For Love Alone

by Shirlee Busbee

  “But not tonight?” Ives asked.

  “No, not tonight,” Williams admitted.

  “I wonder,” Ives mused aloud, “if that is significant?”

  It was, very, but only the Fox knew it. Having finally shaken free of the last of his companions, he swiftly hurried to his lodgings and, after dismissing his valet for the night, set about preparing himself for the meeting with Meade. A change of clothing and a bit of theatrical flair was definitely in order.

  Slipping down the stairs, he made his way to a small room at the rear of the house that possessed all he needed, including its own private entrance into the narrow alley behind the building where he lived. Entering the room, he crossed to a large picture hanging on one wall. He lifted it down, revealing a secret hiding place concealed by a little door with a sturdy lock. Using the key he had brought with him, he opened the lock and, a few minutes later, was competently changing his appearance. In clothing fit for a merchant, a rather handsome drooping mustache and a large-brimmed hat that hid half his face, he soon presented an image completely different from his own.

  He would have preferred to change in one of his hiding places, but did not want to waste the time tonight. Meade was already waiting for him at Flora’s, and he did not want him to become impatient.

  A sly smile curved his mouth as he drifted out of the house and into the dark alley behind it—there was no real danger of Meade leaving Flora’s. He would, the Fox suspected, wait a very long time to meet with the man who was going to give him a great deal of gold.

  He was still smiling as he crept down the alley, stiffening a second later when he realized he was not alone. Someone else was there ... watching for him?

  A cold feeling settled in his chest. How? How could Roxbury have settled upon him? He had been so careful, and for these past several months he had lived an exemplary life, avoiding everything that might connect him to Le Renard.

  Telling himself to keep a cool head and not leap to conclusions, he remained motionless, staring at the faint outline of the other man in front of him. It could be coincidence. The fellow lurking ahead of him could have nothing to do with him. He could even be a housebreaker spying out a likely target.

  He cautiously backed away from the other man, his mind racing furiously. He did not discount the possibility that the watcher was waiting for him, but if his identity was truly known, he realized with a flush of triumph, there would be a damn sight more than just one man after him.

  But Roxbury could be suspicious of him. A feeling of invincibility mingled with excitement surged through him. The game had suddenly become even more challenging. He would meet with Meade tonight, he thought, almost giggling in his delight, right under their very noses. And if the fellow obliviously leaning against the side of the building in front of him did discover his presence and try to follow him, he would easily lose the fool.

  Darting into another alley, he stopped and glanced back, pleased to see no sign of a follower. Contemptuously, he concluded that the incompetent creature had no idea that he had already left the house and was on the loose. Another giggle rose up within him. He would meet with Meade all right, and the man who was to have watched him would remain right where he was, lurking over an empty den! The Fox had already escaped!

  Ives was disappointed when he heard the reports of his men the next morning. Having been with Williams for what had remained of the night, he was already prepared for what they had to say. According to Ogden and Sanderson, neither Grimshaw nor Coleman had left his residence once each retired for the night.

  Ogden appeared uncomfortable, and at Ives’s raised brow, he added reluctantly, “It is probably nothing, my lord, but there was something strange about last night. There was a few minutes when I felt almost as if someone was watching me. I looked around, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. It was just odd, and I thought I should mention it.”

  “Probably nothing to worry over,” Ives said slowly, “but if it happens again, tell me, and we’ll take steps to find out if there is something to it.”

  Williams had little to add that Ives didn’t already know; he had been with him until Meade left Flora’s a few hours later and stumbled to his lodgings. Meade had remained there until Ives had given up in disgust and returned to Berkeley Square just as dawn was breaking over the city.

  Yawning, Williams said, “He is still at his lodgings. He never stirred from the place after you left this morning. That fellow of your godfather’s, Hinckley, has taken over watching him for today; Carnes is following Grimshaw; and Ashby is sniffing after Coleman.” He yawned again. “And I, m’lord, with your permission, am for my bed.”

  Ives smiled faintly. His three henchmen did look rather bleary-eyed. Having managed only a few hours of sleep himself, they had his sympathy.

  “Very well,” Ives said. “Get some sleep, the lot of you. I have no doubt you will be in for another long night tonight.” Wryly he added, “We all will. I am to meet Meade and Grimshaw and the others this evening for another round of gambling and drinking.”

  After they departed, Ives paced the small room Marcus had arranged to be set aside for his exclusive use. His head ached, and he could have used several more hours of sleep. But it was not his aching head or the lack of sleep that brought such a ferocious scowl to his hard features. It was thoughts of his wife.

  Having had time for his temper to cool and to realize, with no little regret, that there was some justification for Sophy’s attitude, he had come home in the early hours of the morning determined to confront her and settle things between them. His usually amiable temper had soared when he had discovered the door to their connecting rooms locked. Infuriated all over again, and in no mood to be balked, he had stalked into the main hallway and stormed into her room from the main entrance.

  Sophy was ready for him. Not only was he confronted by an icy-eyed wife, but she had the nerve, the utter audacity, to aim at him the very pistol he had given her less than forty-eight hours previously.

