For Love Alone (30 page)

 

That Ives was in a foul mood did not escape the notice of his companions. A malicious smile on his face, Grimshaw murmured, “Trouble at home, dear fellow? Finding the parson's mousetrap a bit
too
confining?”

Ives sent him a look that would have felled a lesser man. “Of course not. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you
do
seem a trifle, ah, bad-tempered this evening,” interposed Dewhurst smoothly, his blue eyes fixed on Ives's face. “Only natural to assume it might be trouble with your wife.”

“It's not,” Ives snapped, and finished off his glass of hock, motioning impatiently for another.

The gentlemen around him—Grimshaw, Dewhurst, Meade, Coleman, and Caldwell—exchanged glances. “Just so,” said Meade, already half-foxed. “Whatever you say, dear fellow.”

With a rare show of tact, the conversation shifted, and Ives tried to make himself agreeable.

The evening passed slowly for Ives. He really did try to throw himself into the spirit of things by drinking heavily and gambling feverishly. He lost a rather large sum to Meade, and even went so far as to encourage the advances of a shapely ladybird who had been hanging over his shoulder all evening.

Ignoring the sly glances of the others, he let her sit in his lap and lean intimately against him as he played hand after hand of cards. However, he was not so far gone as to carry it further; when her fingers began to teasingly explore his hard frame, and she nibbled on his ear, he gently removed her from his lap. “Not tonight, I am afraid,” he said with a polite smile, and tossed her a gold coin.

“Can it be,” Coleman asked in astonished accents, “that you actually plan on remaining faithful to your wife?”

Grimshaw and Meade and the others snickered. Grimshaw even wagged an admonishing finger at him. “This will not do at all! It is clear,” he said, “that your bride is playing her old tricks on you. Often did I see Simon wear that same look of baffled fury.” He smiled. Not nicely. “Has she thrown you from her bed and held you at bay with her pistol?”

Ives's jaw tightened. “That is not,” he said dangerously, “any of your business.”

Something glittered in Grimshaw's eye. “Suppose,” he drawled, “that I were to make it my business?”

Ives stilled. His gaze locked with Grimshaw's, he spoke in low tones. “That might be a rather hazardous thing to do, my friend. Unless, of course, you think that you may best me with either the sword or the pistol.”

Hastily, Meade said, “Oh, come now. None of that. We are all friends here, are we not?” He smiled with drunken affection from one set face to the other.

It was Grimshaw who broke first. “Of course,” he said. “Naturally, we are all friends.”

Ives nodded curtly, aware of a stab of disappointment. In the mood he was in tonight he really would have looked forward to meeting Grimshaw on the dueling field. Which was as foolish as it was dangerous. The last thing Roxbury needed was for him to face possible death at Grimshaw's hands.

It was Meade who was the first to rise from the table that evening, which was unusual and made Ives look at him carefully. There had been an air of suppressed excitement about Meade all night, but Ives had put it down to his unexpected luck with the cards. Yet discreetly studying the other man, it dawned on him that Meade was not
quite
as drunk as he pretended and that there was a feverish glow in his eyes.

Following Meade's lead, the party broke up, and, with ever-sharpening interest, Ives watched Meade toddle off with Grimshaw at his side. Coleman and Caldwell followed behind them.

Henry Dewhurst, still sprawled at their table, yawned delicately, and said, “Well, I am for my bed. It appears the others have other plans for the remainder of the evening. Probably Flora's. Although, Meade did seem a bit eager for just a night of ...” Henry chuckled. “Ah, but then Meade prides himself on being quite a man with the ladies.” Smiling at Ives, he said, “Since we seem to be deserted by our friends, shall we walk together part of the way home?”

“You know Meade rather well, don't you?” asked Ives idly.

Henry shrugged. “Yes, but probably not as well as I know Grimshaw. Grimshaw and I have always been very close.” He smiled sleepily. “And, of course, to a remarkable degree, we
do
seem to share the same vices.”

