The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray

by Anna Bradley

  She threw her leg over the side of pediment and dangled there for a moment before her foot found the narrow edge at the top of the column. She steadied herself, then shimmied down in the same shocking manner as she’d gone up. She didn’t bother with the railing this time, but dropped lightly down onto the top step, and tugged her dark cap down over her face.

  She’d been following this man for several weeks now, and knew far more about him than she ever cared to know about any man—which public houses he frequented, which Covent Garden prostitutes he preferred—all to no purpose.

  But Sophia had been patient, knowing he’d return to the scene of his crime eventually.

  They always did.

  * * * *

  The corpse had moved.

  That is, the boy—he was very much alive, as it happened—was of an acrobatic turn. He’d rolled across the roof with the ease of a billiards ball across the baize, and now he hung over the edge of the pediment, his legs braced on the roof while his torso hung suspended in midair.

  He might yet end up a corpse. An unexpected twitch of a muscle or a sudden breeze and he’d topple over the side like overripe fruit from a tree. Tristan might have put a stop to the business right then—thief or not, he didn’t care to see the boy plunge to his death—but before he could stir, Lord Everly’s door opened and a man emerged.

  He closed the door behind him, snuffing out the faint light coming from the townhouse, but Tristan got enough of a glimpse of him to determine it wasn’t Everly. He was much smaller than his lordship, who was thick and squat, more spherical than otherwise. Tristan couldn’t see the man’s face, and given the number of people who went in and out of Everly’s townhouse on a given day, he didn’t bother to hazard a guess as to his identity.

  The man paused to raise the pipe between his fingers to his lips, and then he was off down the street, his gait cocky. Too cocky, the fool. He hadn’t the least idea he was being watched.

  Tristan didn’t bother to note his direction. His gaze darted back to the boy, who’d turned his head to follow the man’s progress. He hadn’t moved, but Tristan sensed a sudden tension in that slight frame, the taut stillness of a predator in the seconds before it burst into movement.

  What were thieves, if not predators?

  The familiar, restless energy Tristan had given up as lost was now rioting in his veins. A few minutes passed, then a few more, and then…quickly, but as cool as you please, the boy was on his feet and over the side of the pediment.

  Tristan’s muscles tensed instinctively, as if preparing to catch the boy midfall, but he needn’t have worried. The lad made quick work of the column, scampering down like a monkey. In the next breath he’d dropped onto the street and was gliding after his prey, dark and silent as a shadow.

  Not a phantom, then, and not a figment. Not a corpse, and not a thief. Oddly, it was this last that surprised Tristan the most, but it didn’t appear as if the boy had been there to steal.

  At least, not from Everly. He might intend to pick the pocket of the man he’d followed, but there were plenty of pockets in London ripe for the picking, none of which required a rooftop adventure.

  Why would this boy risk his neck for the privilege of picking the pocket of a man who, though small, was several heads taller than he was, and outweighed him by at least two stone? Tristan hadn’t the vaguest idea what the boy thought he’d do when he caught up to his victim, but he’d find out soon enough.

  He was still wearing his boots, and didn’t bother with his greatcoat.

  Ten seconds later he was on the street in front of his townhouse. By then there was no sign of the boy, but he couldn’t have gotten that far ahead. Damned if the little imp hadn’t perfected the art of disappearing, though, just like a proper phantom.

  But phantom or not, in the end it wouldn’t matter.

  Tristan could cross from one end of the city to the other as easily as strolling from his library to his study. He knew every road, every hidden alcove, and every filthy back alley in London.

  The boy was clever and quick, but Tristan would catch him.

  * * * *

  He was going to make a fatal mistake tonight. Tonight, after tedious weeks of chasing this villain all over London, Sophia was going to catch him out at last.

  She could smell it, feel it, as if it were a scent in the air, or the glide of a fingertip across her skin. She no longer found it odd she should be able to sense such things. She must have been born with the mind of a criminal, if not the heart of one, because she knew instinctually how they would behave.

