The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray

by Anna Bradley

  Tristan had spent enough time on the London streets to know when a drunken rabble was about to take justice into their own hands. Once they found the locket—and they would—they’d pound the life out of Sharpe. Tristan didn’t care for the man, but he also knew him to be innocent of the theft. He couldn’t stand by and watch while an innocent man was beaten.

  “Wait! Take your hands off him.” He strode forward and wrapped his fingers around the slender arm of the real guilty party. “Pardon me, madam, but I saw you slip your locket into this man’s coat pocket.”

  Miss Monmouth turned on him with a squeak of outrage. “Ye dare accuse me of—” she began, but as soon as she saw his face the words died on her lips, and her mouth dropped open in shock. “You!”

  “Me, indeed. I’d be obliged if you two gentlemen would be so kind as to unhand that man. He’s no thief.” He may well have been worse than a thief, but Tristan didn’t have any proof of that, and one didn’t accuse a man on supposition alone.

  Sharpe and his two drunken counterparts turned to gape at him. One of them let go of Sharpe at once, but the other had found the locket, and now he thrust it in Tristan’s face. “I don’t ’spose this belongs to ’im. If ’e’s not a thief, then why does he ’ave the lady’s locket on ’im?”

  “Because she planted it there. I was walking right behind her, and I saw her slip it into his pocket.” Tristan held out his hand for the locket, then added with a wink, “I believe we’ve stumbled upon a bit of a lover’s quarrel, gentlemen.”

  “Lover’s quarrel!” Miss Monmouth swept an appalled gaze over Sharpe, her mouth twisting with disgust. “You’re either jesting, or you’re mad.”

  “He’s not mad. That’s Lord Gray, that is, Stratford as was, afore his brother keeled over.” Sharpe regarded Tristan for a moment in awe, then pointed a finger at his accuser. “If the Ghost of Bow Street says she planted it, then ye can be sure she bloody well planted it!”

  As soon as they heard ‘Ghost of Bow Street,’ the two men on either side of Sharpe stepped back, their hands held out in front of them. “Beg pardon, Ghost—that is, beg pardon, sir. That is, yer lordship, sir. Didn’t mean no ’arm. Just trying to help out this lady ’ere.”

  “Very chivalrous of you, and no harm’s been done.” Tristan took the locket the second man offered him and tucked it safely into his breast pocket. “You needn’t worry about the lady. I’ll take very good care of her. Go on back to your pints.”

  The two men were happy to abandon their heroics for their drink, and ambled off toward the pub. Sharpe, however, wasn’t as agreeable. He stared at Miss Monmouth for a long, silent moment, as if memorizing her features, then turned to Tristan with a sullen look on his face. “I might ’a gotten my head kicked in just now. I want ’er taken up for lying, or making a false charge, or whatever it is ye call it.”

  “Yes, I think I must.” Tristan turned to find Miss Monmouth assessing him with narrowed eyes, as if she were searching for all the soft places on his body where she might land a kick. “We can’t have dangerous criminals roaming the streets, assaulting innocent gentlemen, can we? Come along, madam. You can explain yourself to the magistrate.”

  Chapter Six

  “The magistrate, again?” Sophia tugged at her arm to free it from Lord Gray’s grip. “My goodness, my lord. You have a troubling fondness for turning innocent citizens over to the law.”

  He gave a derisive snort at the word innocent.

  Oh, very well, then. Perhaps in this case she wasn’t quite innocent, but then questions of guilt and innocence were tricky, plaguing things, weren’t they? She was far less guilty than Peter Sharpe. If the scales of justice were properly balanced, he’d be the one being marched down Hatton Street by a tight-lipped Lord Gray.

  Sophia gave another fruitless tug on her arm. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about. You said yourself no harm was done.”

  He didn’t deign to reply. He didn’t release her, either, but neither did he take her to the magistrate. Sophia was relieved by this at first, since she didn’t care to explain her interest in Peter Sharpe to anyone, but when Lord Gray hustled her back to Newgate Street and stuffed her into a carriage waiting there for him, her relief faded.

