“And lost his cravat pin in the process?” Ives asked, his voice giving nothing away.
“It could have happened,” Sophy said a little defensively, the color burning in her cheeks.
“Oh, I do not doubt that it could have,” Ives said easily. “And from what I know of Simon Marlowe, I’m inclined to think that is exactly what happened.”
He paused, scowling. “But even if it were so,” he admitted slowly, “the simple fact of the pin being found at the top of the stairs proves nothing. Unless Edward saw Simon being murdered, your having found the pin when and where you did is not reason enough for him to attempt to blackmail the owner. Besides, if he saw the actual murder, why wait all these years?”
It was a reasonable question, but Sophy had no answer for him, and some of her first flush of confidence began to ebb. Perhaps the pin had nothing to do with Edward’s murder.
“I think,” Ives said slowly, “that the pin plays some sort of pivotal role in the whole affair, but because he did wait all this time, we have to assume that your uncle did not see the murder being done. But he must have had his suspicions—suspicions that remained only that—until you brought forth the pin and told him your story.”
“But it still doesn’t prove anything, the pin being found at the top of the stairs.” She looked doubtful. “I don’t think simply its location would be enough for blackmail, do you?”
“I agree. The timing of your finding it and the location alone would not give him a strong enough hand. He had to have known more,” Ives replied. “I’ll wager your uncle already had his suspicions about Simon’s death, perhaps even guessed who the real murderer might be. Your story about the pin only confirmed those suspicions for him, but did not prove them. Yet that does not mean that the pin isn’t important. It’s possible that its reemergence acted as a catalyst, both for Edward to try his hand at blackmail and his subsequent murder.”
Ives stared off into space a moment, frowning. “Edward had to have known something more about his killer. I think it was that something, coupled with the rediscovery of the pin, that decided him to approach the person he tried to blackmail and got him killed.”
“And Agnes Weatherby tried the same thing and suffered the same fate?”
Ives nodded. “I am sure that is how it happened. Edward was well-known to have had a loose tongue—especially in his cups. I suspect that he was so full of himself and how very clever he was being that he could not help, one night when he was half-foxed, bragging to Miss Weatherby. He may not have told her everything, but I’ll wager he told her enough for her to try her own hand at blackmail—and suffer Edward’s same fate.”
Sophy shivered. “And what do we do now?”
Ives’s jaw set. “If you do not mind, I would like to show this to my godfather and discuss the situation with him. He may even be able to identify it.”
A short time later, Roxbury was rather annoyed at being rousted from his bed by his godson.
Wrapped in a flamboyant robe of crimson silk littered with small black dots, Roxbury entertained Ives in the elegant sitting room that adjoined his bedroom. Stifling a yawn, Roxbury sat down on a chair upholstered in an exquisite shade of puce. The resultant clash of colors made Ives visibly wince.
Roxbury glanced down at the crimson robe pressed against the puce velvet and chuckled. “Tarted up like a whore on Saturday night, wouldn’t you say?” he remarked merrily, suddenly in a much more agreeable frame of mind.
Ives grinned and accepted the steaming cup of coffee Roxbury passed to him. “Indeed, sir, I could not have put it better.”
Roxbury gave a bark of laughter, and, after taking a sip of his own coffee, said, “Well, what is it? You didn’t forsake your own bed and get me out of mine just for the amusement of it, not after the night we just spent. Tell me.”
Ives’s grin faded and, reaching into his vest pocket, he brought forth the ruby cravat pin. Handing it to Roxbury, he said, “Sophy and I think that this little trinket might have a great deal of bearing on why Edward was killed. And, more than likely, Agnes Weatherby. I think that I can even link it to the Fox. But first, have you ever seen it before?”
Roxbury leaned forward and took the cravat pin. He turned it this way and that as he examined it in the light streaming in through the bank of tall windows which comprised one wall of the room.
“A gaudy bauble to be sure, and quite out of the ordinary, but I do not recall ever having seen it before.” He shot Ives a dark look. “I hope that you have not been so foolish as to discuss the Fox with your bride.”
Ives ignored that last statement, and said mildly, “I doubted that you could identify it, but there was always the happy possibility.” Rubbing his fingers tiredly against his temple, he said, “Let me tell you what I know about the pin.”
Ives proceeded to relate to his godfather all that he had just learned from Sophy.
When he finished, he looked at Roxbury, and said dryly, “To the detriment of my relationship with my wife, Sophy believes that I am a debauched rake much in the manner of her first husband. Aware of the importance of what we are trying to do, I have done nothing to disabuse her of that unpleasant notion. You have no reason to fear that I may have been indiscreet. She thinks, however, as I do, that the pin is somehow inextricably tied to Edward’s murder. If my suspicions prove true, you hold the means to trap the Fox in your hands at this very moment.”
When Ives said nothing more and sank wearily back into his chair, Roxbury was quiet for several minutes, his expression reflective.
“So,” he said at last, “tell me how you think this helps our cause?”
Restless despite his lack of sleep, Ives stood up and began to pace the room. “Let us suppose,” he muttered, “that the expensive trinket you hold in your hand belongs to the Fox.”
