by Anna Bradley
She hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to lie to him.
Every time those gray eyes met hers, she’d been in danger of blurting out the truth. Somehow, she’d managed to cling to the story she and Lady Clifford had agreed on, but even now she wasn’t sure how she’d managed it. It was all a bit of a blur.
Looking back on it now, she couldn’t understand how she’d expected it to go any other way than it had. Lord Gray might have seen for himself how dire Jeremy’s condition was, but Sophia had known he’d never believe the lie, not matter how plausible it was.
He knew her too well for that.
And really, that was the worst of it, wasn’t it? Somehow, she’d ended up revealing so much of herself to him, he no longer believed her lies. That had certainly never happened before. Then there’d been that kiss. She hadn’t expected that, either, but even that wasn’t as shocking as what she’d done.
That is, she’d…well, dash it, she’d kissed him back, hadn’t she?
Sophia pressed her fingers to her lips. They felt tender, bruised, the soft flesh swollen. She shivered, her eyes sliding closed at the memory of his hard mouth on hers, his scarred hands in her hair, the drag of his rough fingertips over her skin.
That kiss had ruined everything.
Before that kiss, she’d done an admirable job of convincing herself she didn’t care a whit if she never laid eyes on Lord Gray again. Then he’d gone and kissed her, and moments later he’d severed the connection between them. Those two things together had startled her into an uncomfortable confrontation with the truth.
She was a trifle…preoccupied with Lord Gray.
Tristan.
Fascinated with him, even, against her will and better judgment.
The truth was, she did care if she never saw him again. She cared very much, indeed.
“Sophia?” Cecilia took a hesitant step into the room. “You look strange. You’re scaring me.”
“It’s all right, dearest.” Sophia beckoned her friend into the room with a weary hand. “Come on, then. Come and cheer me up.”
Cecilia hurried across the room to join her on the settee. Sophia waited to be petted and soothed and diverted until her usual sangfroid returned, but Cecilia remained oddly still and silent.
The seconds turned into minutes, and might have turned into hours if Sophia hadn’t nudged her. “Well, Cecilia? I thought you were going to cheer me up?”
Cecilia’s brow furrowed. “I’m thinking.”
“Oh.” It was that bad then, was it? “Do take your time.” Sophia rested her chin on her hand, lost in her own glum thoughts. What had she been thinking, letting Lord Gray kiss her like that? She’d been holding steady enough until then, but that kiss had scattered her wits like—
“Adeline!” Cecilia cried out suddenly.
Sophia jumped. “My goodness, Cecilia! You scared the life out of me. Adeline? The heroine of The Romance of the Forest?”
“Of course, that Adeline. We don’t know any other Adelines, do we?”
“No, but I don’t see what that Adeline has to do with anything.”
Cecilia sighed with exaggerated patience, as if Sophia was being unbearably dim. “Think of it, Sophia. Adeline encounters a ruined abbey and a scheming marquis. She’s locked into haunted bedchambers, and tumbles through trap doors. She battles terrible storms and wanders darkened forests, and her story still ends happily.”
Sophia blinked. “I don’t see what this has to do with me. This isn’t a romance, Cecilia, and I’m not one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s heroines.” Far from it. Seven Dials didn’t produce many of those, and as far as Sophia knew, Mrs. Radcliffe had never written a heroine who lounged on rooftops, or ran about the dark streets of London dressed in boy’s clothes. Her heroines were pure, sweet maidens, not liars and thieves.
Cecilia gave her a reproachful look. “Every lady is the heroine of her own story, Sophia. My point is, Adeline’s prospects look grim indeed, but even when she’s in her darkest hour she never gives up, and in the end, she earns her happy ending. Why should you be any different?”
Because happy endings were a thing of books only? Because she wasn’t a fictional character, but a real person, and a dreadfully flawed one, at that? There were dozens of reasons, but Cecilia’s eager, relentless and utterly impractical optimism was a rare, precious thing, and Sophia wouldn’t be the one to smother it.
