For Love Alone

by Shirlee Busbee

  “You were in the army with him, weren’t you?” asked Grimshaw, his gray eyes fixed on Ives’s face. “His commanding officer, if I remember correctly?”

  Ives bowed. “Indeed. I had that pleasure.”

  “Forrest used to be a much more enjoyable fellow. When he first sold out, he fit right in with us,” Coleman said, glancing indifferently at the cards he held in his hand. “Then respectability must have attacked him because he drifted away and became quite, quite dull.” Coleman’s hazel eyes lifted. “Do you think that will happen with you?”

  “Oh, I doubt it very seriously. You may ask anyone who knows me—I am never dull,” Ives returned sweetly, carelessly motioning for a servant to bring him a glass of wine.

  Dewhurst bit back a snort of laughter, as did Coleman himself, before he turned his attention back to his cards. But Grimshaw did not apparently share the general amusement. His unfriendly gaze still fastened on Ives’s dark face, he muttered, “A clever turn of phrase, but I wonder if you are not, my lord, too clever for your own good.”

  Ignoring the antagonism in Grimshaw’s voice, Ives shrugged. “We shall just have to wait and see, won’t we?” he murmured and smiled challengingly at Grimshaw over the rim of his glass.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ives remained with the others only long enough to see if Meade’s sudden disappearance aroused any comment. He was both relieved and disappointed when someone—Coleman? Caldwell?—made mention of Meade’s unexpected decision to visit Brighton and no one seemed the least bit interested or surprised by Meade’s defection. Having learned what he had come for, Ives wandered away and slowly strolled back to Berkeley Square.

  His return coincided with Sophy’s arrival at the Grayson town house from her evening’s engagement. The sight of her golden head emerging from the carriage made his pulse leap and, increasing his stride, he arrived in time to escort her up the steps and into the house.

  Sophy was surprised, astonished actually, to see him home this early in the evening, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Her lovely features revealed nothing but politeness.

  Ives had been right. He might have barreled back into her bed, and though they had collaborated easily enough together this morning in the matter of the cravat pin, there were still large areas in their relationship in which Sophy was quite wary of his motives.

  She couldn’t help but be pleased to see that, for tonight at least, he had forsaken his debauched companions, but she did not delude herself into believing that this signaled any major change in his behavior. Even Simon had not gambled and whored every night.

  “Did you enjoy your evening?” Ives asked, as they entered his study, having decided to partake of a cup of tea and some biscuits together before retiring for the night.

  Sophy nodded. “Hmm, yes. The aquatic spectacle was particularly entertaining this evening.” She cast him a glance from under her curling lashes. “And your evening? It was pleasant?”

  Ives shrugged. “Tolerable.” He flashed that brigand’s smile of his, and murmured, “I would have much preferred to spend the evening in your charming company.”

  Sophy’s brows rose. “Indeed. I find that most interesting since you have shown no predilection for my company recently.”

  “Ah, now there you are wrong, sweetheart,” Ives said with a gleam in his green eyes. “I seem to remember that very recently I displayed a most determined predilection for your company.”

  Sophy blushed, the memory of their lovemaking suddenly vivid in her mind. She was quite thankful that Emerson entered the room almost immediately with a tray of refreshments.

  Only after the butler had departed and they had served themselves and were seated comfortably across from each other, did Sophy attempt further conversation. Having taken a fortifying sip of her tea, over the rim of her cup she looked at him, and asked, “Did your godfather recognize the cravat pin?”

  “No, he did not. I did not think that he would, but there was always the chance.” He hesitated before adding, “I will be frank, I am nearly at a standstill. I do have a glimmer of an idea I might pursue, but I am not precisely pleased with it.” The urge to elaborate and more fully explain his plan was almost overpowering, but Ives decided the less Sophy knew the better for her. Not only better, he thought fiercely, but safer.

  Sophy waited for him to continue and when he did not, she was aware of a stab of disappointment. Despite the promising start earlier in the day, it was obvious he was not going to confide further in her.