“And the same taste in women,” Ives commented dryly, well aware that Henry had hoped to marry Sophy—which was more than he suspected Grimshaw of wanting to do.

Henry laughed uneasily. “Does it bother you that I wanted to marry Sophy? I did, you know. I courted her for a long time, and I was
not
happy when you stole the march on me and married her out of hand.”

Suddenly liking Dewhurst for his honesty, Ives said slowly, “That was a handsome admission. And, no, it does not bother me that you wanted to marry her.” Ives grinned at him. “I wanted to marry her myself, and I cannot blame you for feeling the same. She is an extraordinary woman.”

“And not very happy with you, if your expression earlier tonight was anything to go by,” Henry observed tartly.

Ives grimaced. “Let us talk of more pleasant things, shall we?”

Dewhurst followed his lead, and they walked together amiably for several more minutes, Henry happily prattling on about the latest on-dits while Ives wondered how soon he could decently part from him. Meade's whole demeanor tonight had taken on enormous significance to him, and he wanted to assure himself that Sanderson, or whoever had been assigned to watch Meade that night, was especially diligent.

Parting from Henry a few minutes later, Ives suddenly grinned to himself. The devil! He didn't want to assure himself that Sanderson was doing his job; he wanted to be the one trailing Meade tonight. His grin faded. And there sure as hell was no reason for him to hurry home.

Meade had made enough allusions to Flora's throughout the evening for Ives to decide to begin his quest to find the other man there. Swiftly, he made his way through the murky London streets to Flora's. Intent upon his objective, he nearly stumbled across the man lurking in a darkened alleyway just across from the whorehouse.

They grappled for a second, Ives striking a powerful blow that sent his assailant reeling. He was on him instantly, his fingers closing around the other man's throat.

“M'lord!” the fellow gasped. “Is that you?”

“Williams!”
Ives exclaimed, loosening his savage grip with a feeling of chagrin and relief. Of course. One of his own men would be trailing Meade.

In the darkness Williams grinned, his teeth a pale flash. “Thought I recognized your handiwork.”

Helping his head groom to his feet, Ives asked, “So which one of our suspects were you watching tonight?”

“The colonel. Sanderson is on Coleman, and Ogden is following Grimshaw.” Brushing off his clothes, he continued, “Good thing they went their separate ways tonight, else the three of us would have been falling all over each other. Which,” he added wearily, “is what we are generally doing. They are all such boon companions that it seems to me you could have had just one of us watch all three. They generally end up at the same places at the same time.”

“But not tonight?” Ives asked.

“No, not tonight,” Williams admitted.

“I wonder,” Ives mused aloud, “if that is significant?”

 

It was,
very,
but only the Fox knew it. Having finally shaken free of the last of his companions, he swiftly hurried to his lodgings and, after dismissing his valet for the night, set about preparing himself for the meeting with Meade. A change of clothing and a bit of theatrical flair was definitely in order.

Slipping down the stairs, he made his way to a small room at the rear of the house that possessed all he needed, including its own private entrance into the narrow alley behind the building where he lived. Entering the room, he crossed to a large picture hanging on one wall. He lifted it down, revealing a secret hiding place concealed by a little door with a sturdy lock. Using the key he had brought with him, he opened the lock and, a few minutes later, was competently changing his appearance. In clothing fit for a merchant, a rather handsome drooping mustache and a large-brimmed hat that hid half his face, he soon presented an image completely different from his own.

He would have preferred to change in one of his hiding places, but did not want to waste the time tonight. Meade was already waiting for him at Flora's, and he did not want him to become impatient.

A sly smile curved his mouth as he drifted out of the house and into the dark alley behind it—there was no real danger of Meade leaving Flora's. He would, the Fox suspected, wait a very long time to meet with the man who was going to give him a great deal of gold.

He was still smiling as he crept down the alley, stiffening a second later when he realized he was not alone. Someone else was there ... watching for him?

