“Someone did,” Ives interjected, his gaze on his half-empty snifter of brandy.
“But not Marquette,” said Dewhurst, and giggled drunkenly.
“Damme, Dewhurst, you’re foxed,” exclaimed Grimshaw, laughing. “And the evening only half-gone. ’Tis convenient that you live around the corner from Coleman and me—we may have to carry you home.” He wagged a finger at his cousin. “But foxed or not, do not forget that we plan to visit Flora’s establishment before we end the night.”
“Er, I am afraid that I must forgo that pleasure,” Ives said quickly. Drinking and gaming, yes. He could condone those pursuits for the purpose of trapping the Fox, but not whoring, not when the only woman he wanted was his bride.
“Under the cat’s paw already?” Grimshaw asked nastily, his gray eyes hard as they rested on Ives’s face.
The situation between Grimshaw and Ives was complicated at best. Knowing that Grimshaw had been the one to instigate the fatal wager that cost Ives his family and aware that Grimshaw’s name was on the very short list of suspects given to Roxbury by his father, Ives had found it difficult from the very beginning to act casual around the man. It didn’t help that he simply did not like the man under any circumstances.
Of all the gentlemen who comprised the group around Meade, many of whom had also been boon companions to the late Lord Marlowe, Ives found Grimshaw the most offensive. He was a cold-blooded gambler and thought little of brutally fleecing any poor pigeon who crossed his path. It was usually Grimshaw who committed the worst excesses, whether it was drunkenness or flagrant whoring. The others were hardly any better, but it always seemed to Ives that Grimshaw went just that little bit beyond the line of even the hardened rakes he associated with.
And Grimshaw did not like him any better than he did the other men. His marriage to Sophy sat ill with Grimshaw; Ives knew that, and was not surprised by Grimshaw’s comment. Grimshaw often seemed to be trying to goad Ives into some foolhardy act, but so far Ives had deftly avoided coming to open conflict with the other man.
Ives smiled into Grimshaw’s dissipated features. “If Sophy were your wife, I think that perhaps you might not mind being under her paw. It is such a sweet little paw, you know.”
“A hit! Definitely a hit!” Meade cried gaily, as he lolled by Ives’s side. Meade looked expectantly over at Grimshaw, his heavy features flushed with wine, a sloppy smile on his mouth.
Grimshaw shot him a venomous glance. “You’re as drunk as Henry.”
“Not drunk,” murmured Henry. “Foxed—Grimshaw said so.”
Ives laughed, and, getting to his feet, said lightly, “Indeed you are, the lot of you. And before I must be carried home feetfirst to my bride, I shall take my leave of you. Good night, gentlemen.”
It might have been unwise to leave then, but Ives could only hope that they would put his lack of enthusiasm for Flora’s down to the fact that he did possess a young and very lovely bride. Most of them, at one time or other, had vied for Sophy’s charms, and he figured that for at least a few weeks none of them would think it strange that he preferred his own bed to that of one of Flora’s doxies.
But it was not Sophy’s bed Ives sought out when he returned home. Not even he was bold enough to attempt to gain her good graces after having abandoned her so callously. He spent what remained of the night speculating about what he had learned, or not learned, and he concluded dismally that the entire evening had been a complete waste.
He could have, he admitted unhappily, furthered his cause with his lady and spent a most enjoyable evening sampling her delectable charms instead of rubbing shoulders with the worst set of scoundrels it had ever been his misfortune to meet. It didn’t help his state of mind any that he still had no real clue as to the identity of the Fox. Or even the confidence that his efforts would eventually prove fruitful. At the moment, the memorandum and Meade seemed to be the only sure way of flushing out their quarry if he took the bait.
Ives brightened slightly. There was also Edward’s murder to plumb for clues. If Edward had been murdered because he knew something about the Fox ... He smiled faintly. Perhaps his cause was not entirely hopeless.
