For Love Alone by Shirlee Busbee Page A

casting about for his scent a little too near to home alerted him to the dangers of overconfidence. And so, he thought with a malicious smile, he had taken care of them.
    Dismissing his hovering servant, he poured himself a brandy and settled comfortably into a chair in his study. At the moment, he was rather pleased with life, although Sir Arthur Wellesley’s arrival in Portugal did give him pause.
    Napoléon had done very well on the Continent, but placing Wellesley in command of the British troops might change all that. He sighed. If Napoleon were to be defeated, his long run as Le Renard would be over and all that lovely French gold would stop pouring into his hands. He sighed again. Ah, well, he had made fortune enough to keep him in ease for the rest of his life.
    He smiled. He would retire in glory, his identity unknown. There was, after all, very little to connect him to the Fox. He frowned. That damned ruby cravat pin, he thought irritably. Where had it gone?
    He had worn it frequently. The size and brilliance of the ruby had been remarkable. Dozens of people could identify the pin as his.
    Worse, he knew he had been wearing it when Simon had drunkenly announced his intention of letting his wife know who was master in his house. He clearly remembered stroking it as he considered Simon’s actions. It had been at that very moment that the plan to waylay Simon had sprung into his mind, and it had taken but a moment to slip away from the drunken crowd and lie in wait for his prey. And upon confirming his worst suspicions, that Simon had identified him, why, he’d had no choice but to kill the bounder.
    Simon had been his first kill, and he admitted that he had been rather nervous about it. The thunderous raging of the storm that night had not helped his nerves in the least. And that one frighteningly illuminating flash of lightning! He had been almost certain Sophy had seen him lurking against the wall. But she had not.
    His frown deepened. Mayhap, she had, and had kept quiet all these years for her own purposes.
    He snorted. How illogical! He was, he decided, being rather melodramatic this evening. He took a sip of his fine, smuggled French brandy.
    If Sophy had seen him, she would have given some sign by now, and as for the cravat pin . . . He had considered briefly having a duplicate made, but there was the fear that the duplication would become known.
    No, he had concluded he was better off letting sleeping dogs lie. The pin was probably resting in some crevice in Marlowe House. After all this time, who would remember when he had lost it? Or connect it with Simon’s death? He needn’t worry about its loss coming back to haunt him. As for Harrington, if the viscount proved troublesome, why he would simply have to dispose of him.
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    Harrington was in Sophy’s thoughts that night also, but she did not come to any firm conclusions about him. She was wary of him, but could not deny he had been very helpful. She told herself she was grateful, but she admitted she was also suspicious and not a little mistrustful of him, too. She made a face as she lay sleepless in her bed. Being married to a beast like Simon could do that to a woman.
    Not only was she wary of Harrington’s motives, but there was also the fact that since Simon’s death, she had run her own affairs and those of her siblings with no help from anyone else, and she was not certain how she felt about Harrington’s intervention. Ruefully she admitted that mixed in with her gratitude was just a bit of resentment at the way he had coolly whisked her down the Dark Walk, then been amused at her reaction.
    A yawn overtook her, and she snuggled down into her bed, feeling rather satisfied with the night’s doings. Anne was safe from Edward’s clutches and sleeping soundly just two doors down the hall. Phoebe and Marcus had been slightly taken aback when Sophy presented them with an utter stranger and blithely informed them