For Love Alone (9 page)

A blistering retort was on the tip of her tongue, when a fearful cry stilled it.

“Oh,
pray
do not! I beg you. Oh, please let me go!”

The voice was female, young, obviously terrified, and on the point of tears. Her infuriating companion forgotten, Sophy picked up her skirts and sprinted down the dark path in the direction of the voice.

It had come from a secluded nook just a short distance from where she and Ives had been standing. As Sophy reached it, another cry came, even more frightened than the first. “Oh, sir, do not! Let me go!”

Despite the shadows, Sophy took in the scene in an instant. Two people were seated on a rustic bench in the center of the nook. The girl, who had just cried out, was not more than fifteen. Her gown was ripped, baring one slim shoulder, and she was desperately struggling in the arms of a man—a man much larger than the small, slim figure which fought so vainly to be free.

“You monster! Unhand her this moment!” Sophy snapped, her slender body braced for battle.

Having come up behind her, Ives put his hands on her shoulders, and murmured. “Ah, I think I had better handle this, Lady Marlowe.”

Sophy shot him a look. “Oh really? Is this not precisely what you planned with me?”

Ives smiled down lazily at her. “I rather doubt it. If I were trying to seduce you, sweetheart, I would be getting far more cooperation than this clumsy fellow.”

A bellow from the gentleman in the nook prevented Sophy from further speech. “Clumsy!” he roared, letting the terrified girl go and lurching to his feet. “By Satan's balls! Who are you to speak so of me? And who, I might ask, are you to be meddling in another man's affairs? I've a good mind to run you through.” He took an unsteady step forward, peering at Ives and Sophy. His gaze fastened on Sophy and he seemed to become even more enraged. “Damn it to hell! I might have known it would be you, Sophy, always ruining a fellow's fun.”

Seemingly oblivious to the drunken gentleman and the frightened girl, Ives cocked a brow at Sophy. “You know this, er, gentleman?”

Sophy's lip curled. Sending a scathing look at the gentleman in the nook, she said grimly, “Allow me, Lord Harrington, to introduce you to my
dear
uncle Edward, Baron Scoville. Since you both seem to have the same disgusting propensities, I am certain you will, no doubt, become fast friends!”

I
ves glanced thoughtfully at Edward, who stood there glaring balefully at them. The girl was sobbing quietly in the background, forgotten for the moment. Baron Scoville was elegantly attired, his intricately tied cravat gleamed whitely in the shadows and his dark blue coat fit him superbly. Despite the signs of dissipation and overindulgence beginning to blur his face and form, he was a handsome man. Ives could discern a slight resemblance to Sophy: the slender build, the golden hair and eyes. The similarity ended there.

The lack of adequate light made it hard to see him fully, but Ives had seen and heard enough to know precisely the sort of man standing before him. Lord Scoville was obviously just the type of depraved bounder that most people of good breeding avoided like the plague. And he was the Butterfly's uncle?

Ives rubbed his jaw and looked down at Sophy. “Your uncle, you say?” And at Sophy's curt nod, he added casually, “Pity.”

Unaccountably his comment made her want to laugh, that and the offended expression on her uncle's face. Stifling her amusement and ignoring both men, Sophy stepped around her uncle and sank down on the bench beside the girl. “Do not cry,” she said softly. “He cannot hurt you now. Come along with me, and I shall see that you are driven safely home.”

“Now see here, Sophy,” Edward said, blustering, “this is none of your affair.”

“That is not exactly true,” Ives said calmly. “Rescuing innocents from the grip of scoundrels is everyone's affair.”

Sophy gaped at him, her eyes round with astonishment. Lord Harrington was taking her side in this ugly situation?

“By Jove!” Edward protested. “No one dares to call me a scoundrel!”

“Perhaps not to your face,” Ives replied coolly. “But if I read this unpleasant little scene right, only a scoundrel would have attempted to force his attentions on a female this young. And only a double-damned scoundrel would have persisted with a female of
any
age when she had clearly made her wishes to the contrary known.”

Edward's face grew purple with rage and his entire body shook with fury. “By Satan's balls! No one speaks to
me
in that fashion. Name your seconds!”

Ives shook his head. “Not tonight. Tomorrow morning when you have had time to consider the situation and you are not so obviously foxed, if you feel the same, I shall be happy to oblige you. Until then, I suggest you take yourself off and allow your niece and me to escort the young lady to her home.”

