by Anna Bradley
He studied her for signs of deception, but she held his gaze, her green eyes clear and unflinching. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he sensed there was honor in her. He felt it in the same way he felt the utter lack of it in others he’d come across in his years as a Bow Street Runner. Oh, it was a twisted, jaded, backward sort of honor, to be sure, but she answered to some sort of internal code, flawed though it may be.
“I suppose your word will have to do.” He wasn’t entirely satisfied, but it was either her word, or a visit to the magistrate. A wiser man would choose the latter. As recently as a week ago, he’d been a wiser man.
Not anymore, it seemed.
He’d continue to follow her, of course. Not only because he’d told Sampson Willis he would, but because somebody had to keep an eye on her. It didn’t sit well with him Peter Sharpe had gotten such a good look at her face today, and God knew she didn’t bother to protect herself.
“Here. This belongs to you.” Tristan held out the silver locket.
Her eyes widened. “Thank you, my lord.” She reached out and took it from him, then sagged back against the seat.
Were her hands shaking?
Until he saw that tremor, Tristan hadn’t realized she’d thought he wasn’t going to give the locket back to her. His gaze darted to her face, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring down at her hands.
She’d closed the locket in her fist, and she was stroking it in the same manner one would a beloved child, or a favored pet. Her thumb moved back and forth across the smooth silver face, but she didn’t seem to be aware she was doing it. Her eyes were closed, and the pink flush that temper had brought to her cheeks had faded, leaving her pale.
All at once she looked painfully weary, and painfully young. She couldn’t be more than twenty years old. Tristan’s chest gave a strange little lurch at the thought, but he pushed it aside. Miss Monmouth wouldn’t be his responsibility for much longer, and he preferred it that way.
He knocked his fist on the roof of the carriage to summon his coachman.
She looked up. “Where are we going?”
“My lord?” The coachman appeared at the window.
“The Clifford School, Platt. No. 26 Maddox Street.” Tristan issued the order without taking his eyes off her. If he wasn’t mistaken, Miss Monmouth preferred to keep him far away from Lady Clifford.
“Yes, my lord.” The coachman disappeared, and a moment later the carriage jerked into motion.
She shoved the locket into a hidden pocket in her dress, and with it any vulnerability he might have glimpsed in her face. “It’s terribly chivalrous of you to see me home, Lord Gray,” she drawled, “But unnecessary, for all that.”
He gave her a thin smile. “It’s not chivalry, Miss Monmouth, but forethought. Peter Sharpe is mere blocks away from here. I wouldn’t want you to be tempted to follow him again.”
“For pity’s sake. I just gave you my word I wouldn’t, yet here you are, still not satisfied.”
No, he wasn’t satisfied—far from it—but he couldn’t quite figure out why. He and Miss Monmouth had reached a truce of sorts, which was more than he’d expected to get from her. “I thought I’d pay a call on Lady Clifford.”
She shot upright in her seat. “Lady Clifford! Why, whatever for?”
Ah. He wasn’t mistaken, then. She didn’t want him anywhere near Lady Clifford.
Tristan arched an eyebrow at her raised voice. “Such an outburst. I wonder, Miss Monmouth, why my calling on Lady Clifford should distress you so.”
She shrugged, but her dark scowl remained. “I just don’t see what you’d want with Lady Clifford, that’s all.”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
She frowned. “I hope you don’t expect a warm reception from her. She won’t be pleased to see you.”
Tristan’s lips gave a traitorous twitch at her sulky expression. “I’ll endeavor to hide my disappointment.”
* * * *
There wasn’t a single person at No. 26 Maddox Street who was pleased to see Tristan, but Daniel Brixton was the least pleased of all of them.
“I told you to stay away from Miss Sophia, Lord Gray. I thought I’d made myself clear.”
Clear enough, yes. Keep away from the Clifford School, or else. Unfortunately for Daniel Brixton, Tristan didn’t take orders from him. Still, now wasn’t the time to get into a tussle with Lady Clifford’s guard dog. “Easy, Brixton. I just came to deliver Miss Monmouth to Lady Clifford.”
