“But if Meade was going to Brighton,” Ives said slowly, a frown wrinkling his forehead, “why didn’t he return to his lodgings before departing? Assuming he is actually going to Brighton.”
“You tell me.”
Ives rose from the chair in which he had been sitting. Stalking restlessly around the room, he said meditatively, “I do not think he went to Brighton at all. I’ll wager a monkey he is already dead. And I’ll wager two monkeys that our friend, the Fox, convinced him to put in for that leave, knowing that Meade was never going to arrive in Brighton. No one is going to be very concerned about Colonel Meade’s absence for at least a fortnight.”
“And the document? How did it get on Captain Brownwell’s desk? Fairies?”
Ives smiled slightly. “That is probably simplest of all—a straightforward bribe to some underling. There is, in all likelihood, someone at the Horse Guards this very moment who was paid to return the document—either by Meade, who concocted a believable story to explain why he had it in the first place, or by the Fox, and we both know how clever he is! My money is on the Fox.”
“And of course, without exposing our game, we cannot question anyone about it,” Roxbury said wearily.
“Exactly.”
It was silent in the room for a few minutes, Ives staring blindly at the floor, Roxbury gazing into space.
It was Ives who broke the quiet. “It seems to be our morning for bad news, sir,” he said abruptly. At Roxbury’s wary glance, he made a face and added, “The men assigned to watch Grimshaw and Coleman reported that both men returned directly to their lodgings after they left the Pigeon Hole last night, and neither one ventured forth until this morning.”
“Damme! If the Fox is not one of those two, who the hell is he?” burst out Roxbury, banging his fist on the table.
Thoughtfully, Ives said, “I would not exonerate them yet, sir. It is possible that one of them left his lodgings and was not seen by my men. Don’t forget, we have just learned, to our cost, about secret passageways.” Ives paused, then added, “There is something else, too, that I have not mentioned before because I thought it meant nothing, but I think it might be pertinent now.” Reluctantly, he went on to explain Ogden’s odd feeling of being watched that one night.
Roxbury stared fixedly at him. “I cannot tell you,” he said hollowly, “how reassuring I find this new information. Do you mean to tell me,” he went on with growing anger, “that your men may have missed him? That the Fox has been slipping in and out of our net at will? Scampering about right under our very noses?”
Ives grimaced. “I don’t like it any better than you do, sir, but it is possible, especially in view of Ogden’s report. And I would prefer to know that we have been, er, outfoxed, if you will pardon the pun, than to admit that we have been chasing the wrong man all this time, that neither Coleman nor Grimshaw is the Fox.”
Roxbury sank back into his chair. “I hope you are right. What do you intend to do now?”
Ives shrugged. “In order to make certain that the Fox isn’t somehow avoiding detection, I’ll have to double the men watching Grimshaw and Coleman. I favor Grimshaw for the Fox rather than Coleman—Ogden was watching Grimshaw the night in question, and Grimshaw seems to be paying an uncomfortable amount of attention to my behavior of late.” Ives suddenly grinned. “Besides which, I don’t like the fellow. He’s too smoky by half.”
“Do you think it will do any good?” Roxbury asked, defeat in his gray eyes. “I think we have to face the fact that the Fox has bested us. The contents of the memorandum are no doubt already on their way to France, the Fox has his gold, and Meade is very likely dead. The trap is sprung, my boy, and there is no trail to follow. We are back where we began.”
“That may be. But, then again, perhaps not,” Ives said slowly. “The trap may have failed, sir, but don’t forget there is every possibility that the Fox murdered Edward—and Agnes Weatherby. It may be that in investigating these two crimes we shall pick up a new trail, one that will lead us directly to his den.”
Roxbury looked interested. “You may be right.” His lips twisted. “And we certainly have no other avenues open to us at present.”
There was no denying that Ives was bitterly disappointed at losing Meade and the opportunity of exposing the Fox, but he was in a decidedly better mood when he eventually left his godfather and began to make his way home.