  Pushing away her hurt, she said coolly, “I do not see why it should be so difficult. I am sure any number of people will recognize it once we, discreetly of course, ask around.”

  Ives shook his head. “That is not the problem. I am sure you are right—the pin is too unusual not to be easily recognized. The difficulty is that we do not wish to alert the owner of our possession of it until we know who he is. If we make the wrong move, he may vanish without our ever getting our hands on him.”

  Sophy appeared thoughtful. She took another sip of her tea as she considered the problem. There was much sense in what Ives said, but she did not believe a solution would be so very difficult to discover.

  A little frown creased Sophy’s forehead, and, setting down her cup, she said, “We assume that Edward and Miss Weatherby both approached their killer and attempted to blackmail him ... and we assume that their killer also attended the house party the night Simon died and the Allentons’ house party.... It seems to me that a comparison of the guests who attended each party would at least eliminate anyone who had not attended both functions.”

  Ives nodded uneasily. He was full of grave reservations about Sophy’s role in discovering the owner of the pin, especially since he had the unpleasant feeling that the owner of the cravat pin and his own nemesis, the Fox, were one and the same. The Fox was already responsible for several deaths, and Ives was grimly certain that he did not want Sophy even remotely involved. The notion of the Fox bringing his attention to bear on her sent a chill down Ives’s spine and brought all his protective instincts surging to the fore.

  Oblivious to Ives’s lack of enthusiasm, she went on briskly, “The easiest way would be to list everyone that we know attended both parties—that would give us several possibilities.”

  Again Ives nodded, not liking the icy feeling swirling in his belly. She was, he decided bitterly, too bloody clever for her own good.

  Sophy rose to her feet, rummaged around in the desk, and found a quill, ink, and a sheet of paper. She sat back down and proceeded to make a list of the gentlemen who had been at Marlowe House the night Simon had died, and right next to it, a list of the guests who had also been at Crestview. When she was finished, she made a face.

  “The problem,” she said disgustedly, “is that we are dealing with basically the same group of gentlemen, and so we have several suspects: Edward’s boon companion, Lord Bellingham—although I cannot imagine ‘Belly’ killing anyone; Marquette; Grimshaw; Coleman; Dewhurst; Allenton himself; and three or four others who, while unlikely, were in attendance.” She brightened. “At least we can eliminate your friend, Percival Forrest. He was at Marlowe House, but not at Crestview.”

  “Even if Percival had attended both functions,” Ives said bluntly, “I would never put him on that list. Having fought beside him, I know the man, and he is no murderer.”

  “There was a time,” Sophy replied softly, her golden eyes steadily meeting his, “that I would have said that you were no libertine either.”

  Ives sighed. Wouldn’t you know she would give him a perfect opportunity to explain himself and he would not be able to take advantage of it? Damn and blast the Fox! And Roxbury, too! But her words warmed him and gave him hope for the future.

  Sending her a wry smile, he murmured, “Sweetheart, we are not talking about my behavior. Let us, for now, concentrate on finding out who murdered your uncle and Miss Weatherby, hmm?”

  Her chagrin apparent on her expressive face, she replied somewh
at stiffly, “Of course.”

  Her gaze dropped from his, and she asked neutrally, “Is there anyone on the list that you favor above any of the others?”

  If he had been able to talk freely, he could have told her to mark off Marquette—Roxbury and he were in agreement that Marquette was not the Fox. In fact, he admitted sourly, if she knew the truth, they could probably dispense with all the names on the list except for Coleman and Grimshaw. But even if he could not fully explain matters to her, he was not going to send her haring after a false scent. There was enough deception between them as it was, and if they were collaborating together, even in a limited manner, she deserved a measure of truth.

  “Well, I like Grimshaw for our villain,” Ives confessed, before he fully considered what he was saying. The instant the words left his mouth, he cursed himself for a fool. Determined to keep her safe, what did he do but point her in the very direction he most desperately did not want her to go? Bloody hell!

