For Love Alone

by Shirlee Busbee

  And she was retreating to the relative safety of her room immediately following dinner. And locking the door.

  To Sophy’s surprise the evening meal was almost pleasant. She was spared Edward’s presence; a coaching accident detained him, and he arrived too late to join them for dinner. The food was excellent and the service exemplary. That Henry Dewhurst was seated on one side of her, and Ives on the opposite side of the long table and as far away as possible, helped enormously to make the meal enjoyable. At least until Henry mentioned Ives’s name.

  The sweet course had just been served, and Dewhurst, his gaze resting thoughtfully on Ives, murmured, “I am amazed at the change in Harrington these days, aren’t you?” Dewhurst laughed slightly. “Lately, he has become as wild a rake and compulsive a gambler as dear Simon once was, don’t you think?”

  The strawberry tartlet she had been eating turned to mud in her mouth, and Sophy replied stiffly, “I am afraid that Lord Harrington’s activities do not interest me.”

  Henry cocked a brow. “No? Then why are you here? This is not your sort of affair either, my sweet.”

  Sophy shot him a miserable glance. “Is it that obvious?”

  His blue eyes were kind as they rested on her face, and beneath the table he gave her hand a comforting squeeze. “Only to someone who has known you a long time. It is apparent that something brought you here, and since it was not myself, I didn’t have to look very far for my rival.”

  She managed a smile. “You needn’t worry that I have lost my heart to him. I am only here because I was foolish enough to let my temper goad me into reckless action. I intend to leave in the morning.”

  Henry nodded. “Which news makes me happy.” He sent her a chiding look. “You really should not be here. It is going to be a wild romp, unless I miss my guess.”

  A teasing gleam suddenly lit Sophy’s eyes. “This from you? How many times did I preside over just such an affair as Simon’s wife?”

  “Too many, my dear, far too many,” he returned, and began to talk of other things. But Etienne Marquette, who was to her left and had been discreetly listening to her conversation with Henry, said softly, “What Henri says is true. This Harrington seemed such a dull, plodding sort of fellow when first we met, but now! Mon Dieu! I certainly never thought to see him at an affair like this.” His black eyes glittering with a slyness she had never noted before, he murmured, “It is like watching a leopard change his spots, non?”

  He glanced down the long table in Ives’s direction. “I wonder,” he speculated, “which is the real Viscount Harrington. The dullard? Or the rake?”

  Since Sophy had no answer for him, she was very glad when Lady Allenton signaled that the ladies were to leave the gentlemen to their port and cigars and follow her into one of the large saloons for coffee. Sophy planned to drink one cup of coffee, then politely take her leave, but an interruption put that thought from her mind.

  The ladies had just been served when the butler entered the room, and announced, “Miss Weatherby, madam.”

  To Sophy’s astonishment, in sailed Agnes Weatherby, her gown a dashing confection of rose silk and lace, the bodice cut daringly low, revealing an impressive amount of soft, white flesh. It was apparent from the way the two women greeted each other that she was expected and on good terms with Lady Allenton.

  “My dear Agnes, I am so sorry that you arrived too late to join us for dinner. Did the servants see to your needs?”

  “Oh, yes, a wonderful dinner was immediately sent up to me, and I enjoyed it immensely. I am only sorry that our coach was so tardy in delivering us. A thrown wheel, you know.”

  “But you are here now, and that is all that matters,” Lady Allenton said with a smile. Waving her hand around the room at the assembled ladies, she added, “You know everyone?”

  Agnes glanced around, her stunned gaze meeting Sophy’s. “Oh yes, I know everyone.”

  Lady Allenton touched her arm, and asked archly, “Your room is satisfactory? Dear Edward requested it for you particularly.”

  “Yes, it is most satisfactory,” Agnes replied, almost simpering.

  Bile rose in Sophy’s throat. Edward had claimed that Agnes Weatherby was no longer his mistress, but it appeared that he had lied. The man, Sophy thought furiously, had simply no morals at all. Attempting to force Anne into marriage with him was bad enough, but setting up her aunt as his mistress was outrageous.