  Lord Gray had been intimidating enough when he was chasing her through a dark graveyard, but he was even more so when one was a smallish lady crowded into a carriage with him, especially with that ominous look on his face. “If I didn’t know better, my lord, I’d say you were cross with me.”

  A slight pinching of his lips was her only answer.

  He has rather nice lips.

  Sophia hadn’t gotten a proper look at him the night he’d accosted her at St. Clement Dane’s. It had been too dark and she’d been too flustered to pay much attention to his features, but now she took a moment to study his face.

  Emma thought him very handsome, and Sophia couldn’t deny there was something pleasing about him—that is, pleasing in a severe, rigid, humorless, unforgiving sort of way. His features were almost too aristocratic, too harshly elegant, but the forbidding symmetry was offset by surprisingly wide, darkly lashed gray eyes, and a slightly crooked mouth with a small white scar carved into the left corner of his upper lip.

  Sophia was perversely fond of scars, but of course there were scars, and then there were scars. Lord Gray’s was of the latter variety. One couldn’t help but wonder how it might bend and twist when he smiled.

  If he ever did. Sophia hadn’t seen any evidence he knew how. He’d likely be vastly improved if he did, but there was little enough chance she’d ever find out.

  Certainly, there was no fetching smile hovering on those stern lips now. He was scrutinizing her with the sort of narrow-eyed suspicion usually reserved for ferocious dogs and poisonous vipers. Which was fair enough, really, since she had bitten him the last time they met.

  At last he raised an imperious eyebrow, and crossed one long leg over the other. “If you’ve quite finished assessing me, Miss Monmouth, perhaps you’d be kind enough to answer a few questions.”

  Ah, so he’d discovered who she was, had he? Not surprising, and again, only fair, since she’d made it her business to learn as much as she could about him. “What if I’m not finished assessing you, my lord?”

  In truth, she’d hardly begun. He had the sort of arresting face that deserved prolonged attention, and she hadn’t had even a moment to consider the rest of him.

  The eyebrow twitched up a notch. “Carry on, then.”

  His voice was pleasant, deep and smooth, if a touch frigid, and Sophia was aware of a low thrum of pleasure in her belly when he spoke.

  “I’ve got all evening to devote myself to you,” he added, removing his hat and tossing it onto the seat beside him as if he were settling in for a long, tedious ordeal.

  “I’m flattered, my lord. What shall we do first? Macbeth is on at Drury Lane. Do you enjoy plays with villainesses, Lord Gray?” Sophia asked, stifling a laugh at his expression. No doubt the Ghost of Bow Street wasn’t accustomed to such pert replies, particularly from a lady who was undeniably in his custody, and less than half his size.

  “I’d rather see them on the stage than the streets. Does that answer your question, Miss Monmouth?”

  Her own expression must have been priceless just then, because his stern lips gave a subtle twitch. It was a pitiful attempt at a smile, but even that little twitch transformed his face.

  Sophia blinked at him, her gaze lingering on that little quirk at one corner of his mouth. On second thought, it might be best if Lord Gray kept his charming little quirks and twitches to himself. He wasn’t her friend, and it would be a great inconvenience if she became intrigued by him.

  Sophia settled back against her seat as if making herself comfortable, even as she assessed her situation out of the corner of her eye. The carriage door on the right wouldn’t do for an escape. He was too clos
e to it, his muscular body between it and her, but the other—

  “I beg your pardon, but if you don’t mind, Miss Monmouth.” Lord Gray jerked his chin at her, a tinge of red creeping into his cheekbones.

  Sophia stared at him, puzzled. Was he blushing? Why would he—

  “Here.” He fished around in his pocket and, to Sophia’s shock, pulled out her fichu and handed it to her with a bow of his head that could only be described as courtly.

  Oh. Her bodice. She’d forgotten all about it. The entire time she’d been tweaking him and congratulating herself on her cleverness, her breasts had been no more than two stitches away from bursting from her seams. “I…thank you. I beg your pardon.”

  Sophia wrapped the fichu around her neck and stuffed it into the neckline of her dress while Lord Gray looked out the window, at his hat, down at his hands—anywhere but at her exposed bosom.

