For Love Alone Read Free

master . . . Napoléon.”
    â€œWhy, what an outrageous notion,” the gentleman returned easily. “If that were true, that would make me a spy—and you and your friend traitors.”
    Simon waved a dismissive hand. “You would have a difficult time proving it.”
    â€œExactly.” The other man clapped Simon amicably on the shoulder. “Now let us forget this unseemly conversation and return to your other guests.”
    Simon grinned nastily. “You are not putting me off that easily... Le Renard”
    â€œAh, you really have been poking about in my business, have you not?”
    â€œI have indeed—and it is going to cost you a tidy sum to keep my mouth closed.” Simon’s eyes glowed with triumph. “I do not even have to expose you. All I have to do is whisper a word here or there that you are not what you seem and your reputation will be ruined. It would not take long for your ties to the French to become public.”
    â€œIf I am unmasked, aren’t you afraid that your part will come out?” the gentleman asked with an edge to his voice.
    Simon laughed. “Do you really think anyone would believe that gentlemen like Edward and me would be supplying you with information? It is absurd. We are known to be wild and scandalous, but traitors? Piffle. Besides, for the pittance you have paid us, we only supplied you with gossip. I have discovered that you have other sources, better sources, here in England. Sources who have actually given you damaging information about troop movements and plans.”
    â€œYou know all that, do you?”
    â€œYes, I do.” Simon looked smug. “It took me a long time to finally uncover the identity of the Fox, but now that I have—I can crush you anytime I feel like it.”
    â€œThen why don’t you?”
    â€œBecause I will find it much more amusing to keep you on a leash. And to make it even more entertaining, squeeze some gold out of you whenever I feel like it.”
    â€œYou don’t need the money—unlike Lord Scoville,” the gentleman stated levelly. “I always wondered why you were willing to sell out your country.”
    â€œIt amused me. And as for not needing the money, ’tis true, but every time you pay me, it will make you even more aware of the power I hold over you.” Simon chortled. “I intend to get a great deal of pleasure out of watching you squirm.”
    â€œDo you really?” the other man asked softly, as Simon turned and prepared to descend the staircase.
    â€œYes, I really do,” Simon said cheerfully over his shoulder.
    â€œThen I am afraid that you really leave me no choice but to kill you . . .”
    Before Simon could react, the other man struck him a savage, lethal blow on the head with the poker he had kept hidden by his side. Simon didn’t even have a chance to cry out. He swayed, then tumbled headfirst down the long staircase.
    When Simon lay unmoving in a crumpled heap at the base of the stairs his murderer carefully stepped back into the shadows. Slipping into his room a few doors down the hall, he casually wiped away the few specks of blood on the poker and replaced it in the stand at the edge of the hearth. Tossing the stained cloth onto the fire, he watched it wilt and blacken as the flames consumed it, the scent of scorched fabric briefly stinging his nostrils.
    There was now nothing, he thought with satisfaction, to connect him, or anyone else for that matter, to Simon’s unexpected death. There was nothing, in fact, to arouse suspicion that Simon’s demise had been anything other than a tragic accident. The head wound could be explained away as having occurred in Simon’s violent tumble down the stairs. When he had struck Simon, he reminded himself, he had not done so wildly. He had deliberately struck only one, well-placed blow—a blow that could have easily been caused by striking one’s head