He would have to talk to Sophy, he realized. About her uncle. And about that puzzling robbery. There had to be a connection. All he had to do, he admitted wryly, was to find it, hope it led to the Fox, and use it to fashion a snare that the Fox could not escape!
As luck would have it, Sophy was just descending the main staircase when Ives entered the house. That he had been out all night and was just now returning home was apparent by the dark shadow of beard on his face, and the fact that he was still wearing the same clothes she had seen him in last. Her lip lifted contemptuously, but when she would have brushed past him, Ives caught her arm.
“Take your hand off of me,” Sophy said in an arctic voice, her gold eyes as cold and brittle as ice.
His hand dropped as if scorched, but he blocked her way with his body. “I need to talk to you. Privately. Now.”
“I cannot imagine why,” she returned acidly, attempting to step around him.
“Sophy,” he said in a voice that made her look at him sharply, “this is important. Please.”
Not liking the way her heart was fluttering in her breast, she sniffed, and said unenthusiastically, “Oh, very well, my lord. Shall we use your office?”
He smiled at her, such a tender and charming smile that, in spite of herself, Sophy felt herself melting. “Thank you, sweetheart,” Ives said softly. “You will not regret it. I swear to you.”
Sophy snorted, but she meekly accompanied him to the small room at the rear of the house. When the door closed behind them, Sophy took another look at his haggard features and rumpled clothing, and marched over to the bell rope in one corner. Giving it a yank, she said firmly, “I think you will feel better if you have something to eat and drink.”
He smiled gratefully at her. Shrugging out of his jacket and tossing aside his once-pristine cravat, he said, “Some strong coffee would certainly not be refused.”
Emerson answered the summons, and, after hearing Sophy’s request, he departed.
Left alone, Sophy and Ives warily regarded each other across the short distance separating them. Sophy held out for as long as she could, and only when the room suddenly seemed claustrophobic did she speak. “Well?” she demanded. “What is it?”
Ives shook his head and sat down with obvious weariness on the small green-leather sofa that sat against one wainscoted wall. “If you do not mind, I would prefer to wait until after Emerson returns. Once we start talking I want no interruptions.”
Sophy’s heart nearly stopped. Had he decided that their marriage was a mistake? Was he ... ? Good gad! Could he possibly be considering divorcing her? Chilled as never before, Sophy stared at him, realizing sickly that she wanted no life without Ives Harrington in it.
Emerson’s return with a tray laden with food and drink broke into her unhappy thoughts, and she waited with impatience for the butler to cease serving Ives and leave the room. The door had barely shut behind him before she asked, “And now, my lord, perhaps you could tell me the reason for this meeting?”
Carefully setting down his cup of very hot, very black coffee, Ives nodded. “It is about your uncle—his murder.” He frowned. “And to a lesser extent, about Agnes Weatherby’s murder.”
Sophy almost sighed aloud with relief, the dreadful specter of divorce vanishing from her mind. Weakly she sank down in a comfortable leather chair near where he sat.
But she was also puzzled. What had happened last night that had brought him home to immediately seek out an interview with her about Edward? Despite believing she knew precisely what he had been doing all night long, an unexpected thought occurred to her: was it possible that he had
not been out whoring and gambling last night? Could his abrupt disappearance from home and his weary-eyed return this morning have something to do with Edward’s murder? She preferred for such to be the case, but having been previously married for several years to a rakish scoundrel did not engender her with much optimism.
However, she could not help asking carefully, “Does Edward’s murder have anything to do with your, er, reasons for being gone all night?”
Ives smiled tiredly. “I do not know. That is why we are having this conversation.”
Sophy frowned and ignored the little bud of hope that curled in her breast. She would not be fooled by him. Simon had played tricks on her too often for her to simply take Ives’s words at face value.
“Very well,” she said prosaically, curious in spite of herself. “What is it you wish to know?”
“Just like that? No further questions? You are going to trust me?”
Seeming quite fascinated by the fold of her pale pink gown, Sophy did not look at him as she said, “I doubt you would answer any of my questions if I were foolish enough to ask them. And as for trusting you”—she glanced up and steadily met his gaze—“no, my lord, I do not trust you. But I will play your game until I satisfy myself that it is a game.”