A cold feeling settled in his chest. How? How could Roxbury have settled upon him? He had been so careful, and for these past several months he had lived an exemplary life, avoiding everything that might connect him to
Le Renard.

Telling himself to keep a cool head and not leap to conclusions, he remained motionless, staring at the faint outline of the other man in front of him. It could be coincidence. The fellow lurking ahead of him could have nothing to do with him. He could even be a housebreaker spying out a likely target.

He cautiously backed away from the other man, his mind racing furiously. He did not discount the possibility that the watcher
was
waiting for him, but if his identity was truly known, he realized with a flush of triumph, there would be a damn sight more than just one man after him.

But Roxbury could be suspicious of him. A feeling of invincibility mingled with excitement surged through him. The game had suddenly become even more challenging. He would meet with Meade tonight, he thought, almost giggling in his delight, right under their very noses. And if the fellow obliviously leaning against the side of the building in front of him did discover his presence and try to follow him, he would easily lose the fool.

Darting into another alley, he stopped and glanced back, pleased to see no sign of a follower. Contemptuously, he concluded that the incompetent creature had no idea that he had already left the house and was on the loose. Another giggle rose up within him. He would meet with Meade all right, and the man who was to have watched him would remain right where he was, lurking over an empty den! The Fox had already escaped!

 

Ives was disappointed when he heard the reports of his men the next morning. Having been with Williams for what had remained of the night, he was already prepared for what they had to say. According to Ogden and Sanderson, neither Grimshaw nor Coleman had left his residence once each retired for the night.

Ogden appeared uncomfortable, and at Ives's raised brow, he added reluctantly, “It is probably nothing, my lord, but there was something strange about last night. There was a few minutes when I felt almost as if someone was watching me. I looked around, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. It was just odd, and I thought I should mention it.”

“Probably nothing to worry over,” Ives said slowly, “but if it happens again, tell me, and we'll take steps to find out if there is something to it.”

Williams had little to add that Ives didn't already know; he had been with him until Meade left Flora's a few hours later and stumbled to his lodgings. Meade had remained there until Ives had given up in disgust and returned to Berkeley Square just as dawn was breaking over the city.

Yawning, Williams said, “He is still at his lodgings. He never stirred from the place after you left this morning. That fellow of your godfather's, Hinckley, has taken over watching him for today; Carnes is following Grimshaw; and Ashby is sniffing after Coleman.” He yawned again. “And I, m'lord, with your permission, am for my bed.”

Ives smiled faintly. His three henchmen did look rather bleary-eyed. Having managed only a few hours of sleep himself, they had his sympathy.

“Very well,” Ives said. “Get some sleep, the lot of you. I have no doubt you will be in for another long night tonight.” Wryly he added, “We all will. I am to meet Meade and Grimshaw and the others this evening for another round of gambling and drinking.”

After they departed, Ives paced the small room Marcus had arranged to be set aside for his exclusive use. His head ached, and he could have used several more hours of sleep. But it was not his aching head or the lack of sleep that brought such a ferocious scowl to his hard features. It was thoughts of his wife.

Having had time for his temper to cool and to realize, with no little regret, that there was some justification for Sophy's attitude, he had come home in the early hours of the morning determined to confront her and settle things between them. His usually amiable temper had soared when he had discovered the door to their connecting rooms locked. Infuriated all over again, and in no mood to be balked, he had stalked into the main hallway and stormed into her room from the main entrance.

Sophy was ready for him. Not only was he confronted by an icy-eyed wife, but she had the nerve, the utter audacity, to aim at him the very pistol he had given her less than forty-eight hours previously.

“That is far enough,” she said coolly. “Come one step nearer, and I shall shoot you, m'lord.”

His attempt on the connecting door must have alerted her, because despite the hour, she was obviously wide-awake and standing in the middle of the room, her gown of sheer pale blue silk drifting tantalizingly around her tall, slender form.