The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray

by Anna Bradley

  “Why, saying my confession, sir.” Her full lips curved in a mocking smile. “What else does one do at church?”

  Much to Tristan’s disgust, he found he had to make an effort to tear his gaze away from her mouth. “Perhaps I could accept that explanation, if it weren’t midnight.”

  She leaned closer and whispered confidingly, “I thought it best not to wait until morning. I’m quite wicked, you see.”

  Her whisper hit Tristan right in his lower belly, but his only outward reaction was a quirked eyebrow. “I’ve no doubt of that, but there’s the trifling matter of your never having entered the church. I found you skulking in the churchyard, if you recall.”

  “Skulking? Goodness, that does sound wicked. But you see, then, why I’d be so anxious to confess my sins.”

  So many lies, falling from such sweet lips was…disconcerting. Tristan had never seen a lady lie with such cool impunity before. He traded only in truth, yet there was something striking about her audaciousness. “Perhaps you’d like to confess your sins to me?” He’d have the truth out of her one way or another.

  The green eyes went wide. “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly do that, sir. Whatever will you think of me?”

  “What, indeed? But that puts us at odds. I can’t release you until you’ve explained yourself.”

  “No, I’m afraid not, sir. Unless, of course, you’re a vicar?” She swept an assessing gaze over him. “You don’t look like one. You’re far too…clean.”

  “Clean?” That startled a laugh out of Tristan. “Are vicars commonly dirty? I would have thought it was just the opposite.”

  “Not dirty, but neither are they so…polished and shiny as you are.” She cocked her head, studying him, then gave a careless shrug. “You look like an aristocrat. Rather high, I think, given your accent and the quality of your gloves. A viscount, perhaps, or an earl.”

  It was on the tip of Tristan’s tongue to say he wasn’t anything of the sort, but that was no longer true. He was, in fact, an earl. Not just Tristan Stratford anymore, and not a Bow Street Runner, but Lord Gray. His lordship, despite having never aspired to the title, and being uniquely unsuited to it.

  But this wasn’t a ballroom, and he wasn’t writing his name on her dance card. This was a deserted graveyard in the middle of the night, and she was…well, he didn’t have any bloody idea what she was, but certainly not a lady, and very likely a criminal.

  Tristan didn’t explain himself to criminals. They explained themselves to him, and it was time she was made to understand that. “Perhaps you’d rather give your confession to the magistrate?”

  “The magistrate!” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “On what charge, sir? There’s no crime in visiting St. Clement Dane’s Church, is there?”

  “No, but I think the magistrate might be interested in knowing you’re desecrating rooftops on Great Marlborough Street. Scaling a townhouse is a rather singular skill, and not one common in innocent young ladies.”

  That got her attention. Her gaze caught his before skittering away.

  “Look at me if you please, miss. What you were doing on Lord Everly’s roof? No sense in denying it. I saw you from my window, and followed you here. I took you for a thief, and I imagine the magistrate will, as well.”

  At mention of Lord Everly’s roof her face paled, but if Tristan expected a confession to cleanse the lies from those plump lips, he was disappointed. “That would be a damning charge indeed, sir, but there’s the small matter of my not having stolen anything. Insignificant, but there you are.”

  He gave her a cool smile. “Not this time, no, but given the rash of recent thefts in London, I feel certain the magistrate would choose to question you. But perhaps you’ve changed your mind, and would rather speak to me than him?”

  She didn’t seem to find that option appealing. She remained stubbornly silent, but by now, Tristan had run out of patience with her. “Let’s try this one more time, shall we? Who did you follow here, and what do you want with Lord Everly?”

  “Lord Everly? Why, not a thing.”

  She might deny it all she liked, but Tristan could see he’d struck a nerve. “This is your last chance to tell me before I take you before the magistrate.”

  “A kind offer, I’m sure, but I believe I’ll save my confession for my vicar.”