  “That is far enough,” she said coolly. “Come one step nearer, and I shall shoot you, m’lord.”

  His attempt on the connecting door must have alerted her, because despite the hour, she was obviously wide-awake and standing in the middle of the room, her gown of sheer pale blue silk drifting tantalizingly around her tall, slender form.

  A muscle in his jaw worked. “Has it come to this?”

  Sophy dipped her head. “Indeed, I am afraid that it has, m’lord.”

  “Dash it all, Sophy! Quit calling me m’lord in that odious fashion. I am your husband!”

  “Unfortunately.”

  They stood there glaring at each other, and Ives was gallingly aware that Sophy was not going to give an inch. In the mood she was in now, she would shoot him.

  Snarling something decidedly ungentlemanly under his breath, he stalked from the room.

  Reliving that ugly little scene a few hours later did nothing to make him feel any better about it. Somehow, he admitted gloomily, he had to make Sophy realize that she was all wrong in her assumptions. Robert’s death, her mother’s part in it, had nothing to do with them. His face contorted. All he had to do now was prove it to her. A bitter laugh came from him. So simple, and yet so very, very difficult when the lady had a pistol in her hand!

  The day did not get any better. He was greeted stiffly by the rest of the family, and, worse, Sophy herself eluded him, disappearing almost immediately after a strained and uncomfortable breakfast for a drive with Dewhurst.

  Feeling thwarted and thoroughly out of sorts, Ives withdrew to his bedroom in the hope of gaining a few more hours of sleep, and perhaps discovering a way back into his wife’s good graces.

  To his surprise, he slept soundly and woke several hours later feeling refreshed. As for the situation with his wife, no solution occurred to him. Not wishing to run the gauntlet of accusatory stares and stiff conversation, he remained in his room, pacing and moodily considering the future.

  At pres
ent he saw no way out of the situation with Sophy. He realized it would do little good to assure her of his honorable intentions, then immediately go off to consort with the likes of Grimshaw, Marquette, and Meade. Once again, he wished to tell her of the quest for Le Renard, but while in his own heart he was certain that Sophy could be trusted, there were too many lives at risk to take a chance.

  The rap on the door caught his attention and knowing that Sophy must have returned by now, he flung it open hopefully. He was disappointed to see only Ogden standing there before him. Ushering him into the room, he asked, “Yes? What is it? Have you news?”

  Ogden scratched his bald head. “It could be nothing, but as soon as he was relieved by Sanderson, Hinckley came by with a message on his way to report to Roxbury. Said you might be interested to know that Meade spent several hours at the Horse Guards today.”

  Ives’s brows shot up. “On a Sunday afternoon?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “It is interesting, and I’ll wager a wagonful of gold that I know precisely what our good colonel was doing—he had to be either copying the memorandum or stealing it.” A satisfied smile crossed Ives’s harsh features. “The Fox has taken the bait!”

  The Fox was also feeling rather satisfied with events as he strolled down the street later that Sunday evening. The meeting with Meade last night had gone just as he had assumed it would, and by this time tomorrow night he would be meeting with the Frenchman. A smile lurked at the corner of his mouth. And if his plans unfolded as they should, Roxbury would be left chasing his own tail.

  A touch on his arm startled him. Swinging around, he was astonished to see Agnes Weatherby standing beside him. He bowed politely, and murmured, “Miss Weatherby, how pleasant to see you.” He glanced around and seeing no sign of carriage or vehicle, or even a maid or footman to give the impression of propriety, he asked, “Is there something I can do for you? Perhaps escort you home?”

  Agnes shook her head. Her hard eyes fastened on his, she said smoothly, “I need no escort, but I do wish you to call upon me, very late this evening, at my home, after my servants have gone to bed. I shall let you in myself. Use the side door. You know which one—you’ve used it before when you accompanied Edward. I want, and I’m sure you’ll agree, no one to know of our meeting. It shall be our secret.”

  At his look of astonishment, she smiled maliciously. “In his cups Edward was, as I’m sure you already know, quite talkative. After you hear what I have to say, I think you will agree that we have much to consider, you and I.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Before joining the others for another long evening wasted in gaming and other vices, Ives arranged a meeting with his godfather. They met at a small tavern.

  Entering the private room Roxbury had procured for their meeting, Ives said, “Well, my lord, it appears that we finally have some progress.”

  Roxbury nodded. “Indeed, I am inclined to agree with you, my boy. I’ve had the files checked and the document is still there, but that does not mean that Meade is not carrying a copy around with him at this very moment.”

  Ives frowned. “My conclusion precisely, but I cannot believe that the French would pay very much for simply a copy. How could they be certain that the information was authentic? I suspect that at some point, the original document is going to have to disappear, at least temporarily, so that whoever the Fox or Meade is selling the information to can assure themselves that what they are buying is genuine.”

  “I concur, but for now the memorandum is still safely at the Horse Guards.” Roxbury took a sip of the rum punch he had ordered prepared for them.

  Ives made a face. “For now.”

  He took a swallow of the punch and, frowning slightly, said slowly, “I know that in the beginning I wanted as few people to know about this endeavor as possible, but I think the time has come to bolster our troops. My men can only do so much, and they are stretched thin, thinner than I like, and if we were to lose Meade ...”