  It appeared that Agnes Weatherby was every bit as brazen as her lover, for a few minutes later she came up to Sophy and stated coolly, “I am surprised to see you here. From what Edward has said, I would not have thought you would find this sort of affair acceptable.”

  “Yes, I am quite sure he will be very surprised to find me here,” Sophy replied grimly, all ideas of an early retreat banished from her mind.

  Agnes eyed her uncertainly. “I suppose,” she muttered, “that you will use my . . . relationship . . . with your uncle against me?”

  “Only if you are so foolish as to try to take Anne away from me and force her into marriage with Edward,” Sophy replied sweetly.

  “Oh, Edward has quite gone off that notion,” Agnes answered airily. “He has another plan to lay his hands on the ready.”

  “Really? And what might that be?” Sophy asked in spite of herself.

  A crafty look crossed Agnes’s face. “I cannot tell you, but he has explained all to me.” She paused, a vexed cast to her mouth. “At least he has told me much of it. If everything goes as Edward plans, we will never have need of Anne’s money.” A definite simper appeared on her face. “We may even marry.”

  Frowning, Sophy regarded her. “I would warn you that my uncle is not a man to be trusted. He often makes false promises.”

  Agnes sniffed and took a sip of her coffee.

  It was obvious that Edward was unpleasantly surprised to see Sophy when the gentlemen entered the room shortly. He had joined the others at their port, and from his flushed features and bleary eyes it was clear that he had already partaken freely of the bottle. He was relaxed and laughing at something Grimshaw said when they entered the room.

  Seeing his niece standing next to his mistress, he faltered. His eyes bugged, and his smile disappeared instantly. Aggrievedly, he burst out, “Oh, good gad! What the devil are you doing here?”

  Sophy smiled mirthlessly. “Certainly not enjoying myself!”

  Coming to a stop in front of her, he replied, “Well, stands to reason! This ain’t your sort of doing. ’Pon my soul, never thought to see you at one of these rough-and-ready romps.”

  Oblivious to the interested stares of the rest of the room, Sophy snapped, “So I gather, else you would not have brought your mistress with you—a mistress you told me you had put aside. Another lie, dear uncle?”

  “Ain’t a lie!” he protested. “Aggie and I were parted when I spoke to you.”

  “No doubt simply for that one particular day,” Sophy retorted, her long-simmering resentment against her uncle beginning to bubble up.

  “Well, what if it was? None of your business.”

  Carefully putting down her cup and saucer on a nearby table, she said, “I am afraid that as long as you hold the reins to my brother and sister’s fortune, everything you do is of interest to me.”

  “Ha! Needn’t worry about that much longer. Got a plan that won’t fail! If all goes well, won’t need their money. That should please you.”

  “The only thing,” Sophy said in a hard tone, “that would please me would be to see the last of you.”

  Edward grinned at her. “The only way that will happen, my gel, is when I die. Don’t plan on doing that for a long time.”

  “Perhaps,” Sophy purred, her eyes a bright angry gold between her long lashes, “if you continue as you are, you might just suffer an untimely end.”

  Edward laughed smugly. “Don’t threaten me, gel. And you might start praying that I do live a long life. Something happens to me and there are those who will remember that you swore to
kill me.” Edward was now enjoying himself, and tauntingly he added, “Think of that the next time you are wishing me to the Devil.”

  Sophy’s hands clenched into fists, and it was obvious to everyone that only by the greatest of effort was she controlling an urge to fly at her uncle. Ives, who had been watching the nasty interplay, decided to put an end to it before Sophy’s control broke.

  Strolling up to them, he took Sophy’s hand in his and said, “Have you seen the gardens in the moonlight? They are very beautiful. Allow me to show you.”

  “Oh, I say,” protested Grimshaw, who had also observed the byplay between Sophy and Edward, “I must insist that you allow me that pleasure.” He smiled thinly at Ives. “I claim the right as one of her most enduring admirers. Isn’t that so, sweet Sophy?”