He smiled crookedly. “I cannot fault you for plain speaking, can I, my dear?”
“Would you prefer that I pretend otherwise?” she asked coolly. “I can, if you like.”
“No, I admire your honesty, I only wish you would learn to trust me a little.” He smiled whimsically at her. “I am not a bad man, you know.”
Wishing he did not look quite so attractively dissipated sprawled on the sofa before her, Sophy stifled a sigh as she stared at him. His face was worn and creased from his long night, but the weariness sat well on his craggy features, enhancing them rather than taking away from their impact. There was an expression in his bright green eyes that she found far too compelling for her own good. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, his rumpled shirt partially open, revealing the strong column of his neck and a few tufts of springy black hair. She was appalled at how vastly appealing she found him at this very moment.
Agitatedly she rose to her feet. Looking anywhere but at him, she began to pace the small room. “I never said you were a bad man. Simon was not a bad man, just a selfish scoundrel who put his own comfort and desires first. I will grant you that you have treated me and my family quite wonderfully. There are times when I believe you are nothing like Simon, but then ...” She stopped squarely in front of him and her lovely golden eyes fixed on his, she said bluntly, “There are times that I think you are precisely like him.”
Ives winced, and leaning his head back against the sofa, closed his eyes. “I probably deserved that,” he said, “but I do not want to discuss my character at the moment.” His mouth twisted. “Or Simon’s. In fact,” he said grimly, sitting up and opening his eyes to glare at her, “I would prefer not even to hear his name.”
She dipped her head. “Very well, my lord. We shall not discuss him.” She sat back down and said, “Now, what is it about Edward that you wish to know?”
Ives rubbed his aching head, aware that he should have taken the time to sleep before starting this interview. However, he was conscious of a gnawing need to discover some clue, no matter how small, that would point him in a fresh direction—then he would sleep.
Dropping his hand from his forehead, he asked abruptly, “I know you and your uncle were not close, and that you were seldom in each other’s company, so this is not exactly a fair question, but did he seem different to you any time prior to your meeting at Allenton’s house party? Had your paths crossed any time just before the night he was murdered? Did you notice if there was something odd about him? I know you saw him about Anne, but was there any other time? Do you recall anything at all—no matter how minor an occurrence you think it might be—anything, dear Butterfly, that might give us a clue why he was murdered?”
Sophy stared at him for several minutes, thinking back over her few interviews with her uncle prior to the night he died. At first she was certain there was nothing. Certainly nothing about the unpleasant interview with Agnes and Edward the morning after Anne had come to stay revealed anything new or strange about him. Suddenly she caught her breath, and a peculiar expression crossed her face.
“How very odd—and I wonder that I did not think of it before. Of course! It explains everything!”
Her face blazing with excitement, she bent forward and declared, “I think I know precisely why Edward was killed. Even better, I’ll wager I know exactly what our housebreaker was looking for and did not find—because I had it with me! It has to be!”
While Ives stared at her in astonishment, she went on excitedly, “Oh, I know I am right. Don’t you see—when I showed it to him, Edward recognized it but pretended not to. The rogue! He was probably already planning to blackmail the owner then—even as he was declaring to me that he had never laid eyes on it!” She gave a delighted crow of laughter. “The ruby cravat pin! It has to be what links everything together—Edward’s murder and the housebreaker!”
Chapter Seventeen
“What the devil are you talking about?” Ives demanded, the expression in his green eyes suddenly bright and alert. “What bloody pin?”
“Let me show you,” Sophy said. Springing to her feet and running for the door, she tossed over her shoulder, “I shall be gone but a moment.”
Before Ives’s startled gaze she darted out of the room, leaving him to sit and stare at the door through which she disappeared. He had not long to wait. Not three minutes later, a breathless Sophy reentered, a small ornate box held in her hands.