  She headed west down Great Marlborough Street, clinging to the shadows, pure intuition guiding her steps. Once or twice she thought she heard footsteps behind her, but when she paused there was nothing aside from the light patter of rain falling on the ground.

  Even if there was someone following her, they wouldn’t catch her.

  No one ever did.

  She kept to the shadows as she prowled along behind her prey, who plodded toward Tottenham Court Road, utterly oblivious to the fact he was being followed. It seemed not to occur to him he might be held accountable for any of his crimes.

  His nonchalance wasn’t a result of innocence, but of arrogance and stupidity.

  It wasn’t until he turned onto Aldwych Street and she could see the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral and the spire of St. Clement Dane’s Church looming in the distance that Sophia’s heart began to pound. Of all the places a man might haunt on a dark night in London, this man had chosen to come here.

  Strange, considering what had happened to him the last time he’d lingered in this neighborhood.

  That is, what he claimed had happened.

  How strange he should wish to return by himself, at night, to a place where he’d been the victim of a crime.

  But it was no accident he’d come here, and no coincidence.

  Sophia glanced about, paying particular attention to the shadowy corners before prowling after him, knots of excitement tying and untying themselves in her chest as she paused at one side of St. Clement Dane’s Church, waiting to see what he’d do.

  He didn’t appear to be concerned someone might see him, but approached the entrance to the church, checked his pocket watch, then fell into a casual slouch in the arched doorway and turned his attention back to his pipe.

  Another person might have been fooled by this show of unconcern, but not Sophia. His actions were too self-conscious, too practiced. To her well-trained eye it looked as if he were waiting there for someone, but wished to appear as if he’d just happened upon the church by chance, and by chance had been overcome with an irresistible urge to smoke his pipe while he was there.

  She smothered a derisive snort. He wasn’t very good at this.

  She ducked behind the column of a building across the street from the church. She had a clear view of her man from here, but she was already scanning the churchyard, searching for a better hiding place. She’d need to be closer to him if she wanted to hear anything.

  Her gaze landed on the small, round portico to the west side of the church. It was nothing more than a half-circle of slender columns with a roof, but it would do, and she was already fairly close to it—just on the other side of the street. If she could reach it, she could creep around the side, closer to the entrance of the church. From there she’d be able to see and hear whatever passed.

  The dash across the road might prove a bit tricky, though. If the man happened to look in her direction while she was crossing, he’d certainly see her. But then he hadn’t proved particularly observant so far, had he?

  Sophia assessed the narrow street in front of her, calculating the distance, then glanced back toward the entrance to the church, where her quarry was still slouched against the archway, looking about as alert as a sleepy child at a church sermon.

  Yes, she could make it. Once that thick b
ank of clouds crossed the moon, she’d go. She waited, her muscles tensed to run, but just as the clouds began to edge out the moonlight, she heard a thin, high-pitched sound coming from behind her.

  It sounded like…yes, it was. A man was coming down the Strand towards St. Clement Dane’s Church, and he was whistling.

  Sophia froze for an instant, her heart pounding, then as quickly and quietly as she could she melted back into the shadows. Another glance toward the church revealed her quarry had jerked to sudden attention. For one breathless moment Sophia thought he’d seen her, but he wasn’t looking in her direction.

  He was waiting for the man who was making his way down the Strand. The man himself seemed not to realize he was the object of so much intense interest. He ambled along, whistling tunelessly, utterly at his ease.

  Whatever criminal enterprise was about to unfold, the whistler wasn’t a part of it.

  No, he was its victim.

  She held her breath as the whistler drew closer to the archway where Lord Everly’s man was waiting. Even from this distance she could see the villain was already creeping forward, ready to pounce on his victim like a rat on a crumb of bread.

  Then, just behind him, Sophia saw a flicker of movement in the shadows. Her eyes widened, then narrowed as she strained to make it out. For a moment it had looked as if there was someone else there, lurking behind the church door, but she couldn’t be certain.

