For Love Alone

by Shirlee Busbee

  “Ives,” Percival began worriedly, his amusement having fled, “why must you have anything to do with Lady Marlowe? Has it not occurred to you that to trifle with her may be dangerous? Her husband is dead. And there are some people who believe that she killed him. Does this not give you pause?”

  “Nay, it does not,” Ives returned blithely. “I like a good fight. I always have. Marcus would be no match for me, but the little butterfly . . . I suspect she will reveal wings of finely honed steel. And as for her reputation, it only adds spice to the situation and whets my appetite further. I think I am going to enjoy crossing swords with the formidable Marquise Marlowe.”

  “And I think you should be locked up in Bedlam!”

  Ives merely cocked a brow and said lightly, “Come now, let us put the subject behind us and find our way to Boodle’s. I feel exceptionally lucky tonight.”

  His words proved prophetic. He was extremely lucky, rising from the faro table around three-thirty that morning with an envious amount of winnings. After parting from Percival, he rode in his coach to the Harrington stables. Leaving the vehicle and horses in the care of his sleepy-eyed driver and groom, he quickly walked the short distance to Bedford Square, the site of the Harrington town house. He had already told his butler not to await his return and in a matter of seconds had unlocked the massive front door and stepped inside.

  A frown marred his forehead at the sight of his butler, Sanderson, asleep on a chair near the door. The hall was in shadows. A pair of candles, burnt to almost nothing, spilled fitful light here and there.

  Shaking Sanderson’s beefy shoulder, Ives said, “Wake up, man. I thought I told you not to wait up for me?”

  Sanderson came awake with a start and leaped to his feet with such alacrity for a man of his bulk that Ives smiled.

  “M’lord!” he cried, when he realized who had awakened him. “Forgive me, sir, I did not hear you enter.”

  “Obviously,” Ives said dryly. “But why are you here? I thought I had dismissed you for the evening.”

  An uneasy look crossed Sanderson’s plump face. “It was because of the gentleman, my lord. I did not think you would want me to go to bed and leave him alone in the house.”

  “What gentleman?” Ives demanded sharply, his frown returning. “I was expecting no company.”

  “It is the Duke, sir. The Duke of Roxbury. I explained to him that you were out and that you were not expected back until very late. He waved all my protestations aside and insisted upon waiting for you, my lord.” Uncertainly, he added, “There was nothing I could do but put him in your study and see to it that he had refreshments. I apologize, my lord, for disobeying your orders, but he was impossible to turn away.”

  “Roxbury, eh? I wonder what that old devil wants.” He smiled at Sanderson’s worried expression, and said, “You are not to blame, old fellow. There are few people who can withstand Roxbury when he makes up his mind to do something. Do not fret over it. And now go to bed—I’ll see to Roxbury.”

  A moment later, Ives threw open the door to his study and strolled into the center of the room. Roxbury, his silver hair glinting in the candlelight, was comfortably seated in a chair covered in wine-colored velvet. At his elbow was a silver tray with a half-full decanter of brandy and a pair of snifters. One of the snifters still held a trace of brandy.

  Seeing Ives looming up before him, Roxbury sent him a singularly sweet smile. “Oh, my boy, it is good to see you! You are well, I trust?”

  Ives grinned at him and refilled Roxbury’s snifter as well as one for himself, while he murmured, “Do not try to bamboozle me, Your Grace! You did not force your way past my butler and wait up until this ungodly hour just to inquire about my health.”

  Roxbury laughed as he took the snifter Ives handed him. “Such a clever youth! No wonder Wellesley’s reports of you were so glowing.”

  Ives cocked a brow at him. “Kept track of me, did you?”

  “Not surprising, since you are my godson—my favorite godson, in fact.”

  Ives snorted and, seating himself in a chair across from the older man, took an appreciative sip of his brandy. Looking at Roxbury, he said dryly, “Since I seem to recall that I am your only godson, I should hope I would be your favorite!”

  Roxbury smiled. “What you say is true, but let me assure you, dear boy, that if I had any other godsons, you would still be my favorite.”