Sophy could hardly believe it when, a second later, Edward, glaring furiously at Ives, spun on his heel and staggered off down the path, muttering and swearing under his breath. He collided with a small group of people coming in the opposite direction and cursed them roundly before disappearing into the darkness.

As the group approached, Sophy thankfully recognized the Offingtons and Forrest and her other companions. Stopping in the center of the path, Caldwell asked, “Wasn't that Scoville?”

Sophy made a face. “Yes, it was.”

It was Sara Offington who first noticed the young girl clinging pathetically to Sophy. “Oh, and who is this charming child? A friend of yours?” she asked politely, pretending not to have had a very good idea of what had occurred. Sara's tact and good sense was one of the reasons Sophy liked her so much.

Looking down into the tear-drenched, pansy brown eyes of the girl before her, Sophy asked, “What is your name, dear?”

“A-a-nne Richmond,” she stammered.

“Not old ‘Lucky' Richmond's heiress?” gasped Lord Coleman.

Shyly Anne nodded. “He was my father.”

Silence descended. “Lucky” Richmond had been a legendary gamester a decade or so ago, a gentleman notorious for the vast sums he had lost gambling. The sobriquet “Lucky” had been given in jest of his phenomenally bad luck. He had swiftly gone through his own respectable fortune and, shortly thereafter, to no one's very great surprise, had married the daughter of a wealthy merchant and retired to his country estate.

Within ten months, Richmond's wife had presented him with a child, dying not six months afterward. Left with a fortune and a baby daughter to raise, Richmond had promptly put his infant child in the care of a competent staff of servants and returned to his profligate ways.

He happily spent his days and nights gambling and wagering unbelievable amounts on any type of contest that took his fancy. To everyone's astonishment, including his own, he seemed unable to lose no matter how ridiculous the wager. He became “Lucky” Richmond in the truest sense of the word. When Richmond had died little more than a year ago, his sole heir had been the young girl sitting beside Sophy.

In the dim light of the few lanterns, Sophy could see that Anne was an attractive child. Neatly formed, she had enormous speaking eyes that spoke volumes, a tip-tilted little nose, and masses of dusky ringlets. Sophy suspected, however, that Edward's interest had been in Anne's fortune as much as her physical beauty.

Thinking about the unlikelihood of such an innocent being left alone in the company of a man with a reputation like Edward's, Sophy frowned. Something was amiss here, and she intended to find out what it was. But not right now. Right now she needed to get Anne safely home.

She was on the point of rising when Henry Dewhurst, his cousin Lord Grimshaw at his side, and Etienne Marquette following closely behind, wandered up. It must have been obvious that something had happened. His kind face full of concern, Dewhurst said, “Oh, I say, Lady Marlowe, is something amiss? May we be of service to you?”

Sophy shook her golden head and murmured, “Thank you, no. Nothing of any import transpired. Just another one of my uncle's little escapades.”

“I thought I saw Scoville just a moment ago,” said Lord Grimshaw. “He did not look a bit pleased.” He gave an ugly bark of laughter. “But then he seldom looks pleased after crossing swords with you.”

Etienne Marquette, his glossy black curls gleaming in the faint light, laughed. “It is common knowledge that
la belle
Marlowe is by far the better the swordsman. You should take pity on him,
madame.”

Sophy stiffened. “I will take pity on him,” she said in a hard little voice, “when he displays some pity for someone other than himself.”

“Ah,
madame,”
Etienne sighed dramatically, “during all the years that I have known you, I have always thought that you were far too harsh on your poor
oncle.
He means no harm by his—what is it you English say—his pranks.”

Grimshaw gave another bark of laughter. “Pranks! Indeed, yes! You are far too stuffy in your manner, gel,” he said with rude familiarity. “It is no wonder that you and Simon were such a poor match. He was full of ginger and beans, while you . . .”

Watching intently from the sidelines, Ives decided that he did not like Lord Grimshaw very much. His manner toward Lady Marlowe bordered on the insulting, and his hard gray eyes and saturnine features were a definite hint that he was not a particularly pleasant fellow. Knowing that Grimshaw's name was on the list of suspects and that he had been the instigator of the wager that led to his father's death, Ives was aware of an instant antipathy rising within him. As for Etienne Marquette, Ives could not envision the willowy fop in front of him being the clever man the Fox was purported to be. But then appearances were deceiving.

Ives shot Percival a look, and, correctly interpreting it, Percival stepped forward and said smoothly, “I do not believe that any of you have met Viscount Harrington or Lady Marlowe's good friends, the Offingtons. Allow me to introduce you.”

