For Love Alone

by Shirlee Busbee

  “Harrington, is that you?” Henry demanded, as the moments passed and nothing happened. “I know it is—it could be no one else. Only a lovesick sapskull would be so foolhardy. Come out. Show yourself, or I shall have to bring that lovely wife of yours on deck and convince her to add her voice to mine.” Henry chuckled. “And you won’t like what I shall do to her to make her obey me.”

  That threat decided Ives. Resignedly, he pushed aside the hatch cover and stood up. He had lost the element of surprise, but at least he was on board the yacht with Sophy. Surely he would be able to overpower Henry before the situation became fatal?

  His back to the door leading down to the galley, Henry regarded him almost with amusement. The pistol was aimed at Ives’s heart, but Henry’s voice was most pleasant as he said, “So good of you to join us. In a way I was hoping for this—I so dislike leaving loose ends.”

  Ives smiled, forcing himself to adopt the same manner. “Is that what I am? A loose end?”

  “Not precisely, but since I managed to rid the world of most of the Harringtons last year, it seems only fitting that I add you to the lot, doesn’t it?”

  Only by the deepening green of his eyes did Ives betray that the shaft had gone home. “So you admit that you sank their yacht and sent them to their deaths?”

  “Oh, yes.” Henry smiled. “I admit everything, my dear fellow. Why not? You are not going to live to tell anyone about it.”

  Peripherally, Ives caught a glimpse of the sloop, although some distance away, still loyally tacking alongside the Vixen. Forrest? It had to be! Feeling marginally more confident, Ives coolly climbed the rest of the way out of the cargo hold.

  “So what are you going to do now?” Ives asked. “Shoot me?”

  “Well, yes, that is precisely what I intend to do,” Henry said amiably. “You didn’t think I was going to take you to France with me, did you? No, no, dear fellow, I am not such a fool. You, I am afraid, are about to go into the Channel. Such a tragedy! I shall have Grimshaw send me the English papers—they will no doubt be full of the sad story of your demise.” Henry glanced in the direction of the sloop. “And as for your friends, I’m afraid that there is little they can do to stop me—”

  “But I can!” snarled Sophy, hurling herself out of the galley. Almost stumbling in her haste, she swung the gaff with all her might at Henry’s pistol arm.

  The sharp hook bit gratifyingly into the flesh of Henry’s upper arm, and a yowl of shock and rage erupted from him as the pistol went flying. His face contorted by fury, he jerked the gaff free and braced to meet Ives’s charge.

  Like a jungle cat, Ives sprang across the short distance separating him from Henry. They grappled, Ives’s powerful hand locked around Henry’s wrist, keeping him from bringing the gaff into play. It was an ugly fight. The rocking of the boat kept both men off-balance, the knowledge that only death would be the final outcome driving both to brutal violence.

  Sophy spared only a glance at the struggling figures as she scrambled after the pistol. It took a few minutes to find it, but her heart sang when her questing fingers finally closed around it.

  Her bound hands hampered her movements, but not enough to make her helpless. Henry had made several mistakes tonight, Sophy thought fiercely, including leaving her hands tied in front of her, which allowed her not only to untie her feet, but to strike him with the gaff.

  “Enough!” she cried. “It is over, Henry. I have you in the sights of the pistol.”

  But Henry was too maddened to pay her any heed. He was also aware that, locked in mortal battle with Ives, if she did fire the pistol there was every chance she might hit her husband instead. He was gambling that she would not risk it.

  He was right. In mounting frustration Sophy watched the two men as they lurched and thrashed across the deck in front of her. Once she thought she had a clear shot, but the moment was lost instantaneously. Angrily, she lowered the pistol, still poised, however, to intervene at the first opportunity.

  Larger and stronger, Ives had no doubt that he would overcome his opponent, but Henry was like a cat, supple and quick, and the fight went on longer than Ives would have thought possible. But the end came quickly; Ives tightened his hold on the arm which held the gaff and brought it down with one powerful motion against the railing of the boat. The sound of bone snapping hung in the air, and the gaff dropped from Henry’s nerveless fingers.