“I believe that the reason the house was broken into,” she began excitedly, before the door had hardly shut behind her, “was because our housebreaker was searching for what I have in this box. At least, I strongly suspect it was his reason. And if I am right, and he was after the cravat pin, it would certainly explain the queerness of the attempt to rob us.”
She smiled impishly. “Of course, he did not find what he was looking for because I had taken this little jewelry box with me when we went to Harrington Chase. My mother gave it to me, oh, years ago, and for sentimental reasons, I suppose, I always take it with me wherever I go—I always have. It does not contain anything of importance, just a few trinkets and odds and ends, nothing valuable.” She looked rueful. “At least I did not think so until now.”
Sitting down across from him once more, she opened the pretty little box, rummaged around for a second, and then, a triumphant expression on her face, brought forth the ruby cravat pin. Handing it to Ives, she said, “I found this near the top of the stairs the night that Simon died.”
There was no denying that the square-cut ruby was worth a small fortune, even to Ives’s untrained eye. The setting was unusual, the diamonds surrounding it cunningly placed, and the size of the ruby itself made the pin quite distinctive.
“You found it? What, three, four years ago?” he asked slowly, still examining the pin. “And no one has claimed it before now?”
A little flush stained Sophy’s cheeks. “Until recently, no one knew I had it.”
At Ives’s look, she muttered, “I did not intend to keep it, if that is what you are thinking. I had every intention of finding out who owned it, but you have to understand that when Simon died things were, er, chaotic. I did not give the pin any thought. I was too busy burying my husband and removing myself from Marlowe House at all speed to think about a pin, even an expensive one. The night I found it, I simply shoved it into this little jewelry box, meaning to say something about it the next morning. The discovery of Simon’s body put it completely from my mind.”
She smiled grimly. “At that time, you must remember, it was openly bandied about that I had pushed him down the stairs—murdered him. I had rather a lot on my mind, and I am afraid that the finding of the pin did not take up any of my thoughts during those days.”
“You said ‘until recently.’ Dare I assume that you mentioned it to Edward shortly before his death?” Ives asked, a glitter of excitement in his eyes.
Sophy nodded. “Until Phoebe accidentally spilled the contents of this box one afternoon a short while ago, I had completely forgotten about it.” She smiled wryly. “If I can help it, I do not think about the time I was married to Simon.”
Ives let that comment pass, wondering wryly about her thoughts on their marriage, before probing gently, “But once Phoebe spilled the box and you noticed the pin?”
“Then, of course, I recalled finding it. I was not certain what to do about it after all this time. I did think it was odd, however, even suspicious, that no one had ever asked about the pin or mentioned that it had gone missing. I realized that the house was in such an uproar right after Simon died that whoever lost it might not have wanted to mention it just then. But surely, something would have been said a few weeks later, wouldn’t you think?”
Ives nodded and Sophy went on, “If the pin were paste, that would be one explanation, so I decided to find out if the ruby was real or paste. It is real. Once I knew that, I knew that I should make an effort to find out who owned it.” She made a face. “Edward seemed a logical place to start. He denied any knowledge of anyone inquiring after a lost piece of jewelry. I even showed it to him and asked him if he recognized it. He claimed never to have seen it before.”
“Did you believe him?”
“At the time, I thought he might be lying, but I could think of no reason why he would lie—except, of course, for pure spitefulness.”
Ives sat back in his chair and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, his eyes still on the ruby pin he held in his other hand. “Most interesting, especially in view of Edward’s death,” he said after a moment. “If Edward recognized the pin and realized there was some desperate reason why the owner had not come forth exclaiming its loss....”
“I think he did precisely that,” Sophy interrupted eagerly, “and I think he decided then and there to try to blackmail the owner.” She hesitated a moment before saying, “I have come to believe that the pin being found at the top of the staircase is significant.” She swallowed and confessed, “It is probably silly, but I have always had the impression that someone else was in the hall the night I confronted Simon. And knowing that Simon had traversed those stairs a hundred times in a far more drunken state, I agree the suspicions surrounding his death were not unwarranted.” Her gaze locked with Ives’s green eyes. “I did not push him, but someone else could have.”
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