  She took her time patting the linen into place even as her gaze wandered back to the carriage doors. No, the one on the right was out of the question, but she might be able to manage the other. If she was quick enough, and could take him by surprise—

  “I wouldn’t attempt it if I were you, Miss Monmouth. You won’t make it three steps down Newgate Street before I’ll catch you.” He didn’t move, but he’d tensed like a coiled spring ready to explode into action. “You might also wish to consider I’ve just witnessed you commit a crime, and we’re less than a block from Newgate Prison.”

  Sophia stiffened at the veiled threat. If she found herself locked into a cell at Newgate, she’d likely never come back out again. People like her never did, whether they were guilty or not. One needn’t look any further than Jeremy’s predicament for proof of that.

  There was also the minor inconvenience that she was, in fact, guilty.

  Sophia eyed Lord Gray, her brain spinning with a confusing mix of half-truths and outright lies. She wasn’t good at talking her way out of messes. That was why she took such care never to get caught. Her talents lay more in the physical realm: scampering, scurrying, climbing—that sort of thing. But now here she was, at the mercy of Lord Gray, the cursed Ghost of Bow Street. He wasn’t going to let her go until he got what he wanted from her.

  Perhaps not even then.

  She huffed, and forced herself to settle into her seat.

  Lord Gray knew a surrender when he saw one. “Wise of you. Let’s begin with something simple, shall we? You’re a…student at the Clifford School?”

  “Yes.” He already knew this, so it cost Sophia nothing to tell him the truth.

  “Ah. Very good, Miss Monmouth. Progress already.” His lips quirked in that ghost of a smile again. “Now, this is the second time I’ve witnessed you harassing Mr. Sharpe. What is it you want with him?”

  A fair question—a predictable one, even—yet not one Sophia was keen to answer. Again, it was more than likely he already knew what she was about, but any acknowledgment of it could be brought up in court as evidence against her.

  But how to avoid it? She bit her lip as she tried to think of what Georgiana might do in a similar situation. Georgiana was an expert at argument, unmatched at wriggling her way free of a verbal attack, like that time she’d left the Society’s copy of Mrs. Radcliffe’s The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne outdoors, and it had been destroyed by the rain. Every time Sophia had demanded an explanation as to its whereabouts, Georgiana had outmaneuvered her by…

  By answering every question with another question.

  Yes, of course! Why, it was just the thing.

  “Miss Monmouth? You haven’t answered my question.” Lord Gray’s hard gaze flicked to her mouth, and all at once Sophia realized her lips had curved in a delighted smile.

  Well, that wouldn’t do. Smirking would only make her look guilty.

  She did her best to rearrange her lips into a frown. “What makes you think it isn’t a lover’s spat, just as you said? That would explain everything, wouldn’t it?” It would, and rather neatly, too. She might have thought of it herself, but for the fact Peter Sharpe made her flesh crawl.

  The judgmental eyebrow shot up again. Lord Gray almost looked as if he were disappointed in her. “Come now, Miss Monmouth. Is that truly the best you can do? A besotted lady doesn’t attempt to frame the gentleman she loves for a crime.”

  “Certainly, she does. Have you forgotten your William Congreve, my lord? ‘Hell hath no fury,’ and all that. I’m a woman scorned who’s seeking revenge, nothing more, and a lover’s spat isn’t really a matter for the law, is it? Well, now that’s settled, I’ll just be on my way—”

  “I don’t think so, Miss Monmouth.” Sophia had reached for the door, but Lord Gray wrapped his fingers around her wrist, stopping her. “Mr. Sharpe gaped at you today as if he’d never set eyes on you before.”

  He had gaped, hadn’t he? Yes, he’d gotten a good, long look at her. Another blunder, and she had no one but herself to blame for it. “Yes, well, gentlemen have short memories when it comes to their lovers, my lord.”

  To Sophia’s surprise he laughed at that, the deep, rich timbre of it filling the carriage. “Some gentlemen perhaps, but I’m afraid your demeanor toward him isn’t very lover-like. You looked at him as if you’d happily see him swinging at the end of a noose.”