  Tristan studied her, but not a crack appeared in that smooth façade. Whatever her reasons for tonight’s adventure, she was determined to keep them to herself.

  Unfortunately for her, he was as determined to find them out as she was to hide them. “Very well.” He took her by the arm and half-turned, easing her away from the fence. “Perhaps you’ll be more forthcoming with the magistrate.”

  He was hard-pressed to account for what happened next. He didn’t feel her twist out of his grip, but one moment he had a hand around her arm, and the next he was grasping at air. He whirled back toward her, but somehow in those few seconds of freedom, she’d slipped through the wrought iron bars of the fence, and was standing on the other side of it.

  Tristan gaped at her, open-mouthed. “How the devil did you manage that?”

  The bars were generously spaced as far as fences went, but not so far apart it ever would have occurred to him she could slip between them. It would take some clever twisting and maneuvering to do it. Even now, with her on one side of the fence and him on the other, he couldn’t see how she’d managed it.

  Scaling townhouses, climbing columns, scampering about on rooftops, and now slipping between the bars of a fence? Good Lord, who was this woman?

  “As I said, I believe I’ll save my confessions for my vicar.” She dropped a curtsy so mocking it might as well have been a rude hand gesture, and backed away from the fence, out of his reach. “I wish you a pleasant evening, sir. Oh, I beg your pardon. I mean, my lord.”

  Without another word she melted into the shadows, her delighted laugh echoing in the darkness. Oh, she was pleased with herself, wasn’t she? But the lady was premature in celebrating her escape, because Tristan would be damned if he let her get away from him.

  He was much too big to pass between the rails as she had, but the fence wasn’t more than eight feet high. Tristan gave the wrought iron a shake, frowning when the rails gave a protesting squeak. A bit flimsy, but it would have to do, because there was only one way to go from here.

  Up, and over.

  * * * *

  His exalted lordship—the Earl of Great Marlborough Street, or whoever he was—was utterly furious. Pity, but that was what he got for creeping about and making things difficult for her instead of squandering his fortune at the clubs or trifling with his mistresses, as an earl was meant to do.

  Sophia tried to smother her laugh, but the look on his face when he realized she’d slipped through the bars of her makeshift prison was the most delicious thing she’d ever seen. She would have liked to draw that lowered brow, the glittering fury in those cool gray eyes.

  He did look rather like a painting—one of those terribly elegant ones, where the gentleman posed rakishly at the bottom of a grand staircase, with a half-dozen hunting dogs sprawled at his feet. Yes, she could easily imagine him on a handsome stallion, clad in a pair of buckskin breeches and a dashing hunting jacket, on a quest to ruin some poor fox’s day.

  He certainly didn’t belong here, though to his credit he knew his way about well enough to track his quarry from Great Marlborough Street to Westminster. His quarry being her, of all the devilish bad luck. But then he hadn’t succeeded in catching her, had he?

  Not for long, at any rate.

  Like most hunters, he wasn’t reconciled to losing his game, but short of climbing the fence there was little he could do about it. He couldn’t come after her. The fence was quite high, and the wrought iron had been fashioned into spikes along the top edge. She hadn’t come across many aristocrats who could match her for agility, and
this one wasn’t likely to be an exception, so—

  Blast him, what was he doing?

  Sophia stared, the hair on her arms rising in alarm as he grasped the iron rails and gave the fence a determined shake. If she didn’t know it to be impossible, she’d almost think he was testing it for stability before he—

  Climbed the fence.

  She watched in horror as he swung himself up and reached out to wrap two impossibly large hands around the spiked tops. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Perhaps the better question was, what was she doing? It was pure foolishness to stand about gaping and asking questions when it was plain to see he was about to clamber over the fence.

  “If you intend to flee, I suggest you do so now.” His gray eyes met hers through the iron bars. “After such an impressive escape, I’d be disappointed indeed if you didn’t lead me on a chase.”