  Ives immediately stepped away, watching carefully as Henry stood there swaying near the edge of the boat, his broken arm hanging useless at his side. Sophy moved up to Ives’s side, their shoulders almost touching.

  “It is over, Henry,” Ives said quietly. “You have lost.”

  Henry flashed them a ghastly smile. “Perhaps, but I’ll not give you the satisfaction of taking me alive.” He looked at Ives and laughed wildly. “It is fitting, do you not think, that I suffer the same fate as your father and uncle?” And with one last, agile movement, he flung himself over the side into the dark waters of the Channel.

  Even as Ives lunged after him, he knew it was futile. He caught a glimpse of Henry’s head bobbing in the waves and disappearing beneath the dark waters.

  “He’s gone,” he said softly, turning to look at Sophy.

  She flew into his arms. Wrapped protectively in Ives’s strong embrace, Sophy’s horror of the night faded as their mouths met.

  “Take me home,” she said breathlessly, several minutes later. “I find that I do not care for yachting in the least!”

  It was Forrest’s hail as the sloop sailed near that brought Sophy and Ives back to the present. Keeping abreast of the Vixen, there was a hurried exchange between Ives and Forrest, and in a matter of minutes Sophy, Ives, and the small chest of gold were standing on the deck of the sloop watching the Vixen sink beneath the waves.

  Glancing at Ives’s impassive face, Forrest remarked, “That was rather a clever idea of yours to sink the yacht. Claiming that Henry went down with his boat is a nice touch, too. It will certainly save his family a great deal of embarrassment and shame.”

  “It will also,” Ives said blandly, looking away from the spot where the yacht had finally disappeared beneath the waters, “save us from having to answer a multitude of questions that I would just as soon avoid. As far as anyone is concerned, we went on a spur-of-the-moment sail and, for reasons we can only guess, the boat began to take on water. A fisherman happened by to save Sophy and me, but poor Henry was not so fortunate and went down with his yacht.”

  “What about the memorandum?” Forrest asked. “Do you think the French have it?”

  Sophy spoke up. “I think I know the answer to that—it went down with Henry. He told a Frenchman that he had it on him.”

  “Which doesn’t mean that the Frenchman doesn’t remember some of the information, but since it was all fake anyway, it probably doesn’t matter too much,” Forrest said.

  Ives nodded. “I don’t think we have to worry about the memorandum any longer.” He looked down at Sophy where she stood by his side on the deck of the sloop. “Can you identify the Frenchman?”

  “Oh, yes. But how are we to find him?”

  “I suspect from your description that Roxbury will recognize him.”

  It was not until the next evening that Roxbury heard the entire tale. Their horses worn-out, Ives and Sophy and the others found accommodations in Dover for the remainder of the night. It was late morning before they finally arrived back in London. Another several hours of sleep and a bite of nourishment left everyone feeling almost human.

  Ives had written Roxbury a concise report of what had transpired, and though nearing exhaustion themselves, Forrest and William Williams, astride new mounts procured in Dover, had carried it on to London ahead of the others. Consequently, when Roxbury greeted Ives and Sophy the next evening, he was smiling hugely.

  Seating himself in one of the chairs in Ives’s study, he said jovially, “A most successful ending! Your family avenged, Le Renard dead, and the memorandum destroye
d. Most successful.”

  Ives merely smiled and took a sip of his brandy. He and Sophy were sitting side by side on the small sofa, their hands clasped. Roxbury regarded them for a moment and, his eyes meeting Sophy’s, he cleared his throat, and murmured, “I believe I owe you an apology, my dear. And an explanation for your husband’s recent activities. He wanted to tell you everything—it was at my insistence that he did not. I am the one with whom you should be angry.”

  Sophy dimpled. “You do not have to apologize. I had already concluded that you were the reason he was spending so much time with Simon’s old friends—and not because he found their activities enjoyable, thank goodness! I could not bear it if I had been so foolish as to marry another callous libertine.” She glanced at her husband. The look she sent him was so warm and loving that Roxbury decided this was one time that silence was the best course.

  The possible identity of the Frenchman was discussed and Ives was correct—from Sophy’s description, Roxbury recognized him.