It was well after noon before Ives wandered downstairs. He was not looking forward to the meeting with his wife. By the time he went in search of Sophy, upon finally being informed that she was in the conservatory, he was aware that he had not only alienated his wife but completely ruined his warm rapport with the other members of the household. Marcus gave him a decidedly cool greeting as he had passed him on the stairs, and the stiff reply his aunt gave him when he had inquired of Sophy’s whereabouts, as well as the less-than-welcoming expressions on Phoebe’s and Anne’s faces, confirmed that he had thoroughly offended all of them.
Walking into the conservatory a few minutes later, Ives made a face. He had thousands of ruffled feathers to smooth and he was gloomily aware that he would be unable to begin that gargantuan task for some time yet. The glance Sophy gave him when he came upon her reading a book in the conservatory added to his gloom.
For a long moment Ives just stood there looking at her, a powerful surge of pleasure going through him at that simple act. She looked quite fetching in a simple high-waisted gown of yellow-and-green sprigged muslin. Her hair had been left free to fall in an artful tangle around her shoulders, a green-silk ribbon holding the mass of golden curls off her face.
Having acknowledged his presence, Sophy went back to her book, presenting her husband with a stern profile. It was also an enchanting profile and after several moments of regarding it, Ives said gently, “Will you forgive me, Butterfly? It was not kind of me to desert you so soon after our return to town.”
Sophy looked at him, one slim brow haughtily arched. “Forgive you?” she repeated calmly, laying aside her book and staring at him. “For what? Following the pursuits of most gentlemen?”
Ives grimaced, wishing he dared tell her the entire tale. But he could not. Despite their marriage, they did not know each other very well, and while he would swear on his life that anything he told her would go no further, it was not just his life at risk. Entire armies depended upon his finding the Fox. And stopping him. And just one unwise word ...
Catching up one of her hands in his, he pressed a kiss on the back of it. Steadily meeting her unfriendly gaze, he said simply, “Please believe me, my dear, when I say that it is my most ardent wish to make you happy.” He smiled crookedly. “At the moment you may find that hard to believe, but it is true. Just trust me, Sophy, and all will be right.”
“It seems as if you are always asking me to trust you—with little evidence that I should, I might add,” she returned sharply. A speculative glint suddenly entered her golden eyes. “Perhaps,” she said slowly, “there is a way that you can show me that you are to be trusted, at least a little.”
Warily, Ives regarded her. “And that is?”
She smiled sweetly. “By returning my pistol to me.”
Chapter Thirteen
It was the last request that Ives expected, and the wave of relief that went through him left him almost giddy. He had heard many stories of Sophy’s standoffs with her first husband, and Percival had eagerly regaled him with the tale of how Sophy had actually shot at her husband the night Marlowe had died. It showed, he thought whimsically, how thoroughly she had bewitched him that the notion of returning her pistol to her did not alarm him in the least.
Smiling idiotically at her, he said, “Of course. I shall ring for Ashby and he will fetch it from my things.”
Suspiciously, Sophy stared at him. “You actually mean it?”
Ives bowed elegantly. “Indeed, I do. If you will view it as a measure of trust between us.”
Sophy nodded, hardly daring to believe it. Her eyes narrowed. But why? What was he up to, trying to disarm her in this underhanded fashion? She had never expected him to agree with her request, and the fact that he had left her uncertain what to think.
Ashby appeared in answer to Ives’s pul
l of the bell rope; his features carefully blank, he listened to his master’s request and immediately departed on his errand.
There was no conversation between Ives and Sophy while they waited. Sophy’s thoughts were busy as she tried to understand the man before her. Why was he doing this? she wondered, greatly perplexed. What did it matter to him if she trusted him or not? If last night was any example, it was obvious that he intended to continue with his rakish ways, despite her wishes. And yet, he had asked her to trust him and was even willing to put a weapon in her hands. She shook her head in utter confusion.
Ashby returned, handed the pistol to Ives, and departed. Smiling at her, Ives held out the pistol. “I believe that this belongs to you, sweetheart.”
