For Love Alone

by Shirlee Busbee

  Chapter Seven

  Watching Edward from across the table where they were sitting, the Fox was annoyed. Who would have thought that after all these years that blasted ruby pin would come back to haunt him? And that of all people, it would be Edward Scoville who brought that disagreeable news to him!

  The two men were seated in a quiet corner at the latest hell that had caught the fancy of the hardened gamblers Edward considered some of his dearest friends. The Fox had already been irritated by the scene Edward had created with Sophy at Stephens’s earlier that evening, and now to find out that Edward knew about the cravat pin was enough to make him curse his luck.

  The pin, even the location of its discovery, did not prove anything, but it was damned unfortunate that Edward should have come into that information. Damned unfortunate.

  Despite having imbibed freely throughout the evening, Edward was still in fairly good control of himself and, staring into his friend’s face, he murmured, “Wager you thought you were clean out of it, didn’t you? Thought no one would ever guess the significance of that pin, didn’t you?”

  The Fox cocked a brow. “I am afraid that I do not follow your reasoning, dear fellow. I am very happy that the pin has finally come to light. It is worth a small fortune, and I have often wondered what had become of it.”

  “Then why didn’t you ask me about it before you left Marlowe House when Simon died?”

  “My dear man, surely there were more important things to be concerned about than the loss of a cravat pin!”

  Edward’s eyes narrowed. “Ain’t just the loss of the pin I’m talking about....”

  He fidgeted and wouldn’t meet the other man’s gaze. “Simon told me he’d finally identified the gentleman who had been buying our information,” he said at last. “You were clever with your disguises, I’ll grant you that. If it weren’t for the pin and knowing what I learned from Marlowe, I’d never have suspicioned it was you. Of course, he never told me who you were—very closemouthed was Simon.”

  Edward took a gulp of his port. “Could have knocked me over with a feather when he told me he’d been trying for months to discover who you were. He was very pleased with himself, I can tell you that! I never knew that he was even curious about our mutual benefactor. I wasn’t—the gold was the only thing that interested me. But Simon always played his cards very close to his chest, and he liked to have power over people. The night he died, he said he was going to confront you, let you know you weren’t as clever as you thought.” Edward frowned. “Didn’t matter to me at the time. No pie of my making! You’d always been generous with the ready when I had something for you—best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  He leaned forward confidentially. “Thing is, my position is a trifle uncertain at the moment. Marcus and Sophy are kicking up such a dust about the way I’m handling his and Phoebe’s fortune that I have to be a bit circumspect, you know. Been thinking of ways to bring myself about. The Richmond heiress would do nicely, but since Sophy has me boxed for the moment, it seemed to me that you would be willing to pay me a nice sum for the return of your pin—and for me to forget what I know about it.”

  “And why do you think that?”

  Edward looked startled. “I recognized the pin! And I could name dozens of others who know that it is yours.”

  “I fail to see why you think that would matter to me,” the Fox said coolly. “I have already admitted that the pin is mine. Just because I never mentioned losing it means nothing.” He smiled wolfishly. “You have nothing, my friend.”

  “The devil I don’t!” burst out Edward. “I know that Simon was going to confront you that night—said he was going to make you dance to the tune of his piping. Only he died. Fell down his own stairs that he had climbed up and down for years without an accident—and at times when he was far more foxed than he was that night! And your pin was found in a very incriminating place. You never asked for it. Stands to reason you must have had a good reason for simply abandoning a piece of expensive jewelry like that. Like perhaps you know more about Simon’s death than anybody ever guessed, eh?”

  The Fox yawned delicately. “My dear fellow, you yourself said that our dear friend Simon did not tell you the name of the man he’d identified as your, er, benefactor. So you have nothing but the merest conjecture to back up your claims. Just because my pin was found in Simon’s house—where I was a guest, I might add—proves nothing.” He smiled gently at Edward. “Go home, my friend, and sleep it off. You are letting your imagination run away with you.”

  “Imagination!” Edward exclaimed, incensed. “Ain’t my imagination. Don’t know why you threw your lot in with the French, and I don’t care, but you cannot convince me that you are not the fellow who used to slip around and buy information from Marlowe and me.” His gaze sharpened. “For all I know you still do.”

  “Edward, Edward, my friend, you are not making any sense. Do you really want your past indiscretions made public?” the Fox asked with polite interest. “Do you really want all and sundry to know you were willing to sell out your own country for mere gold?” He shook his head sadly. “I am shocked by what you have just disclosed to me. But we are good friends, and I shall put your ramblings down to your having had too much to drink this evening. We shall not speak of it again.”

  “Won’t we?” Edward demanded with an ugly gleam in his eyes. “Think again!”

  The Fox shrugged. “Whatever you say, my friend. And now, if you will excuse me, I shall be on my way. I see that Bellingham is trying to get your attention. I shall leave you to his tender mercies. Good night.”

  He rose from the table and strolled away. No one seeing his benign expression would ever guess the murderous thoughts chasing through his mind.

  The conversation with Edward had annoyed him far more than it had disturbed him. Scoville had nothing but the fact that a cravat pin identified as belonging to him had been found at the top of the staircase where Simon had fallen. Everything else was pure conjecture, but it was conjecture that the Fox had no intention of allowing to become public. Once suspicions, any suspicions, were aroused, his usefulness would be over. While it was unlikely that he would ever be unmasked, the gossip and speculation alone would ruin him and leave him in total disgrace.