  “Non, non!” Etienne Marquette exclaimed, his glossy black curls gleaming in the candlelight, “I insist that you give me the honor. Permit me, Lady Marlowe, to escort you outside.”

  Lord Coleman and Sir Alfred Caldwell immediately added their own invitations, and Sophy glanced in dismay from one face to the next. She trusted none of them, not even Ives, and the last place she would go with any of them was somewhere dark and private! Grimshaw, especially. The way he was looking at her made her flesh creep.

  Forcing a smile, she said politely, “I thank you for your kind invitations, but I am afraid I must refuse all. Now if you will excuse me?”

  She slipped her hand from Ives’s and quickly made her way to her hostess. Claiming a headache, Sophy took her leave and swiftly retired to her room. Remembering the look on Grimshaw’s face, she locked the door and for safety lodged a chair under the doorknob. Not for the first time, she was glad she’d had the foresight to bring her pistol with her.

  She sighed as she slipped out of her gown, having dismissed her maid for the evening. She had thought she was long past the days when she needed a pistol, but it seemed she was wrong. All it would take now was for Grimshaw or one of the others to try to force his way into her room to make her every fear real.

  Downstairs, as the evening progressed, the party became as lascivious and lewd as could be expected, and Ives was damned glad that Sophy was out of it. Surrounded by Grimshaw, Dewhurst, Marquette, Meade, and Caldwell, he watched as Edward lurched after Agnes Weatherby, attempting to remove her garter. The lady was shrieking with laughter as she made halfhearted attempts to escape, and Edward was being loudly urged on by Dewhurst and Grimshaw and the others who stood near Ives. Many of the other guests were already so drunk they could not stand, and from the sounds and occasional glimpses into the various darkened corners of the room, it was obvious that more than just garters were being removed. Disgust rose within him, but outwardly Ives kept a slightly drunken smile firmly affixed to his face.

  Once Lady Allenton had withdrawn, leaving her husband boldly pawing a dashing young widow, the evening became even wilder and more debauched than Ives had imagined, one man and woman almost openly coupling on the satin couch, uncaring that others were watching. Ives suspected that before too long, more would join them, and he decided that—Fox hunting be damned—he was not going to subject himself to this sort of sordid behavior. Affecting a stagger, he made his way toward the opened doors to the garden, and muttered, “Need some fresh air. ’Fraid I’m going to cast up my accounts.”

  Once outside in the cool night air, he took in a deep breath. How many more evenings must I spend in this fashion? he wondered bleakly. And how long would it be before someone noticed that he did not partake as freely of the various entertainments as did the others? Certainly he had no intention of rutting publicly. And sooner or later, he was going to be caught dumping the contents of his glass into some handy receptacle.

  The randy pursuits of Grimshaw, Coleman, and the others offended him, and he honestly did not know how much longer he could continue playing their game. And as for Sophy . . . He sighed. Deeply.

  Toying with the notion of discovering if the Viscount was quite as drunk as he appeared to be, the Fox had watched Ives leave through narrowed eyes. Before he could put that plan into motion, Edward stumbled up to him where he stood with the others. Having greeted everyone, Edward sidled up to the Fox. Swaying in front of him, a witless grin on his face, he leaned forward, and whispered, “Can’t talk here. Someone might hear. Wrote it down.” His face almost touching the Fox’s, he clumsily shoved a creased piece of paper into the other man’s waistcoat pocket. “Thought it only sporting to give you fair warning.”

  Having delivered his ultimatum, Edward staggered off. A look of distaste on his face, the Fox waited a few minutes before making some excuse and left the room for the privacy of the hall.

  What was the cretin up to now? Grimly he read Edward’s note. There was no salutation, but it was signed.

  Urgent that we talk privately.

  And no tricks. I hold the winning hand. Meet me in Allenton’s library to discuss things at three o’clock this morning. We should have privacy at that hour.

  Be there or it will go ill for you.

