For Love Alone

by Shirlee Busbee

  “Poor darlings,” murmured Lady Beckworth as she reached the upper floor. “They were shaking like terrified little birds. I was not hard-hearted enough to send them to their own rooms for what remained of the night.”

  “I am glad that you did not,” Sophy replied warmly. “I can imagine how they felt.”

  “Which reminds me,” Ives asked Marcus, “what time was it that you discovered the intruder?”

  Marcus shrugged. “I do not know exactly, but I had heard the clock in my room strike the hour of two o’clock a little while before I decided to go in search of a book.”

  Ives nodded. “A good hour, if one wanted all the inhabitants asleep.”

  They reached the entrance to Sophy’s rooms, and, throwing wide the door, Lady Beckworth said dramatically, “There! See for yourself the wanton carnage.”

  Sophy gasped at the sight that met her eyes. It was as if a savage storm had swooped down upon her room. Candleholders, pictures, and various garments were scattered wildly around. Pillows had been cut open, the feather mattress half-torn from the bed, chairs upended and their bottoms slashed open, while every drawer in the room had been flung about and lay on the floor in frantic abandon.

  “Oh, my,” Sophy said weakly as she stood in the middle of the once-elegant room.

  “I agree,” said Ives from behind her, one warm hand resting comfortingly on her shoulder. “It is a good thing that we already decided to commandeer another set of rooms for our use, isn’t it, sweetheart?”

  “You are going to live here?” Marcus exclaimed excitedly. “You are not going to take Sophy to live at your house on Bedford Square?”

  Ives smiled at him. “Not until next Season, if you have no objections. Your sister and I agreed that it would cause less disruption, if I, and some of my staff, simply moved here for the remainder of the Season.”

  “Oh, I say, that is a capital idea!” Marcus said artlessly. “I did not know what you had planned, but I knew that Sophy would insist that the girls be with her, and I confess, I did not much like the idea of having such a large house all to myself.”

  “We will talk about it later,” Ives replied easily, “but for now, we have a robbery to solve.”

  “Do you think that you can?” Phoebe asked doubtfully, her eyes very large.

  “Hmm. I certainly hope so,” Ives murmured, glancing around at the carnage. “At the moment, I think the best thing would be for the rest of you to go back downstairs and let Sophy and me estimate the damage. We will join you shortly.”

  The room seemed very quiet once the others had obediently trooped out. Sophy sighed, and said, “I am so thankful that Marcus surprised him so early. Otherwise, I shudder to think what the rest of the house might look like.”

  “You think that it was just a common thief that your brother interrupted?” Ives asked quietly.

  Sophy looked startled. “Of course. Don’t you?”

  Ives shook his head. “Think about it, my dear. It takes a brazen criminal to break into a house full of people. And instead of quickly and silently ransacking the first floor and making off with what he could, he merely filches a few items and then sneaks up the stairs, where any thief worth his salt has to know the family is sleeping, and proceeds to waste a good deal of time wreaking this sort of havoc.” Ives frowned. “No, it was not just any sort of thief who did this. I’ll wager whoever broke into the house was after something specific, something he thought would be here in your room.” He glanced at Sophy. “Something that he obviously thought you might have gone to great pains to hide, if the condition of this room is anything to go by.”

  Sophy looked blank. “But what?” she cried agitatedly. “I have nothing to hide.”

  Ives’s frown increased. “He was after something ... something he did not find.” He glanced at Sophy. “Have you purchased anything rare or unusual lately? It is apparent that he was not just after the commonplace.”

  It was Sophy’s turn to frown. “Not that I can think of. It is true that we have spent a great deal of money since we have come to London, but it has been mostly on clothing and silly fripperies. Marcus bought some horses, and we did splurge on a new carriage, but none of those things are what would tempt a thief. At least not a thief bold enough to break into the house while everyone slept!”

  Ives sighed. “I agree with you. For the time being we shall just have to assume that it is one of those odd occurrences that has no rational explanation. In the meantime I shall notify Bow Street.”