“It’s all right, Daniel. I’d like to hear what Lord Gray has to say. Do wait here in the entryway, though, won’t you?” Lady Clifford nodded to Brixton, then turned her attention back to Tristan. “Will you come into the drawing room, my lord? You too, Sophia.”
Tristan followed Lady Clifford and Miss Monmouth down a hallway to a drawing room where three young ladies and a very ugly pug dog were seated on a green silk settee, obviously waiting for someone.
“Sophia!” One of the young ladies rose unsteadily to her feet. “Jeremy?”
Miss Monmouth met her friend’s gaze. She didn’t speak, only shook her head.
“No. Oh, no. Jeremy.” The other girl went as pale as death, and dropped onto the settee as if her legs had given way beneath her.
“Emma, Georgiana, take Cecilia upstairs, please.” Lady Clifford spoke with the air of one who needn’t raise her voice to be obeyed.
The dark-haired girl—Cecilia, presumably—let out a choked sob, but allowed herself to be led from the drawing room.
Lady Clifford waited for the door to close behind them, then waved Tristan toward the settee the three young ladies had just vacated. “Please do sit down, Lord Gray. Sophia, you look rather limp. Come sit next to me, dearest.” She patted the seat next to her.
Tristan hadn’t been prepared to be received with such graciousness, but he took a seat. “Thank you, my lady.”
“Now then, Lord Gray.” Lady Clifford folded her hands in her lap and turned a politely enquiring look on him. “I confess myself surprised to see you here. How did you happen to come across Sophia today?”
“We met at the Old Bailey, my lady.”
Tristan had assumed Miss Monmouth had come to the trial at her ladyship’s direction, but Lady Clifford seemed surprised by this information. “Did you, indeed?” Her tone was mild, but there was a subtle shift of tension in the room. “I didn’t realize you meant to attend Jeremy’s trial today, dearest. It seems as though Cecilia did, however.”
Sophia Monmouth said nothing, just twisted her fingers nervously in her skirts.
“Miss Monmouth didn’t simply attend the trial, Lady Clifford. I’m afraid she took such great exception to Mr. Peter Sharpe’s testimony she followed him from the Old Bailey to Newgate Street, slipped a silver locket into his pocket when his back was turned, then accused him of stealing it.”
Silence. Aside from a slight twitch of her lips, Lady Clifford’s expression didn’t change, but Tristan had the distinct impression she wasn’t pleased. Miss Monmouth, who was now squirming uncomfortably, seemed to have drawn the same conclusion.
“The, ah, gentlemen loitering outside Ye Old Mitre Pub were on the verge of beating Peter Sharpe bloody when I came upon them.” Tristan glanced at Miss Monmouth. “Street justice is an ugly thing, Lady Clifford.”
“Indeed, it is. What a fortunate coincidence you happened to be there to intervene, Lord Gray.” Lady Clifford reached out to stroke a hand over the pug’s head.
Tristan let out a short laugh. “There are no coincidences, Lady Clifford. I saw Miss Monmouth follow Mr. Sharpe out of the courtroom, knew at once she was up to something, and went after her.”
“Is that so? I wasn’t aware, Lord Gray, you were still a Bow Street Runner.” Lady Clifford’s tone was as polite as ever, but Tristan didn’t miss the shard of ice in her voice.
“My interest is personal, Lady Clifford, not professional. Henry Gerrard was a dear friend of mine. I’m sure you can understand I’m eager to see his murderer brought to justice.”
“Jeremy didn’t murder Henry Gerrard!” Miss Monmouth shot to her feet, her face white with anger. “If you’re so anxious to see Mr. Gerrard’s murderer brought to justice, then you’ll do everything in your power to see the wrong man isn’t hung for the crime!”
“Sophia, my love. Please.” Lady Clifford took Miss Monmouth’s hand and urged her back down onto the settee, but her gaze remained fixed on Tristan. “I beg your pardon, Lord Gray. Jeremy Ives is rather a favorite of ours. Naturally my girls are upset at the dreadful fate that’s befallen him. I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with Henry Gerrard. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Tristan stiffened. “I don’t want your sympathy, Lady Clifford. I want you and your…young ladies to stop interfering in this business.”