  Frowning blackly, the Fox stared down at Edward’s flamboyant signature. The simpleton obviously thought he was being very clever, but the very manner in which he was handling his attempted blackmail only pointed out how dangerous he had become. The Fox looked thoughtful. He would meet Edward, damn the fool! His expression pensive, he went back inside to join the others.

  Sophy woke with a start, her heart pounding. Something had disturbed her sleep and she lay there listening intently. She stiffened as she heard the stealthy scratching at her door. In a flash, she was out of bed, and with shaking fingers lit the candle on her bed table. Calmed somewhat by the comforting flickering light of her candle, she cautiously approached the door and put her ear against the wood. Nothing. She looked to be certain that the chair was holding and it was then that she noticed the slip of folded paper on the floor at her feet. Putting the candle down, she picked up the note and read it.

  Her first thought was that Edward had gone thoroughly mad if he thought that she was going to meet him anywhere at the ungodly hour of three in the morning. As she considered it though, she wondered if his idea wasn’t plausible. When else could they meet with no one around? And she had to admit to a certain amount of curiosity. Perhaps he would tell her about the scheme Agnes Weatherby had alluded to this evening?

  She glanced at the ormolu clock on the small mantel of the fireplace. It was nearly three now. She reread the note. Why was it urgent? she wondered. And why now? Why couldn’t it wait until they returned to London? She didn’t like the threat either. But remembering his vow to take Phoebe away from her, she considered the idea.

  Still undecided, she slipped into her robe, a filmy thing of gossamer silk and lace, and thought about the situation. The house was quiet, and the hour was late. Everyone would have gone to bed or would be too drunk to do her any harm.

  She looked at the note again. That was definitely Edward’s handwriting and signature. She would recognize it anywhere. A chill went through her. But had he written it for someone else, thinking it a fine jest to lure her away from the safety of her room by sending her this note? Her lip curled. It would not be beyond him to accommodate Grimshaw or even Marquette, who was nearly as bad, but she did not want to believe that he had sunk quite that low.

  There was a ring of truth about the note, and after several more seconds had passed and the hands of the clock had edged closer to the hour of three, she made up her mind. She would meet him.

  The pistol weighing heavily in the dainty pocket of her robe, the candle in one hand, she cautiously eased the door open. The hall was bathed in darkness except for the circle of light from her candle. Silence met her ears.

  Taking a deep breath, she sidled from her room, closing the door behind her with an audible click, and edged toward the staircase. Having reached the main floor, where only silence and pitch-black darkness greeted her, she was reassured that everyone had retired for the night. She found the library without
effort, guided by the light spilling from the half-open door.

  Stopping outside the library, she considered again the wisdom of what she was doing. Was it a trap? Would she enter the room and be fallen upon Grimshaw or one of the others with rape on his mind? Her fingers grasped the comforting handle of her pistol. Well, she wasn’t the only one who would be surprised, she thought grimly.

  She pushed the door wider, and called softly, “Uncle? Are you here?”

  There was no answer and she frowned. Half-stepping into the doorway, she called again. “Edward? It is Sophy. Are you there?”

  When only silence followed her words, she edged farther into the room, her every sense alert for danger. The room seemed deserted, the light coming from a single candle which sat guttering on the corner of a large table to her left. Most of the room was in shadows, but from her position in the doorway, she saw nothing to alarm her. Then she heard it. A groan. Coming from behind the table.

  It came again, louder this time, the sound of someone in pain. Forgetting for the moment her own danger, Sophy rushed over to the table and stared in shock at the body of her uncle lying on the floor. He was moaning and attempting to sit up as he muttered, “My bloody head. Oh, my bloody head.”

  Contempt flashed across her face. He was drunk. That was her last thought. A stunning blow crashed into the back of her head, and she fell soundlessly to the floor almost at Edward’s feet.

  Edward stared at her crumpled shape, stupefied, and then at the dark figure who appeared out of the darkness. “I say,” said Edward, perplexed, “what is Sophy doing here? And what happened to her? Never say she is foxed?”