  But Ives did not like odd occurrences, and instinct told him that there was something else going on here besides a deucedly peculiar robbery. He said nothing to Sophy, however, and after reporting the robbery to the authorities, spent the next few hours overseeing the settling in of his servants and belongings in the Berkeley Square house.

  While one part of his brain was on the mundane and practical, another part was busy with the details of the robbery—and Edward’s murder—and the trail of the elusive Le Renard. Since those three topics were on his mind and since he and Roxbury had already tentatively agreed that the Fox was the most likely person to have murdered Edward, it was an easy leap to connect last night’s attempted robbery to Edward’s murder and the Fox.

  Scowling fiercely, Ives watched as Ashby moved about his new quarters. Was it conceivable that the robbery was somehow tied to the Fox? His scowl deepened. But how could that be?

  For the life of him, he could think of no earthly reason to connect Edward’s murder to the destruction of Sophy’s former bedroom. Except that there was the same sort of ruthless efficiency about it. And it took a cool head to break into an occupied house, an even cooler head to think quickly enough to react as the robber had when confronted by Marcus. Which, Ives freely admitted, did not mean it had been the Fox who had knocked Marcus down and struck him, but he had his suspicions.

  “That’s a right nasty look on your face, m’lord,” Ashby said after several sidelong glances at Ives.

  “I feel right nasty,” Ives confessed. “There is something about this robbery that smells rotten, my man.”

  Ashby nodded. “My sentiments exactly. Which is why I asked the young master if he would wait to have Lady Harrington’s room set to order.”

  Ives flashed him a smile. “For which I am grateful. Words alone would not have described the chaos.” Changing the subject abruptly, he asked, “Any problems settling in here?”

  Ashby grinned. “None with me, or most of the others, m’lord, but I think that Ogden and the Grayson cook might be at daggers drawing before too long.”

  “Oh?”

  Ashby’s grin widened. “Ogden don’t approve of all them fancy sauces that the Grayson cook insists are necessary for a properly prepared meal. He made no bones about the fact that he thinks such niffy-naffy stuff is a shameful waste of good ingredients. Of course, she took offense and proceeded to ring a peal over him, telling him that she’ll not have him in her kitchen. Ogden replied that since your lordship had ordered him there, that she couldn’t throw him out. And that he would cook for you just as he has these past dozen years or so.”

  Ives laughed. “I’ll have a word with Ogden. Carnes and Williams are staying at the stables, I presume?”

  “Yes, m’lord. I am quartered upstairs with the other servants, just down the hall from young Grayson’s valet, and Sanderson has ingratiated himself so thoroughly with Emerson that they have agreed to share duties.”

  Domestic chores taken care of, Ives slowly descended to the first floor in search of his wife. He found her, along with the others, in a comfortable room at the rear of the house sharing some coffee and biscuits. The girls, in gowns of pale blue and pink muslin, were clustered around Sophy where she sat on a sofa of dark green damask. Lady Beckworth, a pile of knitting spilling off her lap, was opposite them, and Marcus was standing in front of the fireplace.

  At his entrance, Sophy looked up expectantly, and said, “Marcus has been telling us the most interesting news. Grimshaw and several
of his cronies came to call yesterday. They are openly speculating that robbery was the motive for Edward’s murder—several items owned by him were found in Etienne Marquette’s rooms.”

  “Marquette?” Ives exclaimed, surprised. “A thief? I doubt that. And it hardly seems a motive for murder.” He glanced at Marcus. “Did they tell you how it came about that the items were discovered?”

  “Not exactly. None of them seemed to know why it was that Sir John Matthews decided that all of their rooms should be searched before any of them could leave,” Marcus replied. “Grimshaw and Dewhurst seem to think that someone had alerted him to the possibility of a robbery.” He grinned. “From what Lord Coleman and Sir Alfred Caldwell indicated yesterday, everyone was highly incensed at the notion that they might be considered thieves. No one really expected anything to be found. They were all stunned when Uncle Edward’s watch and a few other items turned up hidden amongst Marquette’s clothing. Dewhurst thinks it is all a trick to throw Sir John off the scent of the real murderer. Marquette vehemently denied having any knowledge of how Edward’s possessions got into his room—and his valet backs him up, swears he’d never seen those items until they were found in Marquette’s clothes.”