  Her head snapped back toward the man coming down the Strand. He was moving steadily toward the front of the church, still whistling cheerfully, unaware of the mischief that awaited him.

  It was pure foolishness for her to try and stop it now. She’d only expose herself, and put her mission at needless risk. Even so, Sophia’s mouth was opening, a cry of warning rising in her throat.

  She never got the chance to voice it.

  Just as it was about to burst from her lips, a gloved hand came down hard over her mouth. Sophia gasped in shock, but even when a long, muscular arm snaked around her waist, she kept her wits about her. This wasn’t the first time she’d been grabbed, and she wasn’t the sort of lady who succumbed to hysterics.

  No, she was more the sort of lady who bit anyone foolish enough to put their hand over her mouth, and that was what she did now. Without any hesitation, she sank her teeth into the closest finger. She got a mouthful of an exceptionally fine kid glove for her trouble, but she clamped down onto the knuckle like a hunting dog with a bird locked between its jaws.

  Her attacker didn’t think his glove fine enough to be worth saving, because he tore it off and let it drop into the dirt between them.

  When the bite failed to secure her release, Sophia landed a practiced kick to his shin, her lips curling in a savage grin when her heel hit bone with a satisfying crunch. The arm around her waist went slack for an instant, but he seemed to have a good deal of experience attacking people, because he didn’t release her. Anyone else would have, but he held her fast, a muttered curse escaping his lips.

  So she kicked him again.

  He let out a pained grunt. “You’ll regret that soon enough.”

  Before she could land a third kick, he jerked her off her feet and dragged her backwards into the shadowy graveyard behind St. Clement Dane’s.

  Someone had been following her, and now he’d caught her.

  Chapter Two

  The kick found its mark as surely as if Tristan had a bullseye painted on his shin. It was a swift, vicious blow, and unexpected enough it might have secured the boy’s release if Tristan had been anyone other than who he was.

  As it happened, the lad was out of luck. Tristan had been kicked by every blackguard in London, most of whom were stronger and burlier than this meager slip of a boy. Still, for all his flimsiness, he was fierce enough to have spoiled a rather nice glove with those sharp teeth of his.

  Tristan left the glove in the dirt where it had dropped and grabbed the scuff of the boy’s neck with his bare hand. “Struggle all you like. I have you now.” He pinned the boy’s arms to his sides, wrenched him off his feet, and dragged him into the gloom behind St. Clement Dane’s churchyard. “Ah, here we are, lad. We’ll transact our business in the dark, shall we? We won’t be disturbed here, and I can question you for as long as I choose.”

  A sound burst from the boy’s lips. Given his current predicament a cry of fear was to be expected, but this wasn’t fear. It was a cry of wrath. In an instant he was struggling again, his slight body thrashing and twisting like an enraged fish on the end of a hook.

  An exceptionally sneaky fish.

  If he managed to squirm free, Tristan had no doubt he’d scramble up the nearest column and vanish in an instant. “Enough!” He tightened his arms around the boy. Not so tight he’d hurt him, but tight enough to hold him still. “You’re wasting your strength, lad, and trying my patience. You’re not going anywhere until I’ve questioned you, but I won’t hurt you. Now cease writhing, if you please, and I’ll put you down.”

  Tristan expected his advice to go unheeded, but to his surprise the boy ceased struggling and went as limp as a sack of flour.

  “There’s a good lad.” Tristan set him on his feet, but he was careful to back him up against the wrought iron fence surrounding the graveyard. “Now, if you agree to keep quiet, I’ll remove my hand from your mouth. Not a single sound until I give you leave, understand?”

  Tristan waited, one hand on the boy’s shoulder to prevent him from bolting until at last the boy gave the briefest of nods. “Well then, lad.” He eased his hand away from the boy’s mouth. “What have you to say for yourself?”