  “Oh, I do, too!” Sophy exclaimed, in perfect charity with him once more. “I have always thought him a villain.”

  Ives grimaced and attempting to retrieve the situation, said weakly, “Which does not mean he is our quarry. Perhaps we should not neglect to consider someone else first.”

  “Oh, fiddle-dee-dee! I prefer Grimshaw above all others. Let us put Grimshaw at the top of the list. He shall be the first one that we approach.”

  “Approach?” Ives asked carefully, a knife blade of unease turning in his gut. “Would you care to explain precisely what you mean?”

  Sophy smiled sunnily at him. “I have just thought of a wonderful plan—I know you shall believe it shocking, but I think that we should try to blackmail him! Not for money, of course, he would never believe it.”

  Ignoring Ives’s expression of stunned disbelief, she went on blithely, “Simon, you know, was always attempting to ferret out other people’s secrets so he could dangle them over their heads. I think we should try to do the same thing to Grimshaw and see what his reaction is.”

  As Ives stared at her in thunderstruck panic, she lightly tapped her lips with one slim finger, and added, “Of course, I should be the one to approach him. I found the pin, after all. And it would be perfectly logical that, after Edward’s death, I would begin to add things up and connect the pin to his murder.”

  When her husband remained silent—in fact, he looked and acted as one turned to stone—she went on reasonably, “And Grimshaw wouldn’t think it the least strange that I was attempting to blackmail him. He knows that I detest him. Besides, he will probably simply assume that I am following in my husband’s and uncle’s footsteps.” Breezily, she concluded, “It is a very good plan, don’t you agree?”

  It was all Ives could do to control himself, torn as he was between wildly conflicting urges. He wanted to shake her soundly for terrifying him, and kiss her for simply being the dearest thing in the world to him. His uppermost emotion, however, was one of raw fright at the mere notion of Sophy putting herself in what might very well prove to be mortal danger.

  “Are you mad?” he fairly thundered, appalled that she should have so unerringly fastened upon his own plan.

  He took a deep breath, forcing himself to act calmly despite his violent inner turmoil. In a quieter tone of voice, though not much quieter, he said, “Two people are dead, Sophy! What makes you think you shall have any better luck approaching him? I tell you, it is far, far too dangerous a plan for you to even consider attempting!”

  She smiled impishly, not the least fazed by his unflattering reaction. “But you forget, my lord, I have an advantage that Edward did not—I know the man is capable of murder. Besides, I shall not be in this alone; we shall be working together. Our murderer will be caught off guard because he will not be aware that there are two of us stalking him.”

  Ives stood up and loomed over her. “I will not even consider you approaching him, do you hear me? It is out of the question.” Flatly, he added. “I would be a poor husband, indeed, if I countenanced your taking part in something that could place you in deadly peril.”

  Sophy stared at him for a long moment. His words and something in his voice made her heart squeeze with delight. But there was something else in his voice that gave her pause and, consideringly, she looked up into his rigid features. One thing was apparent—he had not been surprised by her plan.

  On the surface, she thought slowly, his main objection seemed to be that it was dangerous ... for her. She frowned. In fact, she mused, he had not condemned the plan at all, only her role in it. Comprehension dawned.

  “You were already planning to approach Grimshaw!” she said accusingly. Her eyes narrowed. “Without telling me, I’ll wager.”

  A dark flush burned Ives’s cheeks. “I am a man,” he muttered. “A man, I might remind you, who has faced an enemy determined to kill him.”

  Sophy looked only politely interested. “And?”

  “Dash it all, Sophy! You cannot be that unintelligent! I do not want you in danger. Let me handle this.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said levelly. “You get to risk your life to find our killer, but I am not allowed even when it is far more logical that I be the one to approach our suspect.”

  Ives bit back a curse, undecided whether to throttle her or kiss her. “Why,” he asked with an effort, “are you the more logical one of us?”

