by Anna Bradley
“Now, why would Lady Clifford have such a keen interest in Mr. Sharpe she’d direct one of her disciples to follow him? I can’t help but wonder, you see, if it has something to do with Jeremy Ives—”
“Take your hands off the lady. Now.”
Sophia’s eyes snapped open at the sound of the deep, familiar voice, and relief flooded through her, so intense she sagged against her captor. “Daniel.”
Her pursuer’s body had gone rigid, but when he spoke his voice was calm. “Brixton. I should have known you were lurking about.”
“Aye. You should have. Let go of the lady, my lord.”
The arm at her waist dropped, and the chest at her back disappeared with such suddenness Sophia stumbled.
“Come here, Miss Sophia.” Daniel Brixton held out a hand to her, but he never took his eyes off the man still looming behind her.
She took a hesitant step toward Daniel, but her legs were so wobbly she stumbled again, and he was obliged to catch her. “Daniel, thank God. I—”
“It’s all right, lass.” Daniel righted her with a nudge of his massive arm.
“I wouldn’t have hurt her, Brixton.”
Daniel’s lips stretched in a grim smile. “Of course not, my lord.”
Sophia turned to find her gray-eyed pursuer standing a few paces behind her, his hands tucked casually into his coat pockets, no longer the stuff of nightmares, but just a man now, albeit a big one.
Not, however, as big as Daniel Brixton, Lady Clifford’s most trusted servant.
No one was as big as Daniel.
“Go on inside now, Miss Sophia.” Daniel gave her a gentle push toward the entrance.
Sophia didn’t argue, but stumbled up the steps on trembling legs and hurled herself through the front door. She slammed it closed with a deafening thud, then fell against it, tears in her eyes, and her lungs burning.
Chapter Three
“Sophia?” A voice drifted down into the entryway from above. “Is that you?”
Sophia glanced up and saw Cecilia hanging over the third-floor railing. She was clad in her night rail and she held a book in her hand, her finger marking the page.
“Where have you been? What’s kept you so long? We thought you…” Cecilia trailed off when she caught a good look at Sophia’s face. “Sophia? My goodness, what’s the matter?”
Sophia turned, her lungs still clamoring for air, and peered through the arched window above the door. Nothing but darkness met her gaze. Daniel and Lord…Lord…well, she hadn’t any idea what or who he was lord of, but he was gone.
Vanished.
No, no. Not vanished. Of course, he hadn’t vanished. Daniel had sent him away, that’s all. Aristocrats didn’t simply disappear into the mist like specters—
“Sophia?” Cecilia was watching her with wide eyes. “Are you all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I think I…I think I have.” Sophia slumped against the door, patting her chest to calm her racing heart.
“It’s all right, Cecilia. Go back to your bedchamber, love. Sophia will be up soon.” A cool voice broke the silence, and Sophia turned to find Lady Clifford standing in the doorway to the drawing room, a faint smile on her lips. “Well, Sophia. Here you are at last, dearest. I don’t suppose I need to ask how your evening went. You look as if the devil himself has been chasing you.”
The devil, a specter, or a very determined, vigorous lord. Sophia wasn’t sure which, only that she’d never seen anyone run like that in her life. “Not a devil, my lady. An aristocrat.”
But no ordinary aristocrat. Aristocrats were idle, sluggish things, with bloated bellies from too much beef and port, not—
“An aristocrat?” Lady Clifford raised an eyebrow. “My, how intriguing.”
“That’s not quite how I’d describe it, my lady.” Terrifying, yes, and eerily reminiscent of a Gothic horror novel, what with the moon shrouded by clouds, the deserted graveyard, and the wicked, aristocratic villain.
Even now Sophia’s body was convinced it was still tearing through the streets of London, fleeing her pursuer. Her poor lungs felt like cracked bellows, and she was bathed in sweat from her temples to her toes. Her black tunic was pasted to her back, and her breeches…well, the less said about them the better, and no doubt her cap was still lying in the dirt in St. Clement Dane’s churchyard.
Her best cap, too, blast him, but then she’d gnawed on his glove, so perhaps they were even. “An aristocrat with the longest legs in London. He caught me just outside the door. Daniel came along and chased him off, but I doubt we’ve seen the last of him.” Sophia thought of those wolfish gray eyes, and her head fell against the door behind her with a defeated thump.