  “It sounds very much like the Chevalier Ledoux,” said Roxbury with a frown. “He is not a true chevalier—he merely styles himself as such. His name has come up from time to time, but until now we have never seriously considered him a danger. He will bear watching.” He suddenly smiled. “Hmm, I think perhaps we will let him run free for a while and see who his friends are....”

  After Roxbury left, Ives and Sophy remained in the small study. Having seen his godfather out, Ives returned to his seat beside Sophy. Taking her hand in his, he dropped a kiss on the back of it.

  “Happy?” he asked, his green eyes caressing her face.

  She looked thoughtful. “I think if you were to put down your brandy snifter ...” And as Ives followed directions and carefully set down his brandy snifter, she added, “And if you were to put your arm here ...” She gently placed his newly freed arm around her waist. “Now then, if you were to put that other arm right here ...” she murmured. Ives dutifully complied.

  Encircled in his strong embrace, she glanced up teasingly at him from beneath her extravagantly long lashes and a tiny smile curved her mouth. “And, now, if you were to kiss me and tell me again how much you love me, I think that I would be, oh, most happy.”

  His arms tightened and his mouth came down on hers. “I am,” he said several pleasurable moments later, “a most obedient husband, am I not?”

  Sophy gave an enchanting laugh, her golden eyes glinting. “Indeed you are not, but oh, Ives, I do love you!”

  “And I,” he said softly as he enfolded her even nearer to him, “adore you!”

  There was no more conversation between them; each knew what was in the other’s heart. Except for the soft, inarticulate murmurings of the two lovers, it was quiet in the small room for a very long time.

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  “Did you see that gown? And to wear it to Lady Oakhurst’s charity bazaar of all places! It was a shock, I can tell you, when I first laid eyes on it—cut so low, I didn’t know where to look! And the color! As close to orange as I ever hope to see! You’d think at her age—why, she must be at least five years older than I, and I am not considered a green girl any longer—that she’d know better.” Hester Mandeville, her lively face full of outrage, barely paused for breath before she went on in heated accents, “Her brother, Randal, not dead a year and Athena is already flaunting herself in a garment that I would not hesitate to stigmatize as fast!”

  It was a summation that would have done a woman twice her age proud, but Hester’s comment lost much of its moralizing impact by being uttered with a note of such open envy that her niece, Tess, had to choke back a gurgle of laughter. While Tess had been startled to see Lady Athena, the earl of Sherbourne’s older sister, wearing “colors” before the year of mourning was up, the gown hadn’t been quite that bad. It had been cut rather daringly, it was true, but the shade had been more of a rich antique gold than orange!

  Sending her pretty aunt, normally the most tolerant of creatures, a look of affectionate amusement, Tess murmured, “But aren’t we also beginning to wear some color again? You can’t have forgotten,” Tess went on with a sudden catch in her throat, “that Sidney died just eleven days after Lord Sherbourne.”

  Moral outrage over Athena Talmage’s clothes was instantly suspended as both women were assailed by a wave of grief. Each dabbed at the corner of her eye with a handkerchief. Hester said fiercely, “Those wretched Talmages! There was no excuse for that wicked, wicked duel! It was done out of spite! Randal knew that Sidney was no swordsman....” A tight, unhappy smile curved Hester’s soft mouth. “It must,” she added in a husky voice, “have come as a most unwelcome shock to the great earl of Sherbourne that my brother was not quite the novice with the blade that he had supposed.” She took a shaky breath and blurted out, “I’m glad Sidney was able to kill him first. And I don’t care if I am being uncharitable!”

  For several seconds there was silence in the well-sprung coach as it bowled smoothly along the road toward Mandeville Manor, the home of the two ladies. Ordinarily it was a pleasant, if longish, ride from the small town of Hythe, on the coast of Kent, to the gracious welcome of Mandeville Manor, some twenty miles inland. Ordinarily, too, the women would have enjoyed the lovely October day—the sky was a brilliant blue with only a few clouds on the horizon, the sun still warm, the leaves of the oaks and beeches barely revealing a hint of the brilliant color they would display in another month. But neither lady was aware of the passing countryside—each was remembering the terrible tragedy that had shaken the very foundations of their comfortable life some ten months ago.

