by Anna Bradley
Nothing like the wild, messy, desperate passion of last night.
A few short weeks ago he’d been on his way back to Oxfordshire, reconciled to his fate, but now here he was flopping about uselessly in his bed with a throbbing cock, worrying over a wild, dark-haired pixie of a woman who bent the law to suit her whims.
And he didn’t care. He, the Ghost of Bow Street, a man who’d spent years of his life dedicated to eradicating crime in London, didn’t care if the lady he’d taken to his bed climbed columns, dressed in breeches, and bribed a prison guard to free a convicted murderer from the dungeons at Newgate. An innocent convicted murderer, to be fair, but a bribe was a bribe, and breeches were breeches.
How could he have become so besotted with a headstrong, willful chit like Sophia Monmouth? Worst of all, she was reckless. Not five hours after she’d been threatened by a club-wielding villain, she’d gone wandering off into the dark again, as if it were inconceivable the blackguard who’d attacked her once already might decide to have another go at her.
Sophia Monmouth was going to be the death of him. Of him, or herself.
Tristan tossed the covers back and threw his legs over the side of the bed. What had he done with his breeches? He rose and stumbled about in the dark until he found them tangled in the bed hangings. He pulled them over his hips and yanked the bell to summon a servant, then strode over to his desk. He snatched up paper and a quill, scrawled a quick note, then paced from one end of the bedchamber to the other as he waited for a servant to appear.
A few moments later, Tribble himself came in. “Good morning, Lord—”
“Never mind the pleasantries, Tribble.” Tristan handed the paper to him and waved a hand toward the door. “Have one of the footmen take that to Lyndon, and hurry, man. Tell him it’s urgent, and to come at once.” Lyndon wasn’t going to be pleased to be rousted from his bed in the wee hours of the morning, but it couldn’t be helped.
As it happened, Lyndon wasn’t pleased, particularly when he discovered the reason he’d been summoned. He stood in the middle of Tristan’s bedchamber, his clothing askew and his hair standing on end, frowning as he listened to Tristan explain his dilemma.
At last, he held up a hand for silence. “A moment, if you would, Gray. Do you mean to tell me you spent the night with Miss Monmouth, then woke to find she’d left you alone in your bed? That’s why you dragged me out here in the middle of the night?”
Tristan blinked. “Well, not just that.”
“Good Lord, Gray. You said it was urgent. I thought your bloody townhouse was on fire!” Lyndon threw himself into a chair and thumped a booted foot down on the ottoman. “I left Lady Cerise in such a pout I feared a bird would fly through the window and land on her lower lip. Nothing less than sapphires and diamonds will sooth her hurt feelings. I’ll make certain Rundell & Bridge send the bill to you.”
Tristan had resumed pacing, but now he turned to Lyndon with a frown. “Lady Cerise? When did that start? I’m not sure she’s a wise choice as mistresses go, Lyndon.”
Lyndon dragged a weary hand down his face. “It’s…we were…oh, for God’s sake, Gray! What difference does it make when it started? Let’s concentrate on the matter at hand, shall we? The way I see it, you’ve taken a thief into your bed, yet you’re quibbling with me over whether Lady Cerise is a suitable mistress.”
“She isn’t a thief!” Tristan burst out, then snapped his mouth closed, surprised at his own vehemence.
“Ah. Changed your mind about that, have you? Well, I won’t say I didn’t see that coming.” Lyndon studied him with narrowed eyes. “Very well, then. She’s not a thief, but she’s not an innocent, either.”
Tristan pressed his lips together to stop himself from leaping to Sophia’s defense again. The truth was, she wasn’t innocent. She’d already confessed to helping Jeremy Ives escape from Newgate. Then again, questions of guilt, innocence, and justice had become considerably murkier since he’d met Sophia. “In any case, Miss Monmouth’s not my mistress.”
Lyndon snorted. “Not if you have your way about it. Anyone can see you’re besotted with her.”
“I’m not besotted, just…” Tristan trailed off. Once again, Lyndon was right. If wanting Sophia more than any other woman he’d ever known—if finding her fascinating and worrying about her safety meant he was besotted—then he was certainly besotted with her. Since he’d met her, he’d hardly spared a thought for anything else.
That was rather a problem, wasn’t it? Tristan dropped into the chair across from Lyndon with a sigh. He’d spent one night with Sophia. They hadn’t made love, yet he already found it intolerable to wake without her in his bed.
“Let me ask you this, Gray. Do you trust Miss Monmouth?”
Ah, that was the crux of the issue. Given the business with Ives and Sophia’s association with Lady Clifford, he shouldn’t trust her, yet…
“I do. I’ve never known anyone like her before, Lyndon. She doesn’t think as we do, but I don’t question her honor. My every instinct tells me she’s a lady of conscience.”
“I see.” Lyndon studied the tip of his boot. “Do these instincts originate in your brain, Gray, or between your legs?”
Tristan’s eyebrows shot up. Well, that was plain enough, but then Lyndon had never been one to mince words. He glanced at the bed, a pang of longing piercing his chest as he took in the rumpled sheets. Only mere hours ago, Sophia had been tucked into a blanket beside him, her legs pressed against his, her hair scattered in a wild tumble across his chest.
He met Lyndon’s gaze. “I don’t know, Lyndon. I can’t deny I want her. That’s the problem. I haven’t the faintest bloody idea about anything anymore.”
Lyndon let out a long sigh. “Christ, Gray. I liked you better when you were dull and responsible. When did you start making such a bloody mess of everything?”
“Yes, well, I did say it was urgent.” A small smile crossed Tristan’s lips. “My apologies to Lady Cerise.”
Lyndon didn’t reply right away, but rose to his feet and wandered over to the window. The moon had disappeared while they’d been talking. The sun was feeble yet, still struggling through the fog of dirt and grime, but the city had begun to stir. Lyndon rested his palms on the sill, his head down. “You might be better off turning this business with Miss Monmouth back over to Sampson Willis.” Lyndon turned back to face Tristan. “You’re an earl now, Gray, not a Bow Street Runner.”
Tristan thought of the menacing figure who’d leapt out of the darkness last night, the sickening crack as Sophia’s head met the pavement, and shook his head. “No. I can’t simply walk away now. Someone attacked Sophia last night, Lyndon. I came upon them just in time, but I have no doubt he would have left her dead if he’d had the chance.”
Lyndon paled. “Jesus. This business is foul to the very core, isn’t it? I’m worried this won’t end well for you, or for Miss Monmouth. Your feelings for her are complicated, and it only becomes more so when you throw Lady Clifford into the mix. She plays fast and loose with the law, and those in London who are aware of the Clifford School know it.”
“I’m no longer so certain about Lady Clifford’s character, either. I don’t deny her code of ethics differs from mine, but she does have one.” That had surprised Tristan, given what he knew about Lady Clifford, but it shouldn’t have. Gossips, after all, rarely troubled themselves much with the truth.
Lyndon sighed. “I met Miss Monmouth, talked to her. I don’t believe she’s a thief or a criminal, but I’m not sure it makes sense for you to trust her either, Gray. You hardly know her, for one, and you already know her hands aren’t entirely clean.”
Tristan knew it to be true, but it was difficult to hear it from Lyndon. Lyndon saw his struggle, and turned back to the window to give Tristan privacy, but the more Tristan tried to sort out his thoughts, the more they slipped from his hands. So, he sat quietly, utterly st
ill, and let every encounter he’d had with Sophia since he first saw her on Lord Everly’s roof drift through his mind.
The boