For Love Alone (33 page)

At the moment there was little else he could do except wait and speculate about the murder. Deciding he could do that at Berkeley Square as well as anywhere, he returned home.

It was a very quiet afternoon, and Sophy spent most of it with Anne and Phoebe, Agnes's brutal murder diminishing her own problems for the moment. Since Agnes had not been related to the family, there was no need of them going into mourning.

As for Anne, she was not out yet and since they would all be removing to the country within the next few weeks, she needed only to curtail the most frivolous entertainments for the time being. Sophy would see to it that a few gowns in a suitably somber hue were purchased for Anne's use, but it was decided that little more would be done to mourn Agnes.

Dinner that evening was rather subdued, and while no one had been particularly fond of Agnes, her death and the manner of it certainly cast a pall over the household. Sophy was touched that Ives remained home nearly the entire day, and watching him as he teased first a smile and then a laugh out of Anne and Phoebe, she wondered again if she had misjudged him. There was such gentleness in him, such understanding.

Marcus, having a long-standing engagement, had gone out for the evening, but the remainder of the household settled down for a quiet time at home. The girls prevailed upon Ives and Sophy to teach them to play whist, and time passed pleasantly as Anne and Phoebe concentrated on the intricacies of the game.

It was nearly ten o'clock, and the cards had just been put away when Emerson entered the room. Approaching Ives with a silver salver in his hand, he said, “My lord, this just arrived for you.”

Ives picked up the note, broke the seal, and read the contents. It was from Roxbury and it was brief.

R
ising to his feet, Ives met Sophy's unblinking gaze. She was not, he realized unhappily, going to be very pleased with him. He grimaced, and said, “I hope that you ladies will forgive me, but I find that I, uh, have a previous demand on my time and must leave you now.”

Sophy stiffened. The warmth which had been building in her breast vanished.

“Of course, my lord,” she said coolly, her eyes blazing with contempt. “We understand that other amusements call.”

The accusing looks Anne and Phoebe flashed his way did not help his frame of mind, and, smothering a curse, Ives bowed and quickly left the room. At least one good thing might come of this, he thought grimly, as he picked up his malacca cane and left the house. With the document gone, there was every chance that tonight would see the capture of the Fox. And if that happened, he admitted more cheerfully, he would be able to tell Sophy all and redeem himself in her eyes—he hoped.

Buoyed by these pleasant thoughts, he swiftly covered the distance to the Green Boar. Finding Roxbury waiting for him in a private room, he entered, and asked, “When was the document discovered missing?”

Roxbury, who had been pacing impatiently about the small room, looked over at him. “Less than a half hour ago—immediately after Meade left his office.”

“The colonel does seem to be working extremely odd hours of late, does he not?”

Roxbury snorted. “Once we knew that the memorandum was gone,” he said testily, “I put two more men on Meade in addition to your men. They're working in relays and as soon as they have an idea of his direction or he reaches his destination, one of them will come here and tell us.” He raised a brow. “There are another half dozen men waiting outside this tavern to accompany you when word reaches us of Meade's whereabouts. I assumed that you wanted to be in on the kill.”

Ives smiled, his eyes very bright. “I look forward to it. The important thing, however, is that we don't lose Meade. Once he's given the document to his buyer, if his buyer is the Fox, any hope of catching the elusive
Le Renard
will have disappeared.”

“At least the damned information is incorrect,” Roxbury muttered, his worry evident. “Nothing must jeopardize Wellesley's plans. Nothing.”

Ives smiled. “Do not worry, sir. We will catch him.”

“I bloody hope so!”

Ten minutes later, a nondescript man sidled into the room. Meade, he informed them in breathless accents, was headed to one of the hells he was known to frequent. They'd best hurry, if they were to pick up the trail.

Leaving his godfather behind, Ives plunged into the darkness behind Hinckley, as the fellow had been identified. The other waiting men followed quickly on their heels. The distance was traversed swiftly, and Ives was not surprised that the trail led to St. James's Square and a notorious hell aptly named the Pigeon Hole. It was a particular favorite of Meade and Grimshaw's, where they frequently amused themselves fleecing the unwary and green lads up from the country. Ives thought it highly unlikely that Meade had gone directly to his buyer.

The Pigeon Hole was crowded at this time of night and, while most respectable gentlemen avoided it, from time to time the more adventuresome members of the gaming fraternity came to try their luck. Another reason for its lure was the fact that the owner of the hell ran a stable of some of the most attractive ladybirds in London; their much-vaunted charms accounted for a great deal of the fashionable traffic in and out of the hell. Meade was probably simply whiling away a few hours until his appointment.

After spreading his men out in all directions around the hell, Ives reflected that it would not be suspicious if he wandered into the Pigeon Hole himself. He had met Meade here more than once, and his presence would not arouse comment.

A suitably bored expression on his bold features, Ives strolled into the Pigeon Hole and after a discreet glance around spotted Meade, Grimshaw, Dewhurst, and Coleman gathered at the hazard table. He joined them and was greeted as a long-lost brother by Meade.

“I was hoping you would find us this evening,” exclaimed Meade, his features already flushed with liquor. “I hear that there is a new ladybird in the flock, and I, for one, want to discover if she is as, er, talented as touted. What about you?”

Ives shrugged. “I have never found buttered buns to my taste. Perhaps another time.”

“It seems to me,” drawled Grimshaw, “that you are very nice in your requirements, Harrington.”

“How very astute of you to have noticed,” Ives said sweetly. “And I find it very strange that my habits hold such interest for you. Can it be that you are thinking of emulating my restraint?”

Grimshaw snorted and flashed him a look of dislike before turning back to the hazard table.

No one else paid him any undue attention, and he settled down to wait and see what transpired. Time passed very slowly for him, and by the time Meade and the others were ready to leave several hours later, he was heartily sick of the Pigeon Hole, Meade, and the entire situation.

Despite his avowed purpose for being at the Pigeon Hole, at no time did Meade disappear to sample the charms of the latest addition to the hell's stable of expensive whores, and Ives was heartily grateful. It had occurred to him that the document could be authenticated or transferred while Meade supposedly visited with the new ladybird. He had not been certain what he would have done if Meade had ambled off in search of feminine company.

Sir Alfred Caldwell and a few others had joined them shortly after Ives had entered the hell, and it was a fairly large group of gentlemen who exited the Pigeon Hole at the end of the night. It was by now well after two o'clock in the morning, and most of the gentlemen in the group were either thoroughly foxed or nearly so, Meade in particular.

Frowning slightly, Ives watched as Meade motioned to a sedan chair and crawled clumsily inside. As the sedan chair moved off, Ives could hear Meade singing a bawdy little ditty.

At his side, Dewhurst, not in much better condition, chuckled, and murmured, “He is quite, quite bosky, is he not?”

“Very,” Ives said dryly, wondering how soon he could get rid of Dewhurst. The other men had already tottered off in the direction of their homes, and a few had taken sedan chairs as had Meade. Somehow, Ives was not surprised that Grimshaw and Coleman were still with him. Which one, he wondered, which one of you is the Fox?

“Noticed you didn't seem to partake of the wine very liberally tonight,” Grimshaw said almost accusingly, his gray eyes fixed on Ives's dark face. “Except for gaming—and you're bloody cautious about that, too—I notice you don't participate very much in any of our amusements. Curious why you seem to like our company.”

“I think, my friend, that you are as bosky as Meade,” Ives said lightly. “And I am rather puzzled why you suddenly seem so very interested in my habits.”

“Nosy,” said Dewhurst with a giggle, his blue eyes very bright. “Always has been—even when we were children.”

“And at the moment,” Coleman interposed firmly, “badly in need of his bed. Come along, my friend. You can worry about Harrington's lack of vice some other time.”

Grumbling, Grimshaw allowed himself to be led off by a surprisingly sober Coleman. Had Coleman abstained tonight because he knew he would have business to transact later? Or was Grimshaw running a sham and not quite as foxed as he appeared?

A tap on his shoulder distracted his thoughts from the other two men, and he turned to look at Dewhurst. “Think I'll sample the charms of Meade's ladybird since it doesn't appear he is going to do so. Good evening.”

Dewhurst disappeared back inside the hell, leaving Ives standing alone. Nonchalantly, he set out in the direction taken by Meade's sedan chair. Almost immediately, he had caught up with the last of his men, who were discreetly keeping Meade in sight.