  Edward, he decided as he left the hell and walked toward his residence, had just become a very big problem, and there was only one effective way to deal with problems of that sort....

  Lying sleepless in his bed that night, Ives mulled over the events of the evening. He would have preferred to dwell on Sophy’s charms, but having seen the three men on his list together with several military men reminded him again of the difficulties that faced him in unmasking the Fox, and the man who murdered his father.

  Ives’s men had been most diligent in their investigations, but what they had discovered added little to what they already knew. The Fox was undoubtedly a scrupulously careful, clever man, having operated for years right under the nose of Roxbury and the like. In fact, Ives decided grimly, it was likely the man would remain undetected if they continued going about the affair as they were.

  They needed, he realized suddenly, something to draw the man out. The Fox obviously covered his tracks well, and he was hardly fool enough to lead them directly to his den. So a way of making him break cover had to be found.

  Ives considered the problem until sleep overtook him, but when he woke the next morning, as often happened to him, a possible way of trapping the wily Fox had occurred to him. Not waiting even to dress, he demanded writing materials and swiftly scratched out a note to be delivered at once to the Duke of Roxbury.

  That afternoon, Ives met Roxbury in the out-of-the-way tavern the Duke had recommended in his return message to Ives. They had a private room, and Ives had barely entered before Roxbury said impatiently, “Tell me of this idea of yours.”

  Ives grinned. “What? No social observances first?”

  Roxbury’s sleepy gray eyes met his. “Of course, my dear boy. I am af
raid that curiosity overcame my manners.” Languidly waving one hand, he said, “There is port and hock on the table over there if you would like some refreshments. You may pour me a glass of hock.”

  Once libations were taken care of, Ives settled himself in a chair across from his godfather and said bluntly, “My attempt to discover the identity of the Fox is only going to end in failure if we continue in the manner we have so far.” When Roxbury started to protest, Ives commanded, “Hear me out, sir. When I am through, I think you will agree with me.”

  Roxbury sighed and subsided back into his chair.

  Regarding his wineglass, Ives said, “I do not know how my father and Adrian stumbled across his identity, if they did. Whatever they discovered was over a year ago, and I am sure by now our friend has covered whatever tracks the others may have come upon.” He glanced at Roxbury. “You yourself admitted that this is an extremely clever man who has operated brazenly right under your nose for years. I do not think that there is going to be very much, if anything, that will directly link him to being the Fox. He is far too smart for that.”

  Ives leaned forward. “What we need is to approach the problem from the opposite end: Instead of trying to find where he has gone to earth, we need to have him break cover and come out into the open.”

  “And how do you propose we do that?” his godfather asked caustically. “Place an advertisement in the Times?”

  Ives smiled faintly. “Not quite. What is the one thing we know conclusively about the man?” Ives asked rhetorically, and then answered the question himself, “He is a seller of information, a purveyor of military secrets.”

  His gaze locked with Roxbury’s. “So why don’t we arrange for some vital information—perhaps the plans for the summer deployment of Wellesley’s troops on the Peninsula—to fall into the hands of someone suspected of dealing with the Fox? I am sure you already have several fellows that you suspect of passing along military secrets to our elusive Mr. Renard. Why not see to it that one of them has access to, say, an extremely important memorandum—a memorandum the Fox would not be able to resist?”

  Roxbury sat up, his eyes narrowing. “Lure him out . . .”

  “Precisely, sir. Present him with a rather large, nearly irresistible bone and set our trap accordingly.”

  Roxbury sat back in his chair, frowning slightly, as he turned the idea over in his mind. As the minutes passed, and Ives waited tensely for reaction to his plan, Roxbury’s frown gradually disappeared, and a sly smile began to curve his lips.

  “My dear, dear boy, what an excellent plan! And I know just the fellow at the Horse Guards we can use as our dupe.”

  “The memorandum must appear legitimate,” Ives warned. “The Fox is too wily to be taken in by anything smelling even faintly of a trap.”

  “Oh, I agree completely,” Roxbury said, nodding. “But it so happens that just the sort of document you have suggested does exist. In order to make certain—if the worst happens and the Fox were somehow to slip through our noose—that the information would not do any harm, the existing memorandum will have to be altered to reflect erroneous information. I agree that it must be information that appears valid. Of course, it will have to be arranged that our pawn has access to the memorandum, access that makes it far too tempting for him to resist.”

  A look of intense satisfaction crossed Roxbury’s lined features. “I think it can all be arranged most satisfactorily. Our dupe, closely followed by us, will take the bait directly to the Fox, and that will be the end of Le Renard!”

  “I only hope it all goes as smoothly as you think it will,” Ives returned cautiously.

  Roxbury shrugged. “It is better than simply trusting to a piece of luck to bring us about.” He stood up. “Now if you will excuse me, I shall be on my way. I must set events into motion. In the meantime, I suggest that you become very friendly with a Lieutenant Colonel Meade. He is seen frequently in the company of the men on the list that I gave you.” Roxbury grimaced. “We have long suspected him of pilfering information, but have not been able to prove anything.”

  He smiled sleepily. “Just think, we may not only catch the Fox, but close up a leak at the Horse Guards as well!”

  Ives frowned. “Meade, you say? I believe that I met the fellow just last evening at Stephens’s. He was with Grimshaw and the others. Burly man? Blond hair and blue eyes? A face like a pouting cherub?”

  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 unobserved. 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 heaven
s, 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?”