  “I am inclined to agree with Dewhurst’s assessment of the situation,” Ives said slowly. “The murder of your uncle was too elaborately arranged, especially your sis—” He shut his mouth, remembering that only he and Sophy knew the exact details of what had transpired that night.

  “I have never been particularly fond of Monsieur Marquette,” Sophy said in troubled tones, “but I cannot picture him a thief. There is no need of it—the extent of his wealth is well-known. His was one of the few émigré families fortunate enough to escape France with the majority of their fortune intact. There is no reason for him to steal.”

  “Again, I agree. But it is interesting,” Ives murmured. He looked at the rapt faces of the two young ladies on either side of Sophy and added with a grin, “And certainly not the topic of conversation for such young and pretty ears.”

  “Oh, but you will not exclude us from the mystery, will you?” Phoebe cried. “It is my uncle who was murdered. Surely that is reason enough for us to know everything.” She looked stubborn. “And we are not children, you know.”

  Sophy patted Phoebe’s hand. “Of course you are not, and naturally we shall make certain that you know everything that we know.” She shot a speaking look at her husband. “Won’t we, dear?” she added sweetly.

  “Of course. I shall be guided by you in all things, sweetheart,” Ives replied with a deep bow in her direction and a twinkle in his green eyes.

  Leaning closer to Sophy, Anne muttered, “I did not like Lord Scoville, but it seems so odd to think of him being murdered!”

  “It wouldn’t if you really knew my uncle,” Marcus retorted bluntly. “Sophy and I thought often of murdering him.”

  “I would not,” Ives commented dryly, “go about telling that to all and sundry.”

  Marcus flushed. “I am not a fool, my lord.”

  “I never thought that you were,” Ives said with a smile. “I was, in my ham-fisted fashion, merely warning you to watch what you say. Until Edward’s murderer is exposed, we must all guard our tongues.”

  “But surely no one would suspect one of you of murdering Lord Scoville?” Lady Beckworth asked anxiously.

  Ives shook his dark head. “Of course not. But the less we comment on the murder, the less the gossips will have to say.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Emerson entered the room. Looking at Ives he said, “My lord, you have callers. Lord Grimshaw, Sir Alfred Caldwell, and a Colonel Meade. I took the liberty of putting them in the blue saloon.”

  It was all Ives could do to keep a pleasant expression on his face. Meeting with those three undesirables was the last thing that he wanted to do at the moment, or any other moment for that matter, and he had a very good idea of why they had come to call. He vaguely remembered having made plans to visit a particularly unsavory hell with them before Edward’s murder and his subsequent marriage to Sophy.

  Being the type of men they were, not one of them would think it odd to leave a new bride to cool her heels while they followed their usual pursuits. And since he had done his best to ensure that they considered him of the same ilk, he could not change his manner now. Not if he wanted to track down the Fox.

  The look Sophy gave him when he took his leave of her and the others made his mouth tighten. She did not trust him, and God help him, until the Fox was snared he was going to be able to do nothing to dispel her mistrust.

  His guess for the visit by the three men proved correct and after they had shared a glass of hock and congratulated him in a most unbecoming fashion on his marriage, they bore him off for an afternoon and evening of amusement.

  Knowing he was damning himself, Ives sent Sanderson with a message to Sophy that he would not be at home for dinner and would be returning late. She could make her own plans for the evening.

  Ice settling in the region of her heart, Sophy listened to Sanderson’s words but outwardly she kept a serene expression on her lovely face. When she told the others that Ives would be out that evening, Marcus looked askance, and Phoebe asked with obvious puzzlement, “He is leaving you alone on your first night home?”