  Not a damn thing, it seemed.

  Tristan studied the narrow shoulders and bent head, and a reluctant chuckle escaped his lips. “You’re a proper little thief, aren’t you? Quick-witted, agile, and you know when to keep your mouth shut. I’ve seen grown men with less self-possession.”

  The boy was, in fact, just the sort of clever, tight-lipped little miscreant who’d prove invaluable to older, more sophisticated criminals—criminals like those responsible for a recent rash of robberies plaguing London. The thieves had evaded the law for months, but five weeks ago a botched attempt at a theft had led to a grisly murder, and one of the gang of culprits had been taken up for the crime.

  Strangely enough, he’d been taken up right here, in St. Clement Dane’s churchyard. A curious coincidence, really—or it would have been if Tristan believed in coincidences.

  He didn’t, nor did he believe in innocent explanations. Those who engaged in suspicious activity invariably proved to be guilty, and this boy, in his dark clothes with his cap pulled low over his eyes, was the very picture of a pocket-sized villain. “Come now, sir. Surely you have something to offer in your own defense.”

  No reaction from the boy. He kept his head down, his face carefully concealed behind the brim of his cap.

  “I’m happy to keep you here all night.” Tristan’s tone was pleasant, but he tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulder.

  That earned him a shrug. Delicate bones shifted under Tristan’s fingers, but not a single word crossed the boy’s stubborn lips. Irritated, Tristan reached out and snatched the cap from his head. “You’ll look me in the eye when I speak to you, lad—”

  He broke off, and the cap slipped through his fingers and dropped to the ground. A few hairpins went with it, and the long, silky hair that had been stuffed underneath fell down in a dark cascade of waves.

  Tristan stared at her, flabbergasted. “Hell and—”

  “Damnation,” the girl finished, with a toss of her gleaming head.

  Some flowery scent wafted over Tristan, something rather like…honeysuckle? What sort of girl smelled like honeysuckle after a rooftop escapade and a mad dash through London’s filthy streets? No sort of girl Tristan had ever seen.

  He turned his attention to the face that had been hiding under the
cap, but it was as distracting as her scent. She had smooth, olive-tinted skin, heavily lashed light green eyes, and a stubborn, dimpled chin. That face was enough to scatter any man’s wits, and that was before he noticed the plump lips that somehow contrived to look fetching, despite the fierce frown she wore.

  “What, you’ve nothing to say now?” She waved a hand at him. “You were about to deliver a proper lecture, I believe. I beg you won’t let the fact I’m not a boy dissuade you from your scold.”

  Tristan was rarely struck speechless, but it wasn’t every day one found the boy he’d been chasing—the boy who’d climbed to the roof of his neighbor’s townhouse and then back down again, as cool as you please—wasn’t a boy at all.

  He…that is, she…was a woman.

  A woman, not a girl, for all that she was a small, dainty thing, no higher than Tristan’s shoulder, and didn’t look to be above nineteen or twenty years old. Indeed, she was so resoundingly feminine, so delicate, his instinct to protect those weaker than himself might have rushed to the fore if he hadn’t caught the spark of a formidable temper in her green eyes.

  The lady was far from weak, and even further from innocent.

  It was the reminder he needed before he made an utter fool of himself by offering to escort her home, or some other gallant nonsense. She might be female, but it didn’t make a damn bit of difference to him whether she was a villain, or a villainess.

  She’d been hiding on Everly’s roof, disguised as a boy, waiting for her victim to emerge so she could follow him here—a feat she’d accomplished with the practiced ease of a born thief.

  The lady was up to no good. The only question was, what sort of no good?

  She regarded him with one slim eyebrow arched, waiting to see what he’d do next. Tristan liked to think he was a gentleman of some presence of mind, but it took every bit of sangfroid he could muster to say calmly, “You didn’t answer my question, miss. Why are you sneaking about London in the dark, and what are you doing at St. Clement Dane’s Church?”