Introductions were exchanged, and Ives continued to study the three newcomers. Henry Dewhurst was a slim, dandified gentleman, his affection and intimacy with Lady Marlowe obvious.

Marquette appeared to share Dewhurst's bent toward dandyism, his cravat so high and starched that he could hardly turn his head, and his lilac coat so tight Ives wondered in passing how he could move at all. Marquette was an attractive man, though, with liquid dark eyes and a light, pleasant manner.

Lord Grimshaw was a different matter entirely. The expression on Lady Marlowe's face as she looked at Grimshaw suddenly caught his attention and Ives's gaze narrowed. It was apparent that Grimshaw was also well-known to her and not a particular favorite.

He glanced consideringly at Coleman. His name was on the list, too, and again Lady Marlowe seemed to know him well. Ives's mouth tightened. From what he had learned recently, none of the men suspected of being
Le Renard
were the type of gentlemen he would have associated with someone like Lady Marlowe.

It had not taken his men very long to discover the reputations of the men on the list or to report that they were a trio of generally unsavory, nasty fellows. The lady, Ives thought sourly, seemed to have exceedingly poor taste in her companions. More of interest to him, however, was the fact that she appeared to be quite familiar with all three of the men suspected of being the Fox. Could it be mere coincidence?

Aware of Anne's increasing agitation and the curiosity of the others, Sophy stood up, and said forthrightly, “We have lingered here long enough. If you will excuse us?”

Not waiting for a reply, she glanced down kindly at Anne, and murmured, “I think that your father's luck must have been with you tonight when Lord Harrington and I came upon you. Now, if you like, I shall see that you reach home safely.”

“And I,” said Ives promptly, “shall be delighted to drive you there. Ladies?”

It was very smoothly done, and in what seemed a blink of an eye to Sophy, despite the protests of some of the other gentlemen, Ives bid the others good night and bundled her and Anne into his carriage. A moment later they were bowling down the cobbled streets toward Anne's residence on Russell Square.

Sending Ives a severe look as he sat across from her, Sophy asked, “How did you do that? You just whisked us away from the others and into your coach as if by magic.”

Ives smiled that lazy smile she was beginning to know too well. “In the military they teach us all manner of maneuvers.”

Sophy snorted. Turning her attention to Anne, she asked quietly, “How is it, my dear, that you were placed in such an invidious position tonight? The outcome could have been far different. Where was your chaperon? Didn't you have anyone to oversee your welfare?”

Anne looked away. “My aunt is my guardian,” she said haltingly. “She is a great friend of your uncle's.”

“Oh, dear,” Sophy muttered. “Any friend of Edward's, I am sorry to say, is no one to have the care of a child like yourself. What was she thinking of, to let you out at night, alone in the company of a man like Edward?”

“She wants me to m-m-marry him.”

“Marry
him!” Sophy exclaimed, outraged. “How utterly wicked! I shall not allow it!”

Anne looked at her with suddenly hopeful eyes. “Oh, Lady Marlowe! Will you help me? I have been so frightened since Aunt Agnes insisted that Miss Wilson, my governess, and I come up to London.” Wistfully she added, “We were very happy at home in the country and Miss Wilson was so very kind to me. I-I-I miss her terribly.”

“What happened to her?” Ives asked quietly.

Anne glanced shyly at him. “Miss Wilson objected to Aunt Agnes's plans for me. She said that I was far too young to be out and that I should still be in the schoolroom. Aunt Agnes dismissed her on the spot.”

“But why,” Sophy demanded, “does your aunt want you to marry so very young and to a creature as depraved as my uncle?”

In a voice far too adult for her age, Anne said, “It is because of the money. Besides my father's wealth, Grandfather Weatherby left me the bulk of his fortune. He and Aunt Agnes fought all the time, and he cut her out of his will. She has very little money of her own, and I think Lord Scoville has promised her some money, once we are safely wed.” Anne sighed. “She would want the marriage in any event. She can never forget that Grandfather was a merchant, and she thinks that by marrying a member of the peerage I shall improve my position and hers, too.”

“Oh, good gad!” Sophy burst out, thoroughly revolted. “Of all the utter twaddle.” She glanced at Anne. “Do you particularly want to return to your aunt's care?”

“W-what do you mean? I have no choice, do I?”

“Indeed you do!” Sophy replied spiritedly. “I would be most pleased to have you come and live with me.”

Ives sat up, as if jabbed with a sword. The Butterfly was far too impetuous for her own good. “Shouldn't you think about this a little more?” he said carefully. “Don't you think that you are being rather hasty?”