Lady Clifford’s gaze sharpened. “Who was he?”
Whoever—or whatever—he was, he had remarkably keen predatory instincts. Sophia didn’t often find herself outwitted, being as wily as a thieving street urchin with a fistful of gold coins, but this man had managed to catch her out neatly enough. “Lord something or other. Daniel knows who he is.”
“This is all very curious. Come along then, and tell me the rest.” Lady Clifford turned back into the drawing room. “Will you have some sherry?”
“Yes, please.” Sophia’s throat was as dry as dust, and the inside of her mouth tasted like ashes.
Lady Clifford perched on the edge of a green silk settee, reached for a silver tray in front of her, and poured a modest measure of sherry into a crystal tumbler. “Here you are, my love. This will settle your nerves.”
“My nerves might require the rest of the bottle.” But Sophia didn’t take up her glass, nor did she join Lady Clifford on the settee. Instead she paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, mumbling to herself as she tried to make sense of what she’d seen tonight before that tangle with the Earl of Great Marlborough Street.
After a bit more pacing, Sophia turned to face Lady Clifford and announced, “You were right all along. This whole business is suspicious from start to end.”
Lady Clifford sighed. “Our business so often is, isn’t it?”
“Someone’s been telling lies, my lady.” The sort of lies that led to an innocent man’s neck in a noose.
Not just anyone’s neck, either, but Jeremy’s.
Jeremy Ives had appeared on the doorstep of No. 26 Maddox Street years ago, begging for work, a ragged little street boy with big, guileless blue eyes. He’d won Lady Clifford over with those eyes, though to this day she insisted he simply happened to come along when she needed a new kitchen boy.
Sophia’s throat tightened. Her own heart wasn’t the soft, pliable sort, but from the first moment she looked into Jeremy’s sweet face, that frozen organ had melted like an icicle in the sun.
Jeremy wasn’t just her friend. He was the closest thing she had to a brother.
He wasn’t a pupil—the Clifford School didn’t accept boys—but Sophia had taken it upon herself to teach Jeremy his numbers and letters. It had been a painstaking process, but now at age eighteen he could work simple sums and read from children’s books.
Lady Clifford patted the seat beside her. “Come, Sophia. Sit here with me and drink your sherry. You look as if you’re about to succumb to a fit of the vapors.”
Sophia snorted, but she crossed the room and sank down on the settee. She took up her sherry, then set it down again without tasting it. “We all knew it to be a lie from the start, of course. Jeremy Ives is no more a murderer than I’m a debutante.”
Jeremy had been locked behind the great stone walls of Newgate Prison six weeks ago, and they hadn’t heard a word about him since. Even Lady Clifford, with all her connections, had been denied access to him.
Panic threatened, and Sophia curled her hands into fists to stop their trembling.
For all they knew, Jeremy could be—
“No, of course he
’s not a murderer.” Lady Clifford squeezed Sophia’s hands until her fingers loosened. “Tell me what you saw tonight. Did you go to Great Marlborough Street again?”
Sophia drew in a calming breath. “I did, yes. I waited on the roof of Lord Everly’s pediment for Sharpe to come out, and then I followed him.”
“The roof? My goodness, child. How did you manage that?” Lady Clifford handed Sophia her sherry, nodding with approval when she took a sip.
“It was easier than you’d think, what with all the fences and railings and columns everywhere.” Sophia’s lips curved in a sly smile. “All it took was a bit of climbing, and I had an excellent hiding place.”
“You know what else is an excellent hiding place? The shadow of a tree, or around a corner, or across the street.” Lady Clifford tutted. “Unnecessary risk, Sophia. Though I admit it was clever of you, especially since you don’t appear to have tumbled over the edge. So, there you were on Lord Everly’s roof. What then?”
Sophia sighed, but she didn’t bother defending her rooftop exploit. She wouldn’t be going back to Lord Everly’s roof, not with his lordship’s meddlesome neighbor lurking at his windows. “I waited until I heard the door open, and when I peeked out, there he was.”