  Since he appeared to be listening to her, she relaxed a trifle, and said coolly, “Because you have been much too busy ingratiating yourself with Grimshaw and Simon’s other friends to suddenly turn ugly with them. On the other hand, Grimshaw knows precisely how I feel about him. He wouldn’t be surprised at all if I tried a spot of blackmail.” Her face twisted. “It’s in my blood after all, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Don’t,” he said softly, reaching out to run a caressing finger down her cheek, “denigrate yourself. Edward was a selfish bastard and your mother may have been a thoughtless, even callous young woman, but you are nothing like either one of them. You are brave, loyal, and caring. To tell the truth, I find it hard to believe that you have Scoville blood coursing your veins.”

  Sophy’s breath caught, thoughts of the ruby cravat pin and catching Edward’s murderer vanishing instantly from her mind. It was the first time since she had accused him of marrying her to avenge his brother’s death that they had even remotely touched upon the subject, but she knew that it had not been forgotten by either one of them. It lay between them like a festering canker, and she was painfully aware that she would give much to tear down at least one of the barriers that stood between them.

  Searchingly, she stared up into his dark, fiercely hewn features, her heart aching and yet hopeful. They had been forced to marry. She knew that he did not love her; his need for an heir had been well-known. But what he felt for her she could not even guess. Kindness, certainly. Passion, definitely. But what of his brother’s suicide? And her mother’s part in it? Had the desire for revenge played a part in his offer of marriage?

  Suddenly she had to know, and blurted out, “Did you agree to marry me to extract some sort of revenge for what happened to your brother?”

  An infinitely tender smile played at the corners of Ives’s shapely mouth. He shook his head slowly, and said huskily, “I swear to you, sweetheart, on my honor as a gentleman and on everything I hold dear, that neither Robert nor your mother’s part in his death had anything to do with the reasons I married you.”

  She should have been satisfied with his answer, but his words left her feeling oddly bereft. Of course his brother’s suicide had nothing to do with their marriage, she told herself stoutly. She had been a fool to believe it in the first place. She knew precisely why he had married her—he had, one might almost say gallantly, married her to protect her from scandal and to, in time, gain an heir.

  She forced a smile. “Thank you. I would not like to think that I was to be punished for something I did not do.”

  “Is that how you view our marriage?” Ives asked whimsicall
y. “As punishment?”

  A lump grew in Sophy’s throat. She shook her golden curls. “No, my lord. Not punishment.”

  Ives waited a moment longer, wishing she would say more, hoping desperately that she would give him some clue as to what was going on in that lovely head of hers.

  Uneasy with his silence, Sophy cleared her throat, and muttered, “You have been very kind to me and my family. I am exceedingly grateful to you.”

  Ives made a face, disappointment crashing through him. Gratitude was not what he wanted from her. Turning away he said lightly, “Then I must be satisfied. I would not want you to be unhappy.”

  Miserably Sophy watched him, the urge to demand what he did want of her almost painful in its intensity. But she kept her mouth shut. Life with Simon had taught her some bitter truths, and she had learned, to her cost, that sometimes knowing the truth destroyed all illusions and left one with absolutely no hope at all. As it was, she might not know how Ives felt about her and their marriage, but she could still dream that one day he might love her. She could still hope that more bound them together than merely his need for an heir.

  Unwilling to dwell upon the state of her marriage, she picked up her cup and took another swallow of tea, wrinkling her nose at its coolness. Setting the cup down decisively, she glanced across at Ives where he had reseated himself, and said determinedly, “I believe that if you think it over you will agree that it would be best for me to be the one to approach Grimshaw.”

  When Ives scowled at her, she went on hastily, “If you consider it honestly, you will know that I am right. Simon, Edward, and I are all connected, and he knows how I feel about him. He won’t give my actions a second thought.”

  There was too much truth in what she said for Ives to brush her words aside, which was exactly what he wanted to do—violently. Though it galled him to admit it, she was the far more logical choice to carry out the scheme.