  “Well, of course, I would. Really, Lord Gray. You don’t seem to know much about love affairs, or about revenge. Do you expect anything else from a lady whose lover has forsaken her?” Sophia sniffed. “I may be disappointed in love, but I do have my pride.”

  “I don’t doubt it. That may be the only true statement you’ve uttered since you got into my carriage, Miss Monmouth.” He studied her, as if not quite sure what to do with her next, then he reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out her locket. “Tell me about this. Rather a nice piece. How do you happen to have it?”

  “Did I steal it, you mean?” Of course, he would think so. How else would she—a woman of no family, no name, and no means—have such a fine piece of jewelry if she hadn’t lifted it off some unsuspecting aristocrat?

  “I’ll have an answer from you, Miss Monmouth.”

  Sophia huffed. “Fine. It belonged to my mother.”

  Lord Gray turned the locket over. “It’s inscribed. ‘To my beloved Arabella. Forever yours, Lawrence, 1774.’”

  “Lovely sentiment, isn’t it?” Sophia’s laugh was bitter. “Forever, alas, turned out to be a great deal shorter than my mother expected.”

  Lord Gray had been studying the locket, but now his gaze shifted to her face. “What does that mean?”

  “What it always means.” Within three years of giving her mother the locket, Viscount Clifton, her mother’s protector at the time, had pledged his undying devotion to another mistress. Arabella Clifton, as she styled herself, had drifted from one lover to the next after that, with lessening degrees of success, until eventually she’d been driven into the streets to earn her living.

  Less than a year later, she was dead.

  It wasn’t a pleasant story, but neither was it an unusual one. Sophia didn’t intend to confide any of this to Lord Gray, however. “I told you already. Gentlemen have short memories when it comes to their lovers.”

  “So you did.” Lord Gray held up the locket, letting it dangle between his fingers. “You must bear Peter Sharpe quite a grudge, Miss Monmouth, to risk such a treasure. What did you hope to gain with such a trick? To see Sharpe taken up for theft?”

  Sophia’s gaze followed the locket as it swung gently back and forth in Lord Gray’s long, scarred fingers. She clenched her hands in her lap to keep from snatching it away from him.

  Her memories of her mother were worn and faded now, like a letter she’d read too often, but the locket was different. It was something Sophia could hold in her hand, tangible proof of a mother she’d loved, and failed, and now could no longer remember.

  It
was the only possession she had that was truly hers, that meant something to her. Losing it would be as painful as severing a limb, but planting it on Sharpe was the only way she could think of to gain the upper hand on him. She’d been willing to risk sacrificing it for Jeremy’s sake, yes, but she’d had every intention of getting it back.

  Lord Gray was wrong about one thing, though. She hadn’t intended for Sharpe to be taken up for theft. Sophia didn’t have any faith in the justice system, but she did respect the justice of the streets. She’d been well aware once she cried theft the men at the pub wouldn’t bother to verify the crime before they threatened to beat Sharpe bloody.

  Sharpe was a coward, like most men of his ilk, the sort who collapsed at the first threat of violence. Sophia had planned to let him panic for a while, then withdraw her accusation just in time to save him—provided, of course, he chose to be forthcoming about his reasons for accusing Jeremy of theft.

  It wasn’t, admittedly, one of her cleverest plans, but after listening to Sharpe’s testimony this morning she’d been desperate to do something, to somehow hold him to account for his lies.

  Lady Clifford was going to be appalled when she found out what Sophia had done. Above all else, she’d taught them to be cautious. Cautiousness, alas, had never been Sophia’s strength. She tended to leap first, then figure out the rest while she was flying through the air.

  Unnecessary risk, Sophia.

  Except to Sophia’s thinking, it was necessary. Jeremy hadn’t committed any crime. Sharpe hadn’t accused Jeremy because he was guilty, so he must have done it for some other reason. Sophia wanted to know what it was, and she’d been close to finding it out before Lord Gray had rendered all her efforts on Jeremy’s behalf useless.