The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray

by Anna Bradley

  Tristan rolled his eyes. “You’re quite a philosopher tonight, Lyndon, but Sophia Monmouth isn’t under my skin, or any other part of me. I’m as good as betrothed to another lady.”

  “Ah, that’s the spirit, Gray. Curious thing, though. It’s been ages since I heard you say a word about this other lady. Tell me, what was her name again?”

  “You think to catch me out? I’m sorry to disappoint you Lyndon, but I know very well her name is…is…”

  Damn it, what the devil was her name again? Lady Emilia? Lady Emily, wasn’t it, or…Lady Emma?

  Lyndon snorted. “That’s what I thought. You can’t marry Lady Esther—”

  “Esther? Is that it?” How odd. The name didn’t sound even vaguely familiar.

  “You can’t marry Lady Esther if you’re besotted with Miss Mon—”

  “Besotted!” Tristan jerked upright in his seat. “Are you mad? I’m not besotted with her, Lyndon.”

  Lyndon raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon. I was under the impression you were.”

  “No. I want her. Desire her. Can you blame me? You saw her. It’s a purely physical urge, for God’s sake, not an emotional one. I’ve never come across a more stubborn, quarrelsome lady in my life. How could I possibly be besotted with her?”

  The very notion was ridiculous. He’d never permit himself to become enamored with a willful, unpredictable, reckless termagant like Sophia Monmouth. No, when he decided it was time for him to become enamored with someone, he’d choose much more wisely than that. He preferred quiet, proper sorts of ladies, not unruly ones like Miss Monmouth.

  Ladies very much like Lady Emilia, in fact.

  Esther, that is. Lady Esther.

  Lyndon might know a great deal more about romantic entanglements than Tristan did—he’d had enough mistresses he should have learned something by now—but he was wrong about this.

  “Very well, Gray. If you say you’re not besotted with Miss Monmouth, then I have no choice but to believe you. I beg your pardon. It seems I misunderstood the depths of your feelings.”

  Tristan eyed his friend suspiciously. Lyndon had the most peculiar look on his face, as if he were doing his best to hold back a smirk.

  “It’s just as well you’re not besotted with her. She’s more trouble than she’s worth, I daresay. Indeed, I don’t see why you don’t simply leave London for Oxfordshire at once. I imagine your mother is in fits by now, and anyone can see you’re expiring with impatience to see Lady Esther again.”

  “I won’t leave London, Lyndon. Not until I’ve seen Henry’s murderer dangling at the end of a rope. I’ve got Abigail and Samuel’s welfare to consider, as well.”

  “Of course,” Lyndon murmured, his face softening at mention of Henry and his family. “But that hasn’t anything to do with Miss Monmouth. It’s no concern of yours if she’s in danger. She’s not your responsibility.”

  Tristan was well aware Lyndon was manipulating him, but it didn’t stop a thread of unease from winding through him. He’d been in a bit of a daze since he’d left the Clifford School this morning. His hard, sharp focus had been blunted with frustration and one too many glasses of port, but at Lyndon’s words it returned with a vengeance.

  “Pity she should have been so foolish as to get involved in this mess with Peter Sharpe, but it’s her own fault.” Lyndon shrugged. “She only has herself to blame for it if Sharpe comes after her. I assume he got a look at her when she planted her locket on him?”

  “He did.” Peter Sharpe had gotten a lengthy look at a face most men would find it difficult to forget. Even if Sharpe didn’t realize she’d been following him for weeks, he still had reason enough to resent her, given the scoundrels in front of Ye Old Mitre Pub had nearly kicked his head in at her bidding.

  Sharpe was a liar, and a man without scruples or conscience. He’d been perfectly happy to see Jeremy Ives hang for a crime Sharpe knew damn well the boy hadn’t committed. But Sharpe was a fool, and also a coward. He was utterly incapable of devising a complex scheme like the one that had trapped Ives, and just as incapable of carrying it out.

  For all his viciousness, Sharpe was a pawn, not a king.