So, she held her tongue, and instead reached for Cecilia’s hand. “Well, when you put it that way, I suppose—”
“Your mother’s locket!” Cecilia interrupted with a surprised gasp. “You told me you used it to bribe a prison guard. How did you get it back?”
Sophia closed her fingers around the locket still nestled in her palm. “Lord Gray. He gave it to me this morning. It seems he, ah…he took it back from the guard.”
It must have cost him to do it, too. There was no way a man like Hogg would relinquish a silver locket without securing something valuable in its place. Money, and a good deal of it.
I thought you’d want it back.
Sophia did want it back, quite desperately, but in her experience wanting a thing rarely resulted in actually getting it, and it wasn’t as if Tristan owed her anything—
“Well, how lovely of him!” Cecilia tapped Sophia’s fist, which had closed around the locket again. “I confess I didn’t care much for Lord Gray when we met him the other day. I thought him a bit stiff, really, and too severe, but I must say this improves my opinion of him.”
Sophia’s lips quirked. Yes, it was just the sort of extravagantly romantic gesture Cecilia adored. Sophia thought it more likely he wished to tie up any loose ends between them so he could thoroughly wash his hands of her, but once again, she wouldn’t be the one to shatter Cecilia’s romantic illusions. “I don’t deny it was a gentlemanly thing to do.”
“Indeed, the act of a true gentleman—”
“Who’s a true gentleman?” a voice demanded.
Sophia and Cecilia looked up to find Georgiana peering around the door, with Emma right behind her, peeking over her shoulder.
“Lord Gray.” Cecilia patted the empty space beside her on the settee, and Georgiana and Emma hurried in and crowded onto it.
“Lord Gray? More troublesome than gentlemanly, I’d say.” Georgiana tapped a finger against her chin, thinking. “He doesn’t look much like a Bow Street Runner, does he?”
“No,” Emma agreed. “Very much like an earl, though.”
“It’s his cheekbones, I think,” Cecilia said. “Have you ever noticed all aristocrats have the same cheekbones? High, and rather sharp.”
They waited, but Sophia, who recalled in vivid detail how those cheekbones felt under her fingertips, said nothing.
“Well, it’s just as well he’s gone. The last thing we need is a Bow Street Runner hanging about, poking his nose into our affairs. Or an earl either, come to that.” Georgiana gave an airy wave of her hand.
Emma nudged Sophia’s shoulder. “Georgiana’s right. Earls and Bow Street Runners are disruptive creatures, and Lord Gray more so than most, given he’s both at once.”
“His nose!” Cecilia cried, then flushed when they all turned to gape at her. “He has a noble nose, I mean.”
“He’s not a biddable sort either.” Georgiana frowned. “One need only look at his face to see that, but he’s not rash, is he? No, he’s altogether too clever. It would only be a matter of time before a man like that uncovered all our secrets.”
“Yes, and goodness knows we have plenty of those,” Emma said with a sigh.
Sophia fell back against the settee and threw an arm over her face. “You’re right, of course. It’s just…”
It’s just that I’m a great fool.
“You’re fatigued, dearest.” Cecilia patted her knee. “Everything seems worse when one is fatigued, doesn’t it?”<
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“Yes, indeed. Come now, Sophia,” Emma said, pulling Sophia’s arm gently away from her face. “Once you’ve rested, you’ll see for yourself we’re well rid of him—”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, my dears.”
All four girls looked up in surprise. Lady Clifford was standing in the doorway. None of them had heard her come in, and now Sophia thought of it, she realized Lady Clifford had been conspicuously absent all morning.
“No, because nothing ever is simple, it is?” Georgiana grumbled.
Lady Clifford closed the drawing room door and seated herself in the chair beside the settee. “I won’t deny Lord Gray’s a bit troublesome, but we need him still.”
“What do you mean, my lady?” Sophia asked, then cringed, heat flooding her face at the hopeful note in her voice. “That is, who needs him? Not me, certainly.”
Lady Clifford’s brow rose, and a faint smile touched her lips. “Oh no, of course not, Sophia. But I didn’t mean just you, my love. No, what I mean to say is, if we want to find out what’s at the bottom of this business at St. Clement Dane’s Church, we need Lord Gray.”