  Ives chuckled. “Have done, sir. You did not seek me out tonight simply to let me know of your esteem, gratifying though it is.” Ives’s expression sobered. “Why are you here, Your Grace? What may I do for you?”

  Roxbury sighed, his smile fading. Staring at his snifter, he said softly, “I am sorry about your father, my boy. Your father, Richard, was one of my best friends. I miss him. And his brother.” He glanced at Ives. “Did you know that your father and I were only months apart in age?” As Ives shook his head, Roxbury went on meditatively, “He would have turned seventy-one this coming July . . . I will be seventy-one in November.” He sighed again. “We grew up together, your father and I. Your uncle Guy, too, but it was Richard and I who were the best of friends.”

  Gently Ives said, “I know the two of you were close. I appreciated your help last year. Going through my father’s effects was no easy task for either one of us, and it did not help that there was also my uncle Guy’s estate as well as the final affairs of my two cousins to handle.” Ives’s face grew pensive. “It is hard for me sometimes to believe that they are all gone. My cousins, Adrian and Thomas, were younger than I am.”

  Roxbury nodded. “Guy married late in life. He was almost forty when he married Elizabeth.” He smiled faintly. “Unlike your father, who had not been even twenty-two when he married. I think Richard’s early marriage and his production of a son almost immediately allowed Guy to put off thoughts of marriage. He had two heirs and did not have to give up his rakish life in order to provide them. And of course, your birth so many years later gave him a third.”

  “True enough, but I must say again, sir, that I do not think your presence here is to discuss my family history. What may I do for you?”

  “I was not just reminiscing, you know,” Roxbury said reprovingly. “There is a point to my conversation.”

  Ives smiled faintly and nodded. “I never doubted it for a moment, sir, and I have to confess that I am eaten alive with curiosity.”

  “Impatient is more like it. You young people are always in such a hurry. But I will not keep you in suspense any longer.” Roxbury took a fortifying sip of his brandy and, staring intently at Ives, asked, “What do you know of your father’s life during the past few years before he died? Adrian’s, too, for that matter.”

  Ives frowned. “Very little. I assume that my father was busy helping my uncle run the estate. After his retirement from the vicarage a few years ago, his letters were always full of events at Harrington Chase. And as for Adrian, we were not close, even though he was only about three years younger than I. I was away at school, then in the military, and have not been home very often since, so I really had no opportunity to know either of my cousins very well.”

  “Would it surprise you to learn that Adrian had been doing a bit of sleuthing for me? Feeding me bits of information that he thought I might find interesting? He became quite adept at it.” At Ives’s look of astonishment, Roxbury nodded. “Yes, he was proving himself to be a very able spy. He had many friends amongst the French émigrés and was able to help me ferret out those whose loyalties might not have been as . . . ah ... profound as they should have been.” Slowly, Roxbury added, “Adrian was not the only member of your family who developed into a keen spy either. About eighteen months before his death, your father began to help. He was bored with life in the country and had stumbled onto what Adrian was doing for me.” A smile crossed Roxbury’s lined features. “He came calling on me and demanded to be allowed to help. Said that he saw no reason why the young should have all the fun.”

  Ives nodded, a bittersweet
smile curving his mouth. “That sounds like Father. He always thought it was palpably unfair that while I was off fighting in the wars and having all the adventures, he had to remain home, safe and protected in England. If he had been even a few years younger, I believe he would have offered his services to fight against Napoléon.”

  “In his own way he was fighting against Napoleon. Together, he and Adrian became my two best men. Your father was perfect—who would ever suspect a retired vicar of spying?”

  Ives shook his head. “It is rather hard to believe—my father, a spy? And my cousin, too? If anyone other than you had told me this, I would have called him a liar.”

  “Which is why they made such wonderful spies, no one suspected them, until . . .” Roxbury took a long gulp of his brandy. “Does the name Le Renard mean anything to you?”

  “The Fox? I assume you are not talking about the little red-coated creature?”