Roxbury’s brow shot up. “Isn’t that rather far-fetched?”
“It could be,” Ives replied equitably, “but I do not believe so.” He glanced at Roxbury. “Didn’t you tell me once that shortly before Marlowe died, he and Scoville were sailing perilously close to treason by selling their gossip to the Fox?”
At Roxbury’s curt nod, he went on, “And I recall hearing that Simon Marlowe was a rather nasty bit of goods who liked to know other people’s secrets. That he, in fact, delighted in wielding power over friend and foe alike by using anything disgraceful he could ferret out about them.”
Again Roxbury nodded, adding, “There were always rumors to that effect.”
“Knowing that, don’t you think that Marlowe might have tried to discover the identity of the buyer of his gossip? It sounds to me like something he would do. And if he had discovered such information, would he not have attempted to use it? And might he not even have hinted to Scoville what he had found? They were, after all, intimate cronies.”
An arrested look crossed Roxbury’s lined features. “It is possible,” he muttered. “Entirely possible, all of it.”
“So let us assume that Marlowe had discovered the identity of the Fox—and, if my father’s suspicions are correct, our leading candidates are Grimshaw and Coleman, well-known to be part of Marlowe’s milieu—so we may also assume that the Fox was a guest at the house party the night Marlowe died....”
“And at some point during that house party,” Roxbury mused, taking up the tale, “Marlowe hinted at what he knew or even confronted the Fox. And the Fox killed him.”
“Inadvertently leaving behind his cravat pin,” Ives said quietly. “Sophy found it and put it in her jewelry box, where she forgot about it until just a few weeks ago when she showed it to Scoville and told him how she had found it. ”
Roxbury took a deep breath. “The entire premise is flimsy, but not without merit. Considering what happened last—er, this morning, your idea looks to be our only hope. How do you plan to proceed?”
“One place to start would be with the guests at that last house party of Marlowe’s. If we knew who was there, we might be able to eliminate some suspect
s,” Ives said decisively.
He cast a bland eye at his godfather. “Of course, other than relying on Sophy’s memory, you would have no idea where such information could be obtained, would you?”
Roxbury snorted. “You know very well that I kept at least a nominal track of Marlowe and Scoville back then.”
A great yawn overtook him, and, delicately covering his mouth, he mumbled, “I shall have someone go over the old reports and see what can be found.” He rose to his feet. “And now, if you do not mind, I am going to bed!” He glanced at Ives’s obviously exhausted features, and said, “You would be wise to do the same.”
For once, Ives was not averse to following directions, and leaving Roxbury, he repaired immediately to Berkeley Square. Discovering that Sophy had kept a previous engagement and had gone out driving with friends, he saw no reason not to seek out his bed. He did so, falling deeply asleep almost the instant his head hit the pillow.
He slept several hours, and it was nearly eight o’clock that evening before he woke and rang for his valet. Despite still feeling a trifle tired, a bath and fresh clothing made him feel as if he just might rejoin the human race. After a hearty meal of rare sirloin and eggs, he was ready to descend the staircase and face the world once more.
From Emerson, he learned that Sophy was again away from the house. She had gone out to dinner with the Offingtons and was expected to attend the theater with them afterward. She would be home late.
Sophy was only following the pursuits and manners of many a fashionable wife, but that did not exactly sit well with Ives as he realized sourly that he wanted far more from his marriage than a charming companion and a sweet armful in bed. He wanted, he concluded firmly, to share his life with Sophy, and to his mind, that did not mean jointly using the same house and only meeting when necessary. He sighed. He was being unreasonable, and he knew it. He had never given her any cause to believe he wanted anything different. As long as he was condemned to playing the role of dissolute libertine, he had scant chance of showing her precisely the sort of marriage he had in mind.
But for the first time since Meade had disappeared so disastrously last night, Ives was hopeful he could still hunt down Le Renard. He was not yet certain how he was going to do it, but he was confident that the possession of the ruby cravat pin was a powerful weapon. He just had to figure out the best way to use it.
He had considered various schemes as he bathed and dressed, but had discarded most of them. He could hardly assemble the most likely candidates and simply ask them which one owned the pin. There was no use identifying the owner of the pin if it sent the man scurrying for cover before they could connect the murders of Scoville and Miss Weatherby to him. And as for connecting the pin to the Fox ... Ives scowled. That was going to be extremely tricky, if he managed to do it at all.
So how was he going to use the pin?
Wearing it himself would be one way of identifying the pin. Someone was bound to recognize it and comment on his possession of it. Which left him where? The pin’s owner would be identified, which was vital, but it would be inevitable that word of the pin would come to the wrong ears, and he would be right back where he started.
He was beginning to become quite annoyed. He had the bloody pin. He was confident the pin was the catalyst behind the two murders and the housebreaking incident. He was thoroughly convinced that the pin would lead him to the Fox. Yet he could think of no way to use it without tipping his hand and sending his prey racing for the safety of Napoléon’s arms.
A grim look crossed his face. There was one way, he thought slowly, an astounding idea unfolding in his brain. What if he were to play Marlowe’s original game? Blackmail. Not for money. It was well-known that he—even at the rate he had been gambling lately—had no need of money, but for power and control. Control such as Marlowe had enjoyed. The power to make someone dance to the tune of one’s own making.