“Just like that? How kind of Peter Sharpe to be so accommodating,” Lady Clifford murmured, a smug smile tugging at her lips.
“Oh, he was—even more accommodating than you think. I followed him, and where do you suppose he went, my lady?”
Lady Clifford’s smile faded. “St. Clement Dane’s Church.”
“Yes. Astonishing coincidence, isn’t it?”
“Quite.” Lady Clifford set her glass on the table with a sharp click. “Not suspicious in itself, perhaps, but it is a bit strange Mr. Sharpe would return to St. Clement Dane’s at night after he witnessed such a ghastly crime take place there.”
Six weeks ago, a Bow Street Runner named Henry Gerrard had been stabbed to death in front of St. Clement Dane’s Church. Peter Sharpe was the only witness to the crime, and he’d identified Jeremy—their Jeremy—as Gerrard’s killer.
Dear, sweet, blue-eyed Jeremy was now an accused murderer.
A murderer, and a thief. The Bow Street magistrate had come to the wise conclusion that Jeremy— a young man incapable of doing all but the simplest of tasks—was part of a vicious gang of thieves terrorizing London. Jeremy, in league with criminals so clever they’d been thumbing their noses at the law since the thefts began earlier this year.
Henry Gerrard was meant to have unraveled the mystery of Jeremy’s identity, and Jeremy to have slit Gerrard’s throat for his trouble. Sharpe, who’d been loitering in the doorway of St. Clement Dane’s Church at the time, claimed to have witnessed the gory scene unfold right before his eyes.
Now here was Sharpe, at St. Clement Dane’s again tonight.
“You’d think he’d stay away, wouldn’t you? But Mr. Sharpe didn’t appear to be at all concerned for his safety. He didn’t skulk about, or make any attempt to hide himself. He marched right to the front of the church, as bold as you please, and hung about there as if it were the most natural thing in the world.”
“Hmmm.” Lady Clifford tapped her lip, thinking. “How long did he stay?”
“Long enough for me to suspect he was waiting for someone. He had that look about him, too. He checked his pocket watch three times, as if impatient for someone to appear.”
“Did anyone appear? Did you see anyone else?”
“Well, yes.” Sophia huffed out a breath, furious all over again at the way the evening had unfolded. Peter Sharpe had gone to St. Clement Dane’s Church for some nefarious purpose. She was certain of it. She’d been close to finding out what when the cursed Lord of Great Marlborough Street, who should have been off being an earl instead of sneaking about after her, had snatched her away. “But he wasn’t there for Peter Sharpe.”
“Who, then?” Lady Clifford asked, her brow furrowing.
“He, ah…I’m afraid he was there for me. Lord Everly has dreadfully nosy neighbors, you see. It seems this gentleman spied me from a window that looks out onto Lord Everly’s pediment, and took it into his head to follow me when I went after Mr. Sharpe.” Sophia snatched up her sherry and downed the contents in one swallow. “He plucked me up, dragged me into the graveyard, and threatened me with the magistrate.”
Lady Clifford was giving her a strange look. “Lord Everly’s neighbor, you say? A tall gentleman, rather forbidding, with dark hair?”
“He’s taller than any aristocrat I’ve ever seen, and certainly much larger than any aristocrat needs to be. He did have dark hair, yes, and absurdly long legs. Rather alarming, taken all together.” Even now Sophia hadn’t fully recovered from the horrid sight of him coming over the fence.
“Well, that is a surprise. I heard he’d retired to his estate in Oxfordshire after his brother’s death. I wonder what he’s doing back in London?”
Sophia’s mouth fell open. “What, you mean to say you know who he is?”
“My dear child, everyone knows who he is. He’s Tristan Stratford, otherwise known as the—”
“The Ghost of Bow Street.” Sophia’s empty glass slid from her numb fingers and dropped onto the silver tray. She patted at her chest to calm a heart now pounding with delayed panic, and spluttered, “Dear God, the Ghost of Bow Street chased me across Westminster tonight.”
But of course, it was him. Who else could have tracked her all the way from Great Marlborough Street to St. Clement Dane’s without her noticing him? How many aristocrats in London could scale an eight-foot fence in under a minute? Who but the Cursed Ghost of Cursed Bow Street could have chased her such a distance, and through every back alley in London?