  Roxbury smiled grimly. “Indeed not! The particular fox I am speaking of I have been chasing for several years and am no closer to catching now than when I started.” His gray eyes met Ives’s. “Le Renard, as he calls himself, has been a painful thorn in my side for longer than I care to admit.” Roxbury looked thoughtful. “In the beginning,” he admitted, “his depredations were not very serious or dangerous, and there were other matters I felt were more important than putting a stop to his pilfering of mostly useless information. In recent years, however, he has managed to extract quite a few nuggets of damaging information—information we would have preferred the French had not learned. From beginning as a mere nuisance, the Fox has become a major problem.”

  “And Adrian and my father were helping you catch him before they died?”

  Roxbury nodded. “The bastard is well named, I’ll give him that! Just about the time we think we have him trapped, he manages to slip away.” Roxbury’s hand closed into a fist. “No matter how close we come, his identity is still secret. I do not even know if he is a member of the French emigre society, or if, God forbid, he is an Englishman won over by Napoleon’s gold. I fear the latter. But I have no proof of either. He could just as easily turn out to be the son of a French aristocrat who has attached his future to Napoléon’s star.”

  “What opinion did my father and Adrian have? They must have learned something?”

  “Indeed, I believe they had.” Roxbury looked uncomfortable. “And that was one of the reasons I offered to help you with your father’s papers . . . and Adrian’s as well. I was hoping I would find something that would prove enlightening. I did not.”

  “But if you found nothing, why do you think either one had made a new discovery?”

  “Because your father had sent me a message. He stated that he and Adrian hoped to have exciting news for me within a very few days. There was just one thing they needed to confirm before they revealed their discovery.” Roxbury stared hard at Ives. “The Elizabeth, as seaworthy a vessel as I have ever known, with Adrian and Richard aboard her, went down the very day I received that message. The storm that supposedly sank her was really no more than a blustery breeze with a smattering of rain. Both Richard and Guy were experienced seamen. Adrian and Thomas were not unfamiliar with the yacht. They had often sailed on her themselves with a minimum of crew. They were all competent, able seamen on a sound, seaworthy vessel, sailing into a minor weather disturbance. Yet the vessel went down . . . with all hands on board.”

  Heavily, Ives said, “You’ve never said so before, but do you think that the sinking of the Elizabeth was no accident?”

  Roxbury nodded. “I firmly believe that the Fox knew they were close on his trail and he sabotaged the yacht.”

  “How could he have been so certain that they had not already discovered his identity and notified you? And how could he have been so sure that my father and Adrian would both go sailing that day? Sinking a boat is no easy task, especially if one wants no suspicions aroused. And don’t forget, the yacht sank in December, not exactly a month one would choose to put to sea for amusement or any but the most pressing reason. It seems to me he left a great deal to chance.”

  “You were abroad when the Elizabeth went down, and since you have returned to England, most of your time has been spent in the country, so you would not be aware of the fact that there was a wager,” Roxbury said quietly. He made a face. “A wager that even the most tactless fool would be unlikely to mention in view of the tragic results. But there was a wager, a wager that had been written in the betting book at White’s several weeks prior to the tragedy. It clearly stated that on December 10, 1807, Lord Harrington would set sail on the Elizabeth and no matter what the weather, would make the run from Weymouth to Worthing in a specific time. The time was known only to Lord Harrington and Lord Grimshaw, the other man involved in the wager. Your uncle had claimed that he had done it before in the same amount of time, and Grimshaw had declared that he did not believe it.” Roxbury flashed a wintry smile. “They almost met on the dueling field over it, before the wager was decided upon. Everyone knew of the wager. It was common knowledge that your father and Adrian and Thomas were going to be on board that day—Harrington honor was at stake. Not surprisingly, the wager had drawn quite a bit of interest. For a week before the race, talk in the clubs was of little else.”

  “So the Fox could be certain his prey would be on board,” Ives said flatly.