The notion was not so far-fetched. Wasn’t he currently doing his damnedest to present himself as a man without character? A libertine? A hardened rake? None of his recent London acquaintances knew him very well, so his descent into naked despotism would not necessarily be greeted with astonishment.
And of course, there was Marlowe’s example; it had never been money which had driven him into playing traitor nor had money been a factor in his acts of calculated dominance. Going on the assumption that the Fox had been closely acquainted with Marlowe, the man had to have known Marlowe’s penchant for getting his own way. So, Ives concluded, if he were to put himself forth as a creature in Marlowe’s mold, why wouldn’t the fellow believe it?
The more he considered it, the more Ives liked the idea. All he would have to do would be to decide upon the most likely candidate for the Fox and show him the pin. A few well-placed hints, and then he could sit back and see what happened. He smiled. Unpleasantly. One thing was for certain: He did not intend to end up like poor Scoville.
Knowing his absence tonight from his normal haunts might cause speculation, especially in view of Meade’s sudden trip to Brighton, he finally left the house in search of his usual companions.
It did not take him long to find them in another disreputable hell off St. James’s Square. He wasn’t surprised to find them all together—Grimshaw, Coleman, and several more who made up the nucleus of the group—but he was a bit taken aback to see a new set of features amongst the other jaded faces, Percival Forrest’s. And Percival did not look very happy. He looked in fact somewhere between a man whose dearest friend had just died and a man spoiling for a fight. Having a good idea what had brought him here in this mood, Ives sighed. Things were definitely getting complicated.
Having greeted everyone and once the others had turned back to their gambling, under the cover of a noisy background, Ives stood just a little apart from the group with Forrest, and said quizzically, “I thought you told me that you had given up this sort of thing.”
His blue eyes hard and determined, Forrest said almost accusingly, “And I thought I knew you well enough to believe that you wouldn’t be fool enough to allow yourself to be drawn into this group of disgusting libertines! What has possessed you? Have you lost your senses? I even warned you about them. Why, for Jupiter’s sake, have you allowed yourself to be sucked into their rotten core? I did not believe what I have been hearing lately, and cannot even now credit my own eyes. To think that I find you in such a place and on such easy terms with these ugly rogues! Good gad, Ives, what are you thinking of? You are acting in a manner that is totally foreign to the man I gladly served under, and admired and respected as I do few men.”
Repressing the urge to shut Percival’s mouth in the swiftest possible way, Ives glanced idly around and was greatly relieved to see that no one was paying any attention to them—yet.
Keeping his face bland and his voice low, he murmured. “If you love me, dear fellow, please reassure me that you have not been spouting that point of view to all and sundry.”
Percival looked startled before his brows snapped together in a frown. “What sort of rig are you running, man?” he demanded urgently. “Don’t you know these fellows are not the type who take being made to look ridiculous lightly?”
Ives sighed, wishing Percival had chosen another setting in which to express his worries. Noticing that Grimshaw was watching them through narrowed eyes, Ives smiled sweetly and with a deceptively light grasp of Percival’s arm, inexorably ushered him to a quiet table in one corner.
His eyes meeting Percival’s puzzled blue gaze, Ives said, “Dear fellow, I do appreciate your concern, but for the present, could you please forget that you ever knew me that well? Especially do not sing praises of my supposed virtues, hmm? Or if you cannot do that, at least pretend that my actions come as no surprise to you.”
Percival’s frown only increased. “What the devil are you up to, Ives?”
Keeping a bored smile firmly in place, Ives glanced with apparent disinterest around the room. Grimshaw was still watching them. Damn. He had
to think fast and make a decision immediately. He could continue to fend off Percival’s concerns or let him in on the chase. It was not a difficult choice.
Looking back at Forrest, he said softly, “I cannot tell you anything right now. It is too dangerous. But if you will call tomorrow morning at Roxbury’s town house, I will explain to you what I can. I might even be able to use your, er, talents.”
He shot his former lieutenant a commanding look. “In the meantime, keep your mouth shut and forget that I ever possessed any sort of virtue.”
Percival’s eyes suddenly blazed with excitement. “By God, sir, it will be good working with you again. Does this have something to do with Bony?”
Ives only shook his head and murmured, “I can tell you nothing at present. I would rather you were not here to see me descend once more into my trough of depravity.” He smiled crookedly.
Forrest nodded, and, rising to his feet, said, “I understand. I shall see you at Roxbury’s tomorrow morning.”
Ives watched him go, noting with dismay the jaunty spring to his step. Someone, he felt certain, was going to comment on Percival’s sudden change in demeanor. He was not wrong.
Strolling up to join the others a few minutes later, Coleman demanded, “Whatever did you say to Forrest? One minute he looked blue as a dog and the next he was fairly skipping from the room.”
Ives shrugged. “A little matter of a debt I owed him. He thought that I was, er, avoiding paying him, but it was merely that I had forgotten about it.” He yawned delicately. “These late nights I spend with ruffians like yourselves has had a detrimental effect upon my memory, you know.”
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