Naturally, Lord Everly’s neighbor must turn out to be the Ghost of Bow Street.
The shock on his face when she’d slipped through the fence, the fury when she’d taunted him from the other side…
Sophia shuddered. The more arrogant the gentleman, the more fragile his ego. The Ghost of Bow Street was likely more arrogant than most, and not accustomed to being challenged. If he happened upon her again, he’d certainly come after her, and he wouldn’t let her escape him a second time.
“I can’t fathom why Tristan Stratford is in London at all. His elder brother died recently, leaving Stratford the Earl of Gray. He’s resigned his place in the Bow Street Runners, and if the gossips have it right, he’s not pleased about any of it. Apparently, he’s never wanted the title.” Lady Clifford shrugged. “It’s his now, however, whether he wants it or not.”
“He’s Lord Gray.” He really was an earl, then. An earl, and a ghost, and a Bow Street Runner, all at once. God in heaven, what a disaster. Of all the men whose notice she might have caught, why did it have to be his?
He knew her first name, where she lived, and he’d already figured out she’d been following Peter Sharpe tonight. He was so stealthy he was more apparition than aristocrat, and she’d done a remarkably thorough job of making herself memorable.
Just like that, any hope she’d had of avoiding him crumbled like so much dust in her hand.
Oh, why had she climbed onto Lord Everly’s roof tonight? She’d known she could be seen from the upper floors of the townhouse next door, but it had been so silent, and without a glimmer of light to be seen. What business did Lord Gray have, wandering about in the dark and peering out his windows?
Sophia groaned and covered her face with her hands. Dear God, what a mess.
“Now, there’s to be none of that.” Lady Clifford tapped her on the head. “Go on up to your bedchamber, dearest, and put this out of your mind for the rest of the evening.”
“Put it out of my mind?” How could she do that, knowing the Ghost of Bow Street was after her? “It’s too late for that, my lady.”
Lady Clifford gave her a distracted smile. “My dear child, it’s never
too late for anything. Now, off you go. Your friends are waiting for you.”
Sophia stumbled to her feet. There wasn’t a blessed thing she could do about Lord Gray right now. She’d think it through tonight, and come up with something. “Goodnight, my lady.”
Lady Clifford patted her cheek. “Goodnight, my love.”
Sophia dragged herself up the stairs, every muscle protesting. She wanted her bed, but when she reached the hallway outside the bedchamber she shared with Cecilia, Georgiana, and Emma, she paused.
“‘Farewell all,’ sighed she, ‘this last look and we shall be separated forever!’ Tears followed her words, and sinking back, she resigned herself to the stillness of sorrow.” Cecilia, who was reading aloud, gave a dramatic sigh.
“She can’t resign herself yet,” Georgiana objected. “It’s only the first page!”
There was the soft crinkle of paper, then Cecilia’s voice again. “‘He now seized the trembling hand of the girl, who shrunk aghast with terror—”
“Why are they always shrinking?” Georgiana demanded. “I’ve never shrunk aghast in terror in my life.”
“Hush, will you? ‘Shrunk aghast in terror,’” Cecilia repeated in a louder voice. “‘She sunk at his feet, and with supplicating eyes that streamed with tears, implored him to have pity on her.’ My goodness. That does sound promising, doesn’t it?”
“I do like it when their eyes stream with tears,” Emma allowed.
Sophia heard more pages turning, then Cecilia said, “Oh, listen to this! There’s a ruffian, a pistol pointed at someone’s breast, and a scuffle with some banditti coming up. Also, it looks as if Adeline is going to fall dreadfully ill with fever, so that’s something to look forward to.”
“What do you suppose banditti is, precisely?” Emma asked. “Have either of you ever seen banditti?”
“In London?” Georgiana scoffed. “Certainly not. There are no banditti in London, only in Italy.”
Sophia leaned closer to the door. They were reading Mrs. Radcliffe’s The Romance of the Forest, despite the late hour, and in flagrant disobedience of the Society’s rules. She burst through the door with the sternest frown she could muster. “You were meant to wait for me before starting the book! Those are the rules.”