Knowing that Meade had rooms on Half Moon Street, it did not take Ives long to realize that wherever Meade was going, it was not to his lodgings. And since the sedan chair seemed to be traveling rather erratically, turning first down this street and then that street, it was obvious Meade was either attempting to throw off any followers, or he was too drunk to know where he was going.

Ives and his men were strung out in a long, crooked line behind the sedan chair as they kept to the shadows and moved forward with extreme caution. The streets were nearly deserted at this time, and, as the minutes passed, it became harder and harder to conceal the fact that several men were discreetly following him. Ives began to feel decidedly uneasy. There were too many of them, and he pondered the wisdom of having agreed to the extra men.

When Meade finally emerged from the sedan chair and dismissed it, they were deep in an old part of the city near the Thames. Ives felt his senses quicken. They must be near the meeting place ... and the Fox?

The sedan chair gone, Meade strolled aimlessly down the narrow, dank streets, apparently without a destination in mind. He seemed in no hurry, and only by the surreptitious glances he occasionally cast over his shoulder was it evident that he was being watchful. Ives noted that any signs of inebriation had disappeared, and he smiled grimly. Meade had obviously not been as drunk as he pretended.

At present there was only one man in front of Ives; the rest were well behind him, ready to spring forward at his signal. It was difficult following Meade. There were too many shadows, too many little black alleys down which he could disappear. The light was murky, fitful, and interspersed with long stretches of darkness.

But it wasn't in one of those stretches of darkness where Meade lost them; it was down a narrow, meandering alley, almost totally cloaked in blackness. By the time the lead man felt it was safe to follow, Meade had disappeared, vanished into the night.

It took Ives and his men several frantic minutes to realize that their quarry had eluded them. When no sign of Meade could be found anywhere along the alley, Ives disgustedly ordered lanterns lit and they scoured the area. Nothing.

The other end of the alley opened onto a wide, surprisingly well-lit thoroughfare, and if he had been there, Meade would have been spotted.

His expression hangdog, Jennings muttered, “I'm sorry, my lord. I should not have waited to go after him. I should have been right on his heels.”

“And if you had been,” Ives said tiredly, “you would have alerted him to our presence, and he would have immediately sheared off.” He smiled wryly. “We would have lost him either way.”

Ives assigned some of the men to watch the buildings on either side of the alley, and sent a couple to watch Meade's lodgings for his return. He dismissed the rest and returned wearily to the Green Boar.

The meeting with Roxbury was not pleasant, but in the end, both men took comfort from the knowledge that the information contained in the document could not harm Wellesley and would only confuse the French troops.

“It was a good plan,” Roxbury said sympathetically, as they prepared to leave the tavern.

“If it had worked,” Ives replied acidly. “But we are not totally at a standstill. Once we find out who owns those buildings and gain entrance, it is possible we will find some clue to where Meade may have gone.”

Despite the hour, through Roxbury's connections, the owner was soon identified, and shortly thereafter, Ives was on his way to see him. All buildings which flanked the alley were owned by an elderly wool merchant, who was incensed at being rousted out of his bed at the unreasonable hour of five o'clock in the morning, even if it was done by a member of the aristocracy. Ives plied his not-inconsiderable charm and by the time they had shared a cup of coffee, the owner had calmed down enough to agree to allow Ives and his men free access to the buildings. As for any clues pointing to the identity of the Fox or where Meade might have gone, the search proved futile.

They were, however, able to discover how Meade had disappeared—a secret door in the side of one of the buildings. Meade had simply pushed the hidden catch and slid the door aside. Stepping inside the warehouse, Meade had likely closed the door softly behind him and vanished. It would have taken only a matter of seconds as Ogden unhappily demonstrated. The runners were well oiled, and from the outside of the building there was absolutely no trace of the door.

Further investigation revealed how Meade had slipped by them. There was a secret underground passage connecting several of the buildings, built during the reign of Bloody Mary, the owner disclosed proudly. The narrow, damp tunnel exited a half dozen buildings away near the river, right next to a small tavern. While they had been desperately scurrying around looking for him, Ives thought grimly, Meade had been, no doubt, enjoying himself inside the tavern and meeting with the Fox. Damn him!