“Miss Monmouth is right, you know,” Lady Clifford said, as if Tristan hadn’t spoken. “Jeremy is innocent. He isn’t capable of committing a crime, much less one so heinous as murder.”
“The court doesn’t agree with you, my lady. Jeremy Ives was found guilty of murder today, and there’s an end to it.”
Miss Monmouth jumped to her feet again. “It’s not an end to anything! For a Bow Street Runner, you’re very disinterested in justice, Lord Gray.”
“On the contrary, Miss Monmouth. I’m quite interested in seeing murderers hang.”
“In seeing someone hang, at any rate. You’re far less troubled about whether the man swinging at the end of the rope is guilty or innocent.” Miss Monmouth took a step toward him. Her hands were clenched into fists, and her cheeks flushed with righteous fury.
Tristan gazed up at her, a disturbing range of emotions twisting in his chest. Her accusation struck a nerve, and he didn’t care for it, but at the same time he couldn’t help but admire her passion, misguided as it was. His eyes met hers, and for a long moment they stared at each other, both of them a bit short of breath, then Tristan rose to his feet so he was towering over her. “I’ll take my leave now.”
He’d said all he wished to say, but before he reached the drawing room door, he turned a sharp glance on Sophia Monmouth. “Remember your promise, Miss Monmouth. You gave your word. Good day, Lady Clifford.”
“Lord Gray.” Lady Clifford inclined her head.
For some time after Lord Gray left, neither Sophia nor Lady Clifford said a word. The only sound in the room was Gussie, snuffling and snorting contentedly as Lady Clifford stroked his head. Finally, when Sophia couldn’t stand the quiet a moment longer, Lady Clifford murmured, “Unnecessary risk, Sophia.”
“I-I’m sorry, my lady. I know you told me not to go to the trial, but I simply couldn’t…couldn’t bear for Jeremy to be left alone.” Sophia swiped angrily at the tears on her cheeks.
“I understand that, my love, and I can’t blame you for it, but this business with Peter Sharpe and your locket.” Lady Clifford shook her head. “That wasn’t well done of you. It could have gone dreadfully awry.”
Sophia sank back onto the settee, her knees shaking. “I just…I’m afraid I let my temper get the best of me. Peter Sharpe lied today, without a single qualm, or even a trace of regret. I never made any conscious decision to go after him. I saw him leave the courthouse, and the next thing I knew I was following him.”
“But to what end, Sophia? What did you hope to gain from such a risky scheme?”
Sophia grimaced. “I suppose I was thinking I could threaten him into a confession of some sort. I thought if I could prove he was a thief himself the court might dismiss his testimony against Jeremy. It was foolish, I know.”
Lady Clifford sighed. “I’m afraid it was. Your recklessness will get you nowhere, Sophia. I only hope you’ll learn your lesson before you get hurt. Now, Lord Gray said something about a promise. What did he mean?”
Gussie abandoned Lady Clifford in favor of Sophia’s lap. He rolled over onto his back, and she rested a hand on his fat belly. “Nothing nearly as significant as he seems to think. I gave him my word I’d stay away from Peter Sharpe.”
Lady Clifford raised a brow. “And will you? I know you don’t give your word lightly.”
“He wrung the promise from me by threatening to take me to the magistrate at once if I didn’t agree to his terms, but I do intend to keep it, yes, mainly because it costs me nothing to do so. Sharpe got a close look at me today, close enough he’d recognize me in an instant if he saw me again. It’s best if I keep out of his way.”
“Hmmm. You’ll have to find another way to go about this business, then.”
“Yes, but I can’t think how right now. My thoughts are all muddled. We’re running out of time, my lady.” Jeremy had been so terrified in the courtroom today, so wasted and defeated. Thinking of him made more tears spring to Sophia’s eyes. “Jeremy’s situation is desperate. If we don’t act soon, it will be too late for him.”
Lady Clifford rested her hand on Gussie’s head. “My dear child, it’s never too late for anything. But I have a suggestion for you, if you’re willing to hear it.”
“Of course, I am.”
Lady Clifford chuckled. “Don’t be so certain, because you may not like it. It occurs to me Lord Gray could prove quite useful to us.”
Sophia’s spine went rigid. “Useful? How? He’s meddlesome and high-handed, not to mention rigid and condescending. Worst of all, he lacks imagination.”