  “That is my belief. And it also shows you the caliber of man we are dealing with. It did not matter to him how many men died, as long as the ones who were dangerous to him did. Remember, not only were members of your family lost, but your uncle’s entire crew as well. Six men in all went down with the Elizabeth.”

  Ives frowned. “If the race aroused such interest, weren’t there other yachts and boats in the area? Didn’t anyone see what happened?”

  Roxbury studied the contents of his snifter. “Yes, there were several vessels scattered about when your uncle’s yacht left Weymouth. Some had intended to race alongside the Elizabeth, but the weather, while not dangerous, was unpleasant, and, in the end, there were only two within sight of the Elizabeth when she went down. Strangely, all the men on those boats agree that for some time prior to her sinking it was obvious something was not quite right. The Elizabeth was sitting lower and lower in the water, and her tacking and direction were most erratic . . . almost as if she were drifting . . . almost as if no one was minding the sails and helm.”

  “And when she sank? Neither of the two boats was close enough to rescue anyone who had been on board the Elizabeth?”

  “Rather interesting that you should mention that . . .” Roxbury met Ives’s hard gaze. “There was never a sign of any survivors—the vessel went down with everyone on board.”

  “I have always found that impossible to believe,” Ives growled, rising impatiently to his feet. Pacing back and forth in the room, he said, “Even if the ship sank, all the men were experienced enough to swim free. There should have been someone in the water near the sinking.”

  Roxbury tipped up his snifter. “There was no one,” he said softly. “No one at all.”

  “You have a theory.” It wasn’t a question, and the dangerous glitter in Ives’s green eyes would have given a lesser man pause.

  Roxbury nodded. “Indeed I have. I have not said anything before now because I wanted you to have time to deal with the deaths of your family. I wanted you to be firmly settled into your new estates. I wanted you to have no distractions. I would have preferred to give you more time. In fact, I’d as lief not involve you at all, but the situation is such that you are the only man I feel I can trust fully with the truth.”

  He hesitated a moment, then said bluntly, “It is my belief that not only did the Fox sabotage the Elizabeth so she would sink well away from land, but that he also took out, er, insurance. I think he drugged the barrel of grog which he knew all the men on board would be drinking. If they were all drugged, it would explain the yawing and erratic movements of the vessel just before she went down. There was lite
rally no one at the helm. And when she sank, the crew and the others were already unconscious. They sank right along with her.” Roxbury met Ives’s eyes. “The Fox,” he said grimly, “killed them all.”

  There was a long pause as this sank in.

  “And you want me to catch him,” Ives said softly.

  Roxbury lifted his snifter, clinking it against the one held in Ives’s hand. “And I want you to catch him.”

  Chapter Three

  For a long time after Roxbury had departed, Ives roamed the confines of the study, his thoughts dark and deadly. His father had been murdered. Murdered by a traitor.

  A cold implacable rage filled him. In the lonely silence of his study, Ives made a vow. The Fox would die.

  Dawn was sending delicate pink-and-gold fingers of light over the city when Ives eventually made his way up the stairs to his room. His valet, his former batman, Ashby, had long ago sought out his own bed, and so Ives was alone in his bedchamber as he quickly stripped and crawled beneath the crisp linen sheets.

  For a brief moment, the sensation of the cool, clean material caressing his body made him smile. Thinking of the many nights over the years that he had slept in places he would not wish on the worst felon made him appreciate the fine feather bed and the sheer comfort of his surroundings.

  But his enjoyment of the physical pleasures faded immediately, and sorrow at his father’s death washed over him once again. This time it was deeper and almost more painful than it was when he first heard of the tragedy which took his father’s life, along with those of his uncle and cousins. But now! To suspect that it had not been just an act of fate but that it was very likely—nay, almost certain—that they had been murdered, was to rip open the wound anew.

  Ives did not allow himself to dwell on the tragedy. During his time in the military, he had seen much death and suffering and had learned quickly to assimilate it, then put it aside. A man could not think clearly, methodically, if his emotions were involved. Now more than ever he needed to be able to keep a cool head.