  Staring blindly out the coach window, Tess felt the tears filling her eyes and she took a deep steadying breath, willing herself not to cry. Oh, but it was hard! She had adored her uncle. Sidney, the fifth Baron Mandeville, had been a high-spirited, sunny-faced individual, a handsome man with a merry charm. He’d always had a smile and a kind word for nearly everyone, and despite the fact that he had been a reckless gambler who had helped bring the family closer to ruin, Tess’s deep affection for him had not lessened.

  Tess’s mother had died a few weeks after her birth some twenty-one years ago, and her father had lost his life in a hunting accident before she was four years old, so she had no clear memory of either of her parents. Before she had even been old enough to realize the tragedy that had struck her at such a young age, her father’s sister, Hester, and his brother, Sidney, had ably filled the breach, showering her with warm, unstinting affection. Tess hadn’t viewed her late father’s siblings as parents precisely. Sidney had been only twelve years her senior, while Hester, seventeen years older than Tess, was a mature thirty-eight. Yet no one seeing her aunt’s lovely, laughing face and slim form could possibly think of Hester Mandeville as matronly!

  Tess sighed heavily as she continued to stare out the coach window, an errant shaft of sunlight suddenly turning a stray curl of hair from beneath her silk bonnet to flame. The death of her uncle Sidney had been doubly tragic—not only had she lost the nearest thing to a father she had ever possessed, but Sidney’s death had brought the despicable Avery Mandeville on the scene and everything had changed!

  Her generous lips thinned. She didn’t really begrudge Avery his inheritance; she didn’t mind so very much that Mandeville Manor and its broad acres were now his and that she and her aunt lived in their old home at his sufferance; she didn’t even mind that he was constantly in and out of the manor, dividing his time between it and the London town house—they were his by law, after all. What she minded, and what brought a militant sparkle to her striking violet eyes, was his persistent and decidedly unwelcome pursuit of her hand!

  At twenty-one, Tess Mandeville was an arrestingly beautiful young woman. Her rich red hair and black-lashed violet eyes were a stunning combin
ation, and with her delicately sculpted features and trim, lithe body she was undeniably a tempting bundle of femininity. She was also, from her mother’s side of the family, a sizable heiress, and while she suspected that Avery had no objection to her comely form, she was more than certain that it was her fortune that interested him the most!

  It was common knowledge these days that the Mandeville fortune was sadly in need of repair and that poor Sidney had been haphazardly looking for an heiress to marry before his untimely death. The Mandevilles were not destitute by any means. They could, with a few economies, easily maintain a comfortable way of life; but they certainly could no longer spend money without thought of the future. Receiving word of Sidney’s death, Avery, the newest heir to the barony and a distant cousin, had immediately resigned his captaincy in the infantry and returned to England, eager to claim his title and fortune. Upon his arrival from the continent, where he had been fighting under Sir Arthur Wellesley against Napoleon’s troops on the Iberian peninsula, he had been greatly displeased to learn that while he could now style himself Baron Mandeville and claim the elegant rooms of Mandeville Manor and the equally sumptuous rooms of the London town house, there was very little ready money with which to support the luxurious lifestyle he felt was his due. It had been swiftly borne upon the new baron that marriage to an heiress was definitely needed. And who should be there right beneath his nose but Tess ... lovely, unmarried, and so very suitable for his needs. Tess with her greed-inspiring fortune, at present and until she either married or attained the grand age of twenty-five held in trust for her—and excellently guarded from scheming individuals—by one of her mother’s younger brothers, Lord Rockwell.

  A little smile suddenly flashed across her expressive face. Tess may have lost her parents at an early age, but happily she had been blessed with caring relatives on both sides of her family. Not only had she enjoyed the unstinting affection of Hester and Sidney, but she was also, albeit carelessly, doted upon by her mother’s two brothers. Thomas, the current Lord Rockwell, and Alexander, as handsome and as charming a rogue as one would ever meet. Tess seldom saw either of her maternal uncles, which was hardly surprising since Thomas and Alexander were several years her senior and both were well-known, much-in-demand men about town who seldom strayed from the wickedly exciting environs of London. It was true she was infrequently in their company, but she was always aware of their affectionate concern for her.