  Sophia could manage a man like Sharpe easily enough, but the fourth man Jeremy Ives had spoken of, the one who’d murdered Henry…

  He was another sort of man entirely.

  A villain such as that, one who’d slit an innocent man’s throat and stand by while his life’s blood seeped into the dirt—that sort of man was capable of anything, and Tristan didn’t doubt he knew all about Sophia.

  He shot to his feet, unable to sit still a moment longer.

  “I see you understand me, Gray.” Lyndon finished off the rest of his port.

  Tristan recalled what he’d told Sophia this morning, and a dry laugh rose to his lips. “I told Miss Monmouth her part in this thing was over, and warned her to stay away from me.”

  “A bit hasty, that, but I shouldn’t worry too much, Gray. I doubt she’ll listen. Miss Monmouth isn’t the sort to take orders from you. Well then, this has been a tidy night’s work, if I do say so myself.” Lyndon rose to his feet. “I’ll take my leave now. You will send word if you find yourself in need of assistance?”

  “Yes, yes.” Tristan stopped his pacing and lifted his head. “Lyndon?”

  “Yes?” Lyndon paused by the door.

  “Thank you.”

  Lyndon grinned. “We’ll see if you’re still thanking me tomorrow. Good night, Gray.”

  He strolled from the library into the hallway. A few minutes later Tristan heard him scold Tribble for being a lying sot, before he cheerfully bid the butler a good evening.

  The front door opened, then closed again.

  Tristan remained in front of the fire for a bit after Lyndon left, staring down at the flames, but it wasn’t long before he found himself drawn to his library window.

  He couldn’t have said what drew him there. Had he gone to make certain Lyndon made it safely to his carriage? Or had there been something else, some whisper from deep inside him that told him what he’d find? Whatever the reason, what he saw when he glanced outside his window froze him where he stood.

  His first thought was he’d imagined her.

  But no. He wasn’t foxed, and he wasn’t seeing things. That small, black-clad figure was no ghost, and no delusion. Not figment, but flesh. Not shadow, but substance.

  There was a woman, lying on the roof of Lord Everly’s pediment.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.

  Sophia lay on her back, still as a corpse, and gazed up at Tristan’s library window above her, blinking against the dampness that clung to her eyelashes. The mist was so heavy it felt suffocating, like fistfuls of damp soil were pressing her into the cold slate roof beneath her.

  Her own little grave.

  The only thing darker than the sky was Tristan’s townhouse. It was as silent as a tomb, every window shrouded in heavy silk draperies. It didn’t look as if he were home, but it didn’t matter much whether he was or not. Even if he was looking out his window at her at this very moment, she doubted it would make any difference.

  Sophia wasn’t one to doubt Lady Clifford—she’d never known her ladyship to be wrong before—but in this particular instance, she wondered if her mentor had missed the mark. Lady Clifford hadn’t seen Tristan’s face this morning, or heard his tone of cold dismissal when he’d told Sophia there was no need for them ever to meet again.

  This ends here…

  Sophia didn’t imagine another sojourn on Lord Everly’s roof would change his mind.

  It had been a simple enough thing to climb his lordship’s columns again, but it wasn’t nearly as much fun as it had been the first time. Tonight, the patter of raindrops on the slate roof didn’t sound like a symphony, or like bells chiming. It sounde
d, and felt, like a depressing drizzle, and chillier than it should be for August in London.

  Worse, it was all to no purpose. She was dallying on a roof, wasting her precious time. There were only two reasons for her to linger on Great Marlborough Street. One was a man she’d sworn not to follow, and the other a man who’d never come.

  She given her word to Lord Gray she wouldn’t follow Peter Sharpe again, and she intended to keep it, but just in case that wasn’t reason enough to curb her reckless tendencies, Lady Clifford had also made her promise she’d come directly back to No. 26 Maddox Street if Lord Gray didn’t appear.

  He hadn’t appeared, for all that Sophia been lying here for what felt like an eternity. If she had been in her grave, the worms would have devoured her by now. Her spine ached from lying for so long on the hard slate, and she even caught herself wishing for a few layers of petticoats. She detested them, but even they’d be preferable to a chilled backside.

  Peter Sharpe hadn’t turned up, either, but Sophia guessed he’d be back on the prowl soon enough. No doubt he had dozens of nefarious deeds to see to tonight, and because of her promise, he’d be free to indulge in his choice of petty crimes without any witnesses.

  Bitter frustration flooded Sophia at the thought of him creeping about St. Clement Dane’s Church, the scene of the worst of his crimes, lying in wait for some unsuspecting victim to stumble upon him. It was too maddening to contemplate, but this was what came of making promises, wasn’t it? She’d know better than to give her word next time.

  Still, she’d given it this time, and she wouldn’t go back on it now.

  Sophia cast one last despairing look at Tristan’s dark windows before sliding to the edge of the pediment, shimmying down the columns to the top railing of the wrought iron fence, and dropping silently onto the pavement.

  Just as she had the first night, she kept to the shadows as she crept through the streets toward No. 26 Maddox Street. The night was a black one, the moon shrouded by a layer of clouds. It was easy enough to sneak along without anyone taking notice of her.

  She headed down Great Marlborough Street, weaving between the townhouses where she could lose herself in the gloom. She stole toward Mill Street, but she hadn’t gotten further than half a block when she caught a faint whiff of smoke. Sophia wrinkled her nose with distaste as the acrid stench drifted toward her. Sharpe would do well to give up those pipes if he wanted to skulk about the streets unnoticed. It was the easiest thing in the world to track him with that stream of smoke trailing behind him—

  Sophia froze, pressing her back against the wall.

  But she wasn’t tracking him, was she? Yet there was no mistaking that hint of smoke. Either Great Marlborough Street was crowded with pipe-loving criminals, or…

  Or Peter Sharpe was tracking her.

  Sophia melted into the thickest of the shadows and waited. A moment later she heard the steady tread of footsteps coming up Great Marlborough Street behind her. The hair on her neck and arms rose, just as it always did when she felt an unfriendly presence nearby.

  He wasn’t particularly skilled at stalking his prey. He shuffled clumsily along behind her, almost as if he wanted her to know he was there. She couldn’t imagine what he had to gain by revealing himself, but one thing was clear enough. He’d known she was waiting outside Lord Everly’s townhouse tonight, but instead of informing Lord Everly, who would certainly have sent for the night watchman, Sharpe had come after her himself.

  Peter Sharpe wasn’t clever, but after that ill-advised scene in front of Ye Old Mitre Pub, it wouldn’t take amazing powers of deduction for him to conclude someone had been following him, and to guess she was the most likely culprit. Now it seemed he’d decided to return the favor.

  Blast it. Ill-advised was putting it far too kindly. The foolishness of that stunt was now being impressed on her with a vengeance. Her throat tightened as Lady Clifford’s last warning before she’d left this evening echoed inside her head.

  He’s dangerous, and he’s seen your face.

  Still, how difficult could it be to evade him? He might try to come after her, but he’d never catch her. No one ever did, with the notable exception of Lord Gray. He’d caught her, and given how disappointed she’d been when he hadn’t come for her tonight, it seemed he had a hold on her still.

  Now wasn’t the time to dwell on it, however.

  Sophia focused her attention on the thump of heavy boots hitting the pavement, her ears pricking as she neared Pollen Street on their right. They were getting too close to No. 26 Maddox Street for her comfort. Sharpe had seen her face, yes, but he might not yet have realized she was connected with the Clifford School, and she’d just as soon he didn’t have that information.

  She paused at the corner of Pollen Street, debating whether to continue on toward No. 26 Maddox, where Lady Clifford was likely watching for her, or to lead Sharpe away from the Clifford School.

  That single, brief moment of hesitation was her undoing.

  When the attack came, she wasn’t ready for it. Not because she hadn’t anticipated it, but because it didn’t come from behind her.

  It came from in front of her.

  Later, Sophia would recall there’d been a sound first—a faint, rhythmic tapping echoing in the empty street. She jerked her head toward it, but by then, it was too late.

  By then, it was already happening.

  There was no time for her to flee, or even to a draw a breath before the dark figure that emerged from the shadows crashed into her, throwing her to the ground. She tried to catch herself with her hands, but the blow knocked the breath from her lungs, and her face hit the pavement.

  She was vaguely aware of the thump of pounding footsteps behind her, but even as she opened her lips to cry out for help a blinding pain exploded at the side of her head, stealing the words from her lips.

  Unnecessary risk, Sophia…

  She should have listened to Lady Clifford. She’d warned Sophia her recklessness would catch up to her someday.

  Now, that day had come.

  * * * *

  Tristan’s every muscle was tensed to spring into action, but he forced himself to wait until he heard the thud of retreating footsteps fade into the foggy London night before he peeled himself off Sophia’s prone body. “Sophia?”

  No answer, and she’d gone frighteningly still, her small body crumpled against the damp pavement, the blow forceful enough to have knocked her senseless.

  Tristan turned her as gently as he could onto her back. As soon as he saw her face, his heart rushed into his throat. Her cheek was scraped raw from the dirt and grit on the street, her lower lip and forehead were gushing blood, and her temple was swelling with a knot the size of a fist.

  And those were just the injuries he could see.

  There’d be others, likely worse than these. Tristan hadn’t gotten a good look at the man who’d attacked her, but he’d seen enough to guess the villain had outweighed her by at least three stone. He’d fallen upon her like a fury, slamming her face-first into the street, then Tristan had made things worse by leaping onto the man’s back.

  He hadn’t had any other choice, but as Tristan slid his arms underneath Sophia and gathered her against his chest, that didn’t make him feel any better. He’d knocked a tiny young woman to the ground. He was a monster, a beast, a hulking, clumsy brute of a man—

  “Don’t take me…Lady Clifford.”

  Tristan gazed down into her face, his heart pounding. Dear God, the wits had been knocked clean out of her head. “I’m not Lady Clifford. It’s Tristan—that is, Lord Gray.”

  She cracked open one eye and peered up at him through the slit. A furrow appeared on her forehead as she stared at him, but then her brow cleared. “Yes, you are Lord Gray, aren’t you? What I mean is, please don’t take me to the Clifford School. Take me home with you.”

  Trist
an hesitated. There was no denying the idea of taking her to Great Marlborough Street filled him with a rush of possessive satisfaction, but it wasn’t proper, and No. 26 Maddox was closer—

  “Please, Lord Gray. My friends will fall into a panic if I return in this state.” She raised a hand to her temple, wincing as her fingers found the knot there. “Oh, dear. There will be no hiding that, will there?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Tristan took her wrist in gentle fingers and eased her hand away from the wound. “It’s a pity you discarded the enormous hat you wore to Jeremy’s trial. It might have done the job.”

  Incredibly, a weak smile crossed her lips. “I promised Lady Clifford I’d be careful tonight. If she suspects I’ve been reckless, she’ll have my head for it.”

  A short, incredulous laugh fell from Tristan’s lips. “I would think, Miss Monmouth, she’d be so pleased to find your head still attached to your neck, she’d let the incident go.”

  A small hand curled into the edge of his coat, silencing him at once. “Please, Tristan?”

  He blinked down at her, found a pair of wide, pleading green eyes gazing up at him, and that was the end of the argument. Tristan turned toward Great Marlborough Street without another word.

  Tribble was hovering in the entryway. The butler had been standing at the door when Tristan rushed out earlier after Sophia, and like the meticulously trained servant he was, Tribble had wisely deduced his master might require his assistance when he returned.

  If he was shocked to see Tristan return with a bleeding lady in his arms, one would never know it by the perfectly impassive expression on his face. “Have you brought a guest, my lord?”

  Under any other circumstances Tristan might have laughed, but he couldn’t quite find the humor in the situation while Sophia was slumped against his chest, the blood from her cut lip now trickling down her chin. “You could say that. Bring a basin of water, some bandages, and whatever else you deem necessary to tend to the lady’s injuries to the library, Tribble.”