For Love Alone Read Free Page B

herself, to think coherently, she stopped at the top of the stairs and glanced helplessly around. As she did so, the jumping light of her candle suddenly ignited a bloodred spark near her feet. Mindlessly she stooped and picked it up. A cravat pin. One of the gentlemen must have lost it . . . tonight, she realized with a thrill of unease, else the servants would have found it and mentioned it.
    A sound, half hysterical laugh, half sob broke from her. Her husband was dead, and she was concerned about a cravat pin? Trembling from shock, she took one last, frantic look at Simon’s body and fled to her room. There she sank down weakly on a stool in front of her dressing table, the jeweled pin tumbling from her fingers. Dumbly she stared at the ruby as it winked at her in the candlelight. It was easier, safer, she admitted wretchedly, to think about the cravat pin than her husband lying dead at the base of the stairs. As she looked at the pin, she was aware that there was something oddly familiar about it. Where had she seen it before?
    A sob burst from her. She was mad. What did it matter if she recognized the pin or not? Simon was dead.
    Scared and shaken, she picked up the pin and buried it in the small jewelry box her mother had given her, then crawled into her bed and waited, dry-eyed and sleepless, for her husband’s body to be found.

    Two days later, on a cold, rainy February morning, Sophy stood staring at the newly turned earth marking her husband’s grave in the Marlowe family graveyard. She still could hardly believe that Simon was dead.
    She remembered little of the hours that had followed Edward’s discovery of the body and crying of the alarm. Only gradually had she become aware of the stares of his friends and the whispers . . . whispers which even now, though his death had been declared an accident, were still being spread. They really believe that I killed him! she thought miserably. Her mouth twisted. Not that I wouldn’t have if he had forced me to, she admitted honestly. But I did not kill him. It was an accident. It had to be.
    The funeral was small. Edward, at Sophy’s request, had asked most of Simon’s friends to leave the morning his body had been discovered. And since Marlowe House was not precisely a lively place to be with its owner newly dead, they had eagerly complied. Only Edward, Sir Arthur, Sophy and Simon’s heir, William Marlowe, a youth of eighteen accompanied by his widowed mother, were gathered around the gravesite to hear the vicar. When the last words had been said, the last wreath of flowers placed on the grave, Sophy turned back to the house with relief.
    Edward had proved himself to be surprisingly kind, trying to lift some of the burdens of the funeral from her shoulders, but too much had passed between them for Sophy to soften toward him. After the vicar had a light repast and departed, Sophy requested a meeting with her uncle in what had been Simon’s study.
    Facing her uncle across the width of the desk that separated them, Sophy said coolly, “There is no reason for you and Sir Arthur to remain any longer. The house and property are William’s now, and I am sure that he and his mother would like to begin settling in without strangers hovering about. I, myself, shall be leaving this afternoon for Cornwall.”
    â€œUh, do you think that is wise, Sophy?” At her look, he muttered, “I mean your husband is hardly in the ground, and you take off for Cornwall—it don’t look good.”
    â€œSince when have you cared for appearances?” Sophy demanded, her fingers tightly gripping the top of the desk.
    â€œSince there are rumors about Simon’s death.” Edward returned unhappily. “I tell you, it don’t look good. I will be blunt—some of Simon’s friends think that you pushed him down the stairs. Think you should stay here ’til things quiet down a bit.”
    â€œThank you for your