Sophy slowly rose to her feet, warily closing the short distance that separated them. Her fingers were almost on the pistol, when Ives moved, holding his hand and the pistol in it just out of reach. Her eyes flew to his, disappointment crashing through her. It had been a trick.
Almost as if he read her mind, Ives shook his head. “No trick, sweetheart, but I think you need to prove to me that I can trust you not to shoot me at the first opportunity.”
“And how do I do that?” Sophy demanded, her gaze full of angry suspicion.
“All I ask,” he said slowly, “is one kiss freely given, and the pistol is yours.”
Sophy snorted. “And why should I trust you? You have already gone back on your word.”
“Not precisely. I have only added a condition.” He smiled wryly. “Is the notion of kissing me so terrible, sweetheart?”
“Oh, very well,” Sophy said ungraciously, and lifted her mouth to his.
Ives kissed her a long time, his arms holding her possessively to him, his lips gently and firmly reminding her just how devastating his embrace could be. Without volition, she melted into him, her mouth softening, inviting his deeper exploration, suspicion and mistrust momentarily forgotten.
It was the knowledge that if he did not stop kissing her that very minute, he would be tipping up her skirts and taking her where she stood, that finally forced Ives away from the intoxication of Sophy’s lips.
His breathing erratic, a distinctly carnal gleam in his green eyes, he stared down into her flushed features. With great willpower, he carefully set her from him. When he felt he was in command of himself, he bowed once more. Putting the pistol in her hand, he said dryly, “Try not to shoot me when I next come to your bed, sweetheart.”
Her gaze desire-clouded, she nodded, hardly aware that she did so. It was a second or two later that she became conscious of the weight in her hand and stupidly she stared at the weapon she held. Oh! The pistol! Ives had actually given it to her. How amazing.
Expertly she checked the weapon and smiled with satisfaction when she identified it as her own and verified that it was loaded. She cast him a slightly apologetic glance.
“I did not expect you to give it to me,” she admitted baldly.
He smiled. “I know. I am surprised myself that I did.”
“Why did you?”
Ives’s face softened. “Because you asked it of me.”
Her eyes searched his. “And will you always do as I ask?”
“If it is within my power to do so.”
“I do not understand you at all,” Sophy answered, partly charmed, partly vexed by his answer. One would think that he would at least have the decency to act in a predictable manner!
“I do not understand myself half the time either,” Ives said cheerfully, “so do not bother your head over it. And now, may I ask what your plans are for this afternoon? If you like, I am willing to put myself at your disposal.”
“Guilty conscience for deserting me last night, m’lord?” Sophy inquired tartly.
“Er, no,” Ives muttered, a faint spot of color burning high on his cheeks, and he cursed again the need for secrecy. “It is a pleasant day and I thought ...” He stopped and shrugged. “If you find my company unnecessary, I will not, of course, force it upon you.”
“That has never prevented you in the past,” Sophy replied with a little twinkle. His expression made her laugh, and she added, “There now, I will not tease you further. But if you are serious, I wonder if we might not call upon Miss Weatherby.” She arched a brow. “That is if you were also serious about discovering who actually murdered Edward.”
“I was, and I think visiting Miss Weatherby is an excellent idea, madam wife—not only because of your uncle’s murder, but because of Anne’s situation, too. Living in this limbo is not pleasant for any of us, and a prolonged public fight will do none of us any good either. I have been thinking about it and have hit upon a scheme which may help resolve the problem—I intend to offer Agnes money, in the hopes that she will sign over all rights to Anne. If you will wait long enough for me to send a note to my godfather on another matter, we shall be off to confront the dragon aunt.”
Sophy stared at him admiringly. “Money! Now why didn’t I think of that? But you should not pay the piper. It was my doing that brought Anne into our lives.”
“True, but allow me to do this for you.” He grinned. “You may consider it a bridal gift.”
Utterly disarmed, Sophy allowed herself to be persuaded.
A short time later, his note to Roxbury on its way, Ives, with Sophy at his side, was knocking on the door of the house on Russell Square. A very correct butler in black-and-white livery answered the door, and, after stating their business, Ives and Sophy were politely ushered into a rather charming room done in shades of pale blue and cream.