Emma, who didn’t care for the idea of needing anyone, particularly a man, frowned. “I don’t see why. Jeremy’s safe. Isn’t that an end to it?”
“Certainly, if one doesn’t mind a murderer running amok in London. After all, someone killed Henry Gerrard.” Lady Clifford gave Emma a mildly chastising look. “Then there’s the matter of Peter Sharpe, who’s no doubt being paid well to accuse innocent men of theft. Not quite the thing, is it?”
“But Lord Gray’s the sort to cause trouble,” Georgiana warned, her tone dark.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Lady Clifford acknowledged with a sigh. “It’s a trifle tedious, but think of it in terms of access, girls. As a former Bow Street Runner and an earl, he has a great deal more of it than we do. He got Sophia into Newgate, didn’t he? Then there’s the matter of his living next door to Mr. Everly, who, I think we all agree, is somehow entangled in this affair.”
“He won’t help us. Just before he left, he said…” Sophia’s voice hitched.
There’s no reason for us to ever meet again.
Lady Clifford studied Sophia, her gaze thoughtful, then turned to the other three girls. “Leave us alone for a bit, won’t you, dears? Sophia will join you soon, and then you may fuss over her as much as you like.”
Lady Clifford never ordered anyone to do anything. Every wish was phrased as a polite question, but her students knew a command when they heard one. Cecilia, Georgiana, and Emma rose from the settee at once.
“We’ll wait for you upstairs, Sophia.” Georgiana and Emma paused at the door while Cecilia dropped an affectionate kiss on the top of Sophia’s head.
“Now, Sophia,” Lady Clifford said when the girls were gone. “You look a bit downcast, my dear. Why don’t you tell me what Lord Gray said to you?”
To Sophia’s horror, tears stung her eyes. She leapt up from the settee and retreated to the fireplace to hide them. “He thinks I used him. He said he wouldn’t be surprised to find he was my target all along, and not Peter Sharpe.”
“Did he, indeed? Well, we both know that’s not the case. What else did he say?”
Sophia bit her lip, but it didn’t stop the torrent of words. “He knows Jeremy isn’t dead, and that we’re behind his escape. He said because he was the one who brought me to Newgate, I’d implicated him in the crime.”
“Hmmm. I hadn’t thought of it quite that way, but I suppose there’s some truth to it.” Lady Clifford shrugged. “Anything else?”
Sophia hesitated. “Ought we to have done that? Implicated him, I mean?”
Lady Clifford gave her a serene smile. “Oh, I shouldn’t worry about Lord Gray if I were you, dear. Mr. Hogg is the only one who witnessed his involvement, and he isn’t likely to reappear in London, is he? In any case, Lord Gray is more than capable of taking care of himself. Now, did he say anything else?”
Sophia wandered back to the settee and settled in next to Lady Clifford. “He said this was an end to it, or something of that nature, and then he said there was no reason for us to ever meet again. He meant it, too, my lady.”
His eyes had looked like two chips of cold, hard gray stone. When she’d looked into them, she could hardly believe he’d been kissing her with mad passion just a moment before.
Once again, Lady Clifford looked more thoughtful than concerned. “Yes, I’m certain he thought he did, but I’m not quite ready to dispense with Lord Gray’s services yet.”
Sophia gave her a blank look. “I don’t understand.”
“Peter Sharpe is a dangerous man, Sophia, and he’s had a good look at your face. Aside from the question of access, there’s the issue of your safety. Daniel is off tending to Jeremy, so we no longer have his protection. Lord Gray may not be pleased with you, but he’s far too honorable to allow anything to happen to you.”
Sophia jumped to her feet again, more agitated than she cared to admit by this observation. “Certainly, he will. I daresay he’d be pleased at it. You didn’t see his face this morning, my lady.”
“He’s angry, Sophia, and I daresay he feels betrayed. One can’t blame him, really, but he’s wrong, of course. You and Lord Gray still need each other, despite what he may think. I suggest you return to Great Marlborough Street tonight, my dear.”
“Tonight!” Sophia cried. “How will I manage that? It’s not as if I can simply stroll into his townhouse as I did yesterday. He’ll have me turned away at the door.”