  Rising with regal grace to her feet, Sophy said carelessly, “Of course. Do not forget we are both sophisticated adults and know the way of the world. It would have been most strange if we sat in each other’s pockets. He shall have his amusements, and I shall have mine.”

  “You do not mind?” Anne asked uncertainly.

  “Why should I?” Sophy replied, her heart aching in her breast. “I have his name and his fortune to command, and I am sure that he will do all that is proper to assure the success of our marriage.”

  “That he will,” Lady Beckworth agreed. “Although I must confess that I am most surprised that he would forgo an evening with his bride in order to be with his friends.” She sighed. “But then that is the gentlemen. They so often simply please themselves.”

  Sophy’s thoughts were not pleasant as she lay alone later that night in her new bedroom, a bedroom she would share with her husband. A husband of less than four days who had deposited her in her home and then gone blithely off to gamble and drink the night away. She had no doubt Ives was doing precisely that at this very moment. It was bitter knowledge, and she had not even the solace of being certain that he would abstain from sampling the charms of the nearest available wench. Hadn’t she seen him less than a week ago leering at one of the Allentons’ maids?

  A terrible feeling of déjà vu swept through her. So might Marlowe have acted. He would never have spared a second thought for his wife’s feelings, not if it conflicted with his own desires. Ives seemed cast in the same mold, and yet the memory of Ives’s teasing green eyes, his many considerate deeds, and his seductive lovemaking drifted through her mind.

  She sighed. She was confused. He acted the cad one minute and the next was everything any woman would want. Which, she wondered miserably, was the real Ives Harrington? And how was she going to live with him when her heart was constantly being torn asunder?

  Better than you did married to Simon, she thought grimly. Simon had never shown a softer side. And yet, she could not deny that there were many incidents that had revealed Ives was nothing like Marlowe. Perhaps she could coax Ives away from his rakish habits and friends? She had never wanted to do so with Simon, but with Ives—with Ives, she realized with a start, she wanted a real marriage. A marriage with a husband who loved her ... as she loved him?

  Her breath caught sharply in her throat. Oh good gad! Never say that she had been so foolish as to fall in love with him! A man who had compelled her to marry him? A man she distrusted? A man who seemed at times to be the very twin of her first husband?

  And yet how else could she explain this odd yearning in her heart? How else could she explain why his very touch seemed to melt her bones,
her very inhibitions? And how else to explain the existence deep inside her of the certain knowledge that there was an explanation for his inexplicable acts? She did not trust him, she admitted poignantly, but she wanted to. Desperately.

  Sophy slept badly that night, and she woke with the uncomfortable awareness that she had missed Ives’s big body pressing into hers. She was also embarrassingly aware of a sweetly throbbing ache between her thighs, an ache she feared only one man could assuage.

  Ives would have been delighted to know that Sophy had missed him, especially since the night he had just passed had proven to be a boring repetition of other nights he had already wasted in the company of Meade and the others.

  He was, however, able to learn firsthand about the events following his and Sophy’s departure from the Allentons’, though it was essentially the same information Marcus had imparted earlier.

  Marquette was no longer seriously considered a suspect in the murder. The testimony of Edward’s own valet to the fact that the stolen objects had been in his lordship’s room when he had retired for the night, and the simpering confession of a buxom housemaid who had been with Marquette all evening had done much to lift suspicion from him. But questions lingered, and while Edward’s valet had no reason to lie, it was agreed amongst the others that the accommodating maid could have been bribed by Marquette.

  “Where is Marquette now?” Ives asked idly as they sat in one of the smoky rooms of the vice-ridden hell Meade had selected for the night’s entertainment.

  “Went to his family home in the country,” replied Dewhurst, his blue eyes half-glazed from the copious amount of liquor they had been consuming all evening.

  “Hiding with his tail between his legs,” said Grimshaw. “Never liked the damned fellow.”

  “Oh, he is not such a bad sort,” Lord Coleman argued, as he sat across the table from Grimshaw, indifferently tossing some cards from hand to hand. “And you know that you do not really believe that he stole those frippery items from Edward and murdered him.”