  He sighed. “At present any chance of success rests solely with the colonel leading us to the Fox, and while I do not want our men tripping over each other, I would feel better if two men were assigned to watch Meade at all times, with a few more held ready in case of need. Could you arrange it?”

  Roxbury nodded. “With little effort. What about Grimshaw and Coleman?”

  “I don’t know,” Ives replied moodily. “If there are too many people following our suspects about they are bound to be noticed. I think for now that we had better continue as we are. Meade, however, is the key. We cannot lose him.”

  “Very well,” said Roxbury, rising to his feet. “I shall have two more of my best fellows to help you. When do you want them to start?”

  “Immediately.”

  While it seemed that things were finally moving along in connection with the Fox, Ives was still not a very happy man when he left his godfather a few minutes later and set out to meet with Meade and his friends to dine at Stephens’s. Joining the others at their table, he could not help but remember the night he had brought Sophy here with the Offingtons ... and that passionate kiss in his coach. He scowled fiercely at his claret glass. If things continued as they were, all he was going to have were memories.

  That notion did not sit well, and though he tried to pay attention to what was going on around him, the moment he let his guard down his thoughts turned inevitably to his wife. And as the evening progressed and he drank glass after glass of liquor, a strong sense of ill usage sprang up within him.

  The little baggage had feathers in her brain if she thought for one moment that he would be so stupid as to marry her simply because of a desire for revenge for some long-ago tragedy. It was true he had sworn vengeance, but dash it all, he had not meant it! At least not recently.

  He glared at his glass, his feeling of betrayal and of being poorly used growing with every minute. How dare she aim that dashed pistol at him! He had done nothing wrong. Bloody hell! She was his wife! And she had as good as thrown him out of her room.

  By the time the evening ended, half-drunk and feeling that Sophy had served him a great injustice, Ives departed from the other gentlemen. As he walked home, a hazy determination to set her right began to build within him. He was not Marlowe! And she had no cause to treat him in this fashion. No cause at all!

  Arriving home, he entered the house. Moving with the extreme care of a man who has imbibed too freely, Ives shut the door, locking it behind him, and walked up the stairs to his room.

  Shedding his clothes, he shrugged into a robe of maroon silk with tiny golden dragons scattered across it. He poured himself a snifter of brandy and drank it slowly, glaring at the door which separated him from his wife.

  She was, he knew, no doubt sleeping sweetly in her bed. The bed in which he should be at this very moment....

  The thought of Sophy’s soft curves and the pleasure they had shared sent a shaft of longing through him. And the idea of spending the rest of his life this way suddenly became insupportable.

  Not precisely drunk, not precisely angry, but stubbornly determined, Ives carefully set down his snifter and walked to the door that kept him from what he wanted most in the world. He tried the door and was not surprised to find it still locked.

  Did she really, he wondered with a half smile, think that he would allow a mere partition of wood to separate them? Not giving himself time to consider the consequences, he aimed one big shoulder at the offending barrier and, with one powerful lunge, smashed the door.

  As arrogant and unruffled as a jungle cat, he stepped into the room. Sophy had not been asleep. Sleep did not come easily to her since their confrontation. She could tell herself that Ives was a deceiving libertine, a mendacious beast, a vile knave, but somehow that knowledge did nothing to stop the ache to feel his arms around her.

  She had never longed for a man before, had never known the frank hunger that could build within one for the touch of one certain man, and she was aghast at the way not o
nly her body but her thoughts had begun to betray her. Her initial fury had faded, and she found herself making excuses for him and wondering if perhaps she had judged him too hastily. Or if she wouldn’t have been wiser to let him explain.... Her mouth twisted. Attempt to explain.

  Restlessly she tossed and turned in her bed, aware of her body in a way that was queer and unnerving. Her breasts seemed unusually sensitive; just the brush of her delicate gown made her nipples swell and an odd sensation flow through her. And low in her belly, she was uncomfortably conscious of a hot ache, not exactly unpleasant, but markedly persistent.

  She was not stupid. She knew what her body was telling her, but she pushed that knowledge away. She was not going to allow herself to be dominated by simple carnal desire.

  Except in her heart she knew that it was not simple, and it was not just the desire to have Ives in her arms again. She missed his teasing eyes and laughing mouth, and perhaps most of all, the comforting sensation of not having to face the future completely alone.

  She not only wanted him in a purely physical sense, but in a distinctly intangible way, too. Miserably, she admitted that she loved the wicked rogue, and that made everything all the more complicated. If she could hate him, despise him as she had Simon, nothing he did would matter to her. She could sleep alone a thousand nights and never give him a single thought. But with Ives ...

  A lump grew in her throat. Oh, damn and blast! she thought furiously. How am I to get through the rest of my life, loving him so desperately with all this ugliness between us?

  Though the hour was very late, neither sleep nor answers came to her, and she lay there staring blindly at the silken canopy of her bed, alternately damning Ives and longing for him. She was still awake when he returned home, and she heard his steps in the hall as he passed her door. Her heart had thudded painfully.