  No, surely not! She couldn’t be so unlucky as to cross paths with the one aristocrat in London who could actually scale such a monstrous fence. Why, it was absurd, impossible, and yet even as she watched, open-mouthed, it was happening, his long legs making quick work of it, hauling himself closer and closer to the top…

  Sophia retreated into the thick shadows of the graveyard behind her. Her muscles were tensed to run, and her mind was busily picking out the best route towards freedom, yet she stood as motionless as the gravestones in the graveyard at her back, unable to tear her gaze away from him.

  His big, capable hands dwarfed the spikes at the top of the fence. The knuckles of his ungloved hand were covered with scars, and there were nicks and scratches on the back of it that were utterly at odds with his elevated rank in life. Why would a gentleman with such fine gloves have such coarse hands?

  Sophia wasted so much precious time staring at his hands, by the time she gathered her wits enough to move, he’d made it to the top of the fence and was seconds away from dropping down to the other side. They stared at each other as he balanced on the top edge, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Do you suppose you can outrun me?”

  Those gray eyes. Dear God, he looked like a wolf about to devour an entire herd of sheep, and he was coming after her.

  If he’d been another sort of man, Sophia would have said he’d never catch her, but this man was quick, long-limbed, strong. He’d gotten over that fence as easily as if he’d been mounting a horse, and there was no reason to suppose he was any less accomplished a runner than he was a climber.

  Worst of all, he was cunning. So cunning he’d followed her from Great Marlborough Street to St. Clement Dane’s without her knowing he was there. How had he managed it? She’d never blundered so badly before—

  A thump echoed throughout the silent graveyard, the sound of boots hitting the ground, followed by a low chuckle. “I hope you’re as quick as you are clever.”

  To Sophia’s everlasting shame, her knees trembled at the sight of him. Why, he was positively enormous! If he’d been wearing a billowing black cape and had a bloody dagger to hand, he’d be every inch the sinister Gothic villain.

  “Because if I catch you…”

  The anticipation in his voice, his unmistakable pleasure in that prospect…

  A chill rushed over Sophia’s skin. There was only one sensible thing to do.

  “You won’t escape me a second time.”

  Flee.

  She didn’t pause to respond to his threats, but whirled around and fled into the graveyard, praying the darkness would swallow her. If it came down to who was the faster of the two of them, she was doomed. He had the longest legs she’d ever seen. She hadn’t a chance of outrunning him. Her only hope was to get far enough ahead of him that she’d lose him in the shadows.

  Fortunately, there was no shortage of shadows in the graveyard. Crooked headstones jutted from the earth like so many broken fingers, beckoning her forward. The clouds had thickened again, and the night air had turned heavy with the threat of rain, but a few pale rays of moonlight struggled free of the gloom, and Sophia could pick out a path before her—a way around the headstones that would keep her hidden until she reached the other side of the graveyard.

  Crouching low, she weaved her way silently through the haphazard rows. Some of the mausoleums were still intact, their crosses straight, the statues of the Virgin still safe in their recessed nooks, holding court over the dead. But as she passed into the older part of the graveyard the carefully tended plots gave way to weeds strewn with bits of crumbled stone, the once-smooth marble now marred by damp, mossy cracks.

  She paused when she reached a derelict white marble crypt, its iron door hanging partway across the arched entryway, teetering on its broken hinges. For an instant she was tempted to squeeze past the ruined gate and duck inside to hide from her pursuer, but if he happened to see her and follow her inside, she’d be trapped, and at his mercy.

  So, she crept on. The scent of soil and decay rose into the air in the wake of her footsteps, but Sophia didn’t pause to remark it, nor did she look behind her, even when the heavy thud of his footsteps brought him so close, she imagined she could feel his hot breath on her neck.

  Panic hovered on the edges of her consciousness, but she resisted the urge to bolt. She kept her gaze fixed on the street beyond the graveyard until she made it there by sheer force of will. She didn’t allow herself to think about how far she’d come, or how far she still had to go, but simply kept moving, ducking down narrow alleyways and pulling out every trick she’d ever learned to evade a pursuer.