Miss Weatherby entered a moment later, garbed in an afternoon dress of green jaconet muslin. Her eyes were rimmed in red and there was a haggard air about her. It occurred belatedly to Sophy that Agnes might have cared deeply for Edward.
Agnes greeted them coolly and began aggressively, “I suppose you have come to gloat. You think you hold all the cards, don’t you? Well, let me tell you, I shall fight you for Anne—she is my niece, after all.” She laughed bitterly. “And I have nothing to lose now.”
“Actually, you do,” Ives said quietly. “You have a great deal to lose—your reputation for one, and our goodwill for another.”
“What do I care about your goodwill?” she asked sneeringly.
Ives looked thoughtful. “I came here today to make you an offer.” At Agnes’s look, he continued smoothly, “If you would be willing to sign over your rights to Anne and allow us to become her guardians, we will make it worth your while. Are you willing to listen to what I have to say?”
An arrested expression on her face, Agnes said slowly, “You are offering me money?”
Ives nodded. “Yes. I am prepared to settle an income upon you for your lifetime. You will not be wealthy, but you will be able to live comfortably, even elegantly. There is a small property that came to me from my grandmother, an attractive house and several outbuildings on fifty acres situated in Surrey. That, too, I will settle upon you ... if you agree to release all claim to Anne.” Ives paused. “I should warn you,” he said gently, “if you do not, I shall bring all my resources and considerable influence to bear against you. You would be wise to take the money.”
Agnes stared at him for a long time, her expression hard and calculating. Then she shrugged, and said sourly, “Why not? A bird in the hand ...”
Ives bowed. “I will have the papers drawn up and sent over to you this afternoon.”
She flashed an unfriendly glance at Sophy. “You have won, have you not? I’ll not wish you well, but if your husband does as he says he is going to and settles the money and house on me, I shall sign whatever documents are deemed necessary to make it official.”
When Sophy started to stammer her thanks, Ives said smoothly, “We thank you. I shall have my solicitor draw up the papers immediately and I, myself, shall call upon the trustees of Grandmother’s estate.”
Agnes nodded curtly. Still staring at Sophy, she said disagreeably, “You certainly managed to land on your feet. You have
Anne, and with his lordship at your side, there is none who would dare question you about Edward’s murder.”
“I had nothing to do with his death,” Sophy said tightly, her fingers digging into Ives’s arm when he would have entered the fray in her defense.
Agnes shrugged. “So you say.”
“I do say!” Sophy snapped. “I cannot deny that I had no affection for my uncle, but I did not murder him!”
Agnes made a silencing gesture with her hand. “It does not matter,” she muttered. “He is dead and all my hopes with him.”
“It was those, er, hopes that we also wished to speak to you about,” Ives interposed deftly.
Agnes looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“You mentioned to my wife the night Edward was murdered that he had given up on the idea of marrying Anne. You said that he had hit upon another scheme to recoup his fortune,” Ives said slowly. “Would you tell us what you know about that scheme?”
Something flickered in Agnes’s eyes, but she merely hunched a shoulder and turned away, staring out the window. “Why should I? What good would it do?”
Sophy and Ives exchanged looks. Shrugging, Ives murmured, “It might help us discover what really happened that night.”
A sly expression in her eyes, Agnes’s attention turned back to them where they stood together in the center of the room. “I doubt it,” she said, a not-altogether-pleasant smile on her face.
“Did he talk to you about it?” Sophy asked urgently. “Did he tell you what he planned? Or where the money was going to come from? Agnes, please tell us. What you know may help us identify the man who killed him.”
“I am afraid,” Agnes said, her face suddenly smooth and bland, “I do not know what you are talking about. You must have misunderstood me.”
“Don’t be a fool!” Ives said bluntly. “If you know something, tell us. Don’t think that you can simply take up the reins Edward dropped. Whoever killed Lord Scoville is dangerous.”
For Love Alone Page 21