Lady Clifford smiled. “My dear child, who said anything about the door?”
* * * *
“Well, Gray, here you are,” Lord Lyndon announced, pausing in the doorway to Tristan’s library. “I’ll have you know Tribble lied to me. Told me you weren’t home, the scoundrel.”
“That’s because I ordered him to lie to you.”
“That wasn’t very gentlemanly of you, but perhaps I should have gone away while I had the chance. What’s the trouble now, Gray? For a man with a glass of port in his hand and a roaring fire at his feet, you look grim enough.”
“What are you doing here, Lyndon? It’s late.” Foolish question, really. Lyndon was like a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out mischief. Whenever something was afoot, he always appeared sooner or later.
“Call it curiosity, if you like.” Lyndon strolled into the library, pausing at the sideboard to help himself to a glass of port. “So, I repeat, Gray. What’s the trouble now?”
“No trouble. I’m perfectly content.” So content, he’d been sitting alone in his library for hours, sipping port and sulking like a spoiled child.
“Content, eh? Well, I’m glad to hear it.” Lyndon dropped into the chair beside Tristan’s, rested his feet on the grate, and raised his glass to his lips.
Tristan knew Lyndon far too well to believe he’d leave it there. He waited for the next round of volleys, and Lyndon, who could never stay quiet for long, didn’t disappoint him. “This contentment of yours, Gray. May I ask if it’s the result of your visit to the Clifford School today?”
“More or less.” Rather less than more, however.
“Good, good. Then you discovered Jeremy Ives is, in fact, as dead as the Times claims he is, and that he was, in fact, guilty of Henry’s murder?”
Tristan blew out a breath. Lyndon had a charming way of getting straight to the heart of a matter. “Not exactly, no.”
Lyndon’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “No? Why, you can’t mean to say Miss Monmouth lied to you, can you? That she and that coven of witches at No. 26 Maddox Street didn’t stuff a convicted murderer into a coffin and smuggle him out of Newgate before dawn this morning?”
“Ives is no murderer. It would be a great deal easier if he were.” This business with Sharpe and Ives and Sophia Monmouth had more heads than a Gorgon
, each of them writhing with dozens of hissing snakes, but Tristan knew beyond any doubt Jeremy Ives was innocent.
“Not a murderer, you say? Well, is he dead, or isn’t he?”
“He’s not that, either.”
Lyndon frowned. “Well, where the devil is he, then?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea. Miss Monmouth was less than forthcoming this morning.” At least, she’d been tight-lipped about Jeremy Ives. Otherwise, she’d had plenty to say, and none of it pleasant to hear.
Do you truly believe you know anything about guilt and innocence?
He had thought so, yes. God knows he’d seen enough of both to have an opinion on the matter, but Miss Monmouth had a talent for throwing his every thought into disarray. It was…disconcerting.
Laws were imperfect, and the execution of them even more so. Tristan had always thought so. Now he was taking his brother’s place in the House of Lords, he was in a position to do something about it. But questions of guilt and innocence, goodness and evil—they were concepts he’d always accepted without question as absolute. Thanks to Miss Monmouth, they’d now become a great deal trickier than they’d ever been before.
You saw Jeremy. Is the law working for him?
The trouble with Sophia Monmouth was, she wasn’t entirely wrong. He understood her frustration, yet he shuddered to think how dangerous London would be if everyone thought as she did.
“You know what I think, Gray?”
Tristan swallowed the rest of his port and abandoned his glass on the table. “No, but I suspect you’re going to tell me.”
“I think your little pixie has you turned inside out.”
Tristan wished with everything inside him his friend was mistaken, but there was no use in denying it. In a few short weeks, Sophia Monmouth had upended the carefully arranged pieces of his life as easily as if she’d tipped over a chessboard.
Now all was chaos, with the king, queen, and pawns scattered everywhere.
“You are aware she’s the only one who can turn you right way ’round again, aren’t you? Or not, as the mood strikes her. Make no mistake about it, Gray. We’re but slaves to the whims of those ladies who slither under our skins.”