“That remains to be seen, but what matters here is he’s an earl, not to mention the Ghost of Bow Street. If anyone can get into Newgate to see Jeremy, it’s Lord Gray.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” At one point or other they’d each tried to gain access to Jeremy, but no amount of begging, pleading, threats, or bribes had done any good. Even Lady Clifford had been turned away.
But the Ghost of Bow Street? No one would dare turn him away. He likely had a dozen different ways to get inside the prison. If she could see Jeremy, even for a short time, he could tell her in his own words what had happened that night at St. Clement Dane’s. He’d give her something she could turn to account—she knew he would.
“But how can it be done, my lady?” Lord Gray believed Jeremy was guilty, and he despised the very sight of her. “Why should Lord Gray choose to help us?”
“Well, my dear, I can’t say for sure he will. He may refuse, but I think it might be worth asking him, just the same.” Lady Clifford chucked Gussie under the chin, then turned to Sophia, an odd little smile on her lips. “After all, there’s no crime in asking, is there?”
Chapter Eight
“Manipulative, at best. At worst, she’s devious.” Tristan slid one of his pawns across the chessboard without giving much thought to where it would land. “She gave me her word she’d stay away from Sharpe, but I’d be a fool to rely on her keeping it.”
God knew he’d been fool enough already. He should have taken her straight to Sampson Willis while he had her in his carriage yesterday. Perhaps then he wouldn’t have dreamt of a dark-haired phantom with a scandalously bare bosom.
“Yes, I believe you’ve said so once already.” Lyndon was toying with his knight and didn’t look up. “Check.”
“She’s shrewd, too. Lady Clifford has chosen her pupils well. Miss Monmouth is a perfect, pocket-sized pixie in boy’s breeches.” Except she hadn’t been wearing breeches yesterday, had she? It was no wonder he’d acted such a fool. That gray gown with its plunging bodice had addled his wits.
Tristan plucked his defeated king from the board. He set it aside and rose to his feet, abandoning any further attempts at concentration. “I tell you, Lyndon. She’s the most exasperating woman I’ve ever encountered.”
“Vexing. That was the word you used. Vexing, and tenacious.” Lyndon gave a delicate shudder. “Dreadful combination, e
specially in an attractive woman.”
Tristan abruptly ceased his pacing in front of the fireplace and turned to give his friend a wary look. “I never said she was attractive.”
Not aloud, that is.
Lyndon abandoned his study of the game and blinked up at Tristan. “Didn’t you? I thought I just heard you say she’s perfect.”
“I said she was a perfect pixie, Lyndon. It’s not a compliment.”
“No?” Lyndon frowned. “Well, what the devil is a pixie?”
“They’re…aren’t they demons, or elves, or some other sort of devious, manipulative mythical creature?”
“Are they, indeed? I thought they were meant to be like fairies. I’ve always thought fairies sounded rather nice.” Lyndon thought about it, then turned his attention back to the chessboard with a shrug. “You didn’t need to say she was attractive, in any case. I already know she is.”
“You don’t know any such thing.” Lyndon’s only answer was a knowing smirk, and Tristan muttered a curse. “How do you know?”
The smirk widened, and Lyndon waved a hand at the chessboard. “I know because I’m beating you at chess. I never beat you at chess unless you’re agitated, and you’re never agitated over a woman unless you find her attractive.” He swept a critical gaze over Tristan’s mussed hair and crooked cravat. “I’ve never seen you quite this agitated, though. Miss Monmouth must be lovely, indeed.”
Tristan turned his back on Lyndon and stalked over to the window.
Lovely? Certainly, if one found Machiavellian tendencies lovely. That is, she was clever—he couldn’t deny that—but she had a barbed tongue.
A barbed tongue and soft, full pink lips.
Damn it. Her lips were of no consequence. She was an outrage, chaos in boy’s breeches and a black cap, roaming London’s rooftops and stalking innocent citizens in the streets.
Silky dark hair, bewitching green eyes…
An irritated growl rose in Tristan’s throat. Very well, Miss Monmouth was lovely, but she was also sly, and with the way she scaled townhouses and wriggled through fences, distressingly agile.