  This man, though, was no ordinary pursuer. He seemed to know every hidden alcove and crevice in London as well as she did, and his determination to catch her never flagged, his long legs easily closing whatever distance she managed to put between them.

  But this wasn’t a game of distances. It was a game of cunning and stealth, and Sophia excelled at both. He was faster than she was, but she was wilier in the way of the pursued, who generally had a great deal more to lose than their pursuer.

  Slowly, steadily she made her way to Beak Street, and from there to Kingly, then north as far as Tenison Court until Regent Street appeared before her, wide and open. Just to the west was Maddox Street, temptingly close, where Lady Clifford would be waiting for her, and Sophia might squeeze into Cecilia’s bed with Georgiana and Emma.

  She paused in the shadows of a building at the corner of Beak and Regent Streets, listening, but it had been some time since she’d heard the echo of his footsteps behind her. Was it possible she’d lost him earlier, closer to Golden Square, or was he still there, lurking in the darkness, waiting for her to come out of hiding?

  She was close, so very close. Her throat ached with a desperate yearning to be safely at home, but she’d made it this far by suppressing her reckless instincts and letting caution and good sense guide her steps.

  No unnecessary risks, Sophia.

  She crept from her hiding place and dashed across Regent Street, her heart pounding and her harsh breaths echoing in her ears. As soon as she reached the other side, she ducked into the shadows again and crouched down, shivers darting down her exposed back as she waited for a heavy hand to land on her shoulder, a palm to cover her mouth, a deep, masculine voice to curse in her ear.

  But when she dared to look behind her, there was nothing. No pursuer in a billowing black cloak. No ghosts, no bloody daggers, no Gothic villain. No aristocrat with one glove, scarred hands, and glittering gray eyes.

  Regent Street was deserted.

  Sophia didn’t move, but remained crouched in the gloom, gulping at the air, one breath after another until her heart ceased its panicked thrashing. Then she rose on shaking legs and dashed down New Burlington Road to Savile Row, then to Mill Street, and from there—finally, finally—to Maddox Street.

  It wasn’t until she was mere steps from the entrance of the Clifford School that she realized she’d made a mistake.

 
A dreadful, dreadful mistake.

  She saw his shadow first, ghostly and terrifying and growing more enormous against the white brick wall with every step he took toward her.

  Sophia stared at him, dumb with shock.

  No, it was impossible he could have known she was coming here, except somehow, he had known. She hadn’t lost him near Golden Square. He’d gotten by her without her noticing, and he’d been here all along, waiting for her.

  For long, frozen moments, neither of them said a word. She backed away from him, knowing even as she did so it was hopeless. He was too close, too big, and he was standing between her and her only escape. Even so, she turned to run, but she hadn’t gone a step before that big, scarred hand closed around her elbow, stilling her. The sudden tug upset her balance, and she would have fallen if he hadn’t snaked an arm around her waist and hauled her back against a chest so unyielding, she might have been slammed against a wall.

  “You are wicked, aren’t you?” His voice, so low and soft she might have thought she’d imagined it if his lips hadn’t brushed her ear. “You told me as much. I should have listened to you.”

  So close, so close…

  The words were a howl in her throat, but she had no breath for a howl, and they left her lips as a whisper.

  “Indeed. But not close enough.” His arm tightened around her waist—not so tight it squeezed the breath from her, but tight enough to be menacing. “I should have realized sooner you were one of Lady Clifford’s…creatures.”

  Creatures? Dear God, that didn’t sound promising. Sophia said nothing, but a drop of sweat trickled from her temple into the corner of her eye.

  “You told the truth about one thing though, didn’t you? You aren’t after Lord Everly. You’re after Peter Sharpe.”

  Sophia squeezed her eyes closed.

  He knew. Lady Clifford, Peter Sharpe, Jeremy Ives…

  Whoever this man was, he knew. Somehow, he’d put all the pieces together—