vu swept through her. So might Marlowe have acted.
He
would never have spared a second thought for his wife's feelings, not if it conflicted with his own desires. Ives seemed cast in the same mold, and yet the memory of Ives's teasing green eyes, his many considerate deeds, and his seductive lovemaking drifted through her mind.

She sighed. She was confused. He acted the cad one minute and the next was everything any woman would want. Which, she wondered miserably, was the real Ives Harrington? And how was she going to live with him when her heart was constantly being torn asunder?

Better than you did married to Simon, she thought grimly. Simon had
never
shown a softer side. And yet, she could not deny that there were many incidents that had revealed Ives was
nothing
like Marlowe. Perhaps she could coax Ives away from his rakish habits and friends? She had never wanted to do so with Simon, but with Ives—with Ives, she realized with a start, she wanted a real marriage. A marriage with a husband who loved her ... as she loved him?

Her breath caught sharply in her throat. Oh good gad! Never say that she had been so foolish as to fall in love with him! A man who had compelled her to marry him? A man she distrusted? A man who seemed at times to be the very twin of her first husband?

And yet how else could she explain this odd yearning in her heart? How else could she explain why his very touch seemed to melt her bones, her very inhibitions? And how else to explain the existence deep inside her of the certain knowledge that there
was
an explanation for his inexplicable acts? She did not trust him, she admitted poignantly, but she wanted to. Desperately.

Sophy slept badly that night, and she woke with the uncomfortable awareness that she had missed Ives's big body pressing into hers. She was also embarrassingly aware of a sweetly throbbing ache between her thighs, an ache she feared only one man could assuage.

Ives would have been delighted to know that Sophy had missed him, especially since the night he had just passed had proven to be a boring repetition of other nights he had already wasted in the company of Meade and the others.

He was, however, able to learn firsthand about the events following his and Sophy's departure from the Allentons', though it was essentially the same information Marcus had imparted earlier.

Marquette was no longer seriously considered a suspect in the murder. The testimony of Edward's own valet to the fact that the stolen objects had been in his lordship's room when he had retired for the night, and the simpering confession of a buxom housemaid who had been with Marquette all evening had done much to lift suspicion from him. But questions lingered, and while Edward's valet had no reason to lie, it was agreed amongst the others that the accommodating maid could have been bribed by Marquette.

“Where is Marquette now?” Ives asked idly as they sat in one of the smoky rooms of the vice-ridden hell Meade had selected for the night's entertainment.

“Went to his family home in the country,” replied Dewhurst, his blue eyes half-glazed from the copious amount of liquor they had been consuming all evening.

“Hiding with his tail between his legs,” said Grimshaw. “Never liked the damned fellow.”

“Oh, he is not such a bad sort,” Lord Coleman argued, as he sat across the table from Grimshaw, indifferently tossing some cards from hand to hand. “And you know that you do not really believe that he stole those frippery items from Edward and murdered him.”

“Someone did,” Ives interjected, his gaze on his half-empty snifter of brandy.

“But
not
Marquette,” said Dewhurst, and giggled drunkenly.

“Damme, Dewhurst, you're foxed,” exclaimed Grimshaw, laughing. “And the evening only half-gone. 'Tis convenient that you live around the corner from Coleman and me—we may have to carry you home.” He wagged a finger at his cousin. “But foxed or not, do not forget that we plan to visit Flora's establishment before we end the night.”

“Er, I am afraid that I must forgo that pleasure,” Ives said quickly. Drinking and gaming, yes. He could condone those pursuits for the purpose of trapping the Fox, but
not
whoring, not when the only woman he wanted was his bride.

“Under the cat's paw already?” Grimshaw asked nastily, his gray eyes hard as they rested on Ives's face.

The situation between Grimshaw and Ives was complicated at best. Knowing that Grimshaw had been the one to instigate the fatal wager that cost Ives his family and aware that Grimshaw's name was on the very short list of suspects given to Roxbury by his father, Ives had found it difficult from the very beginning to act casual around the man. It didn't help that he simply did not like the man under any circumstances.

Of all the gentlemen who comprised the group around Meade, many of whom had also been boon companions to the late Lord Marlowe, Ives found Grimshaw the most offensive. He was a cold-blooded gambler and thought little of brutally fleecing any poor pigeon who crossed his path. It was usually Grimshaw who committed the worst excesses, whether it was drunkenness or flagrant whoring. The others were hardly any better, but it always seemed to Ives that Grimshaw went just that little bit beyond the line of even the hardened rakes he associated with.

And Grimshaw did not like
him
any better than he did the other men. His marriage to Sophy sat ill with Grimshaw; Ives knew that, and was not surprised by Grimshaw's comment. Grimshaw often seemed to be trying to goad Ives into some foolhardy act, but so far Ives had deftly avoided coming to open conflict with the other man.

Ives smiled into Grimshaw's dissipated features. “If Sophy were your wife, I think that perhaps you might not mind being under her paw. It is
such
a sweet little paw, you know.”

“A hit! Definitely a hit!” Meade cried gaily, as he lolled by Ives's side. Meade looked expectantly over at Grimshaw, his heavy features flushed with wine, a sloppy smile on his mouth.

Grimshaw shot him a venomous glance. “You're as drunk as Henry.”

“Not drunk,” murmured Henry. “Foxed—Grimshaw said so.”

Ives laughed, and, getting to his feet, said lightly, “Indeed you are, the lot of you. And before I must be carried home feetfirst to my bride, I shall take my leave of you. Good night, gentlemen.”

It might have been unwise to leave then, but Ives could only hope that they would put his lack of enthusiasm for Flora's down to the fact that he did possess a young and very lovely bride. Most of them, at one time or other, had vied for Sophy's charms, and he figured that for at least a few weeks none of them would think it strange that he preferred his own bed to that of one of Flora's doxies.

But it was not Sophy's bed Ives sought out when he returned home. Not even he was bold enough to attempt to gain her good graces after having abandoned her so callously. He spent what remained of the night speculating about what he had learned, or not learned, and he concluded dismally that the entire evening had been a complete waste.

He could have, he admitted unhappily, furthered his cause with his lady and spent a most enjoyable evening sampling her delectable charms instead of rubbing shoulders with the worst set of scoundrels it had ever been his misfortune to meet. It didn't help his state of mind any that he still had no real clue as to the identity of the Fox. Or even the confidence that his efforts would eventually prove fruitful. At the moment, the memorandum and Meade seemed to be the only sure way of flushing out their quarry
if
he took the bait.

Ives brightened slightly. There was also Edward's murder to plumb for clues. If Edward had been murdered because he knew something about the Fox ... He smiled faintly. Perhaps his cause was not entirely hopeless.

 

It was well after noon before Ives wandered downstairs. He was not looking forward to the meeting with his wife. By the time he went in search of Sophy, upon finally being informed that she was in the conservatory, he was aware that he had not only alienated his wife but completely ruined his warm rapport with the other members of the household. Marcus gave him a decidedly cool greeting as he had passed him on the stairs, and the stiff reply his aunt gave him when he had inquired of Sophy's whereabouts, as well as the less-than-welcoming expressions on Phoebe's and Anne's faces, confirmed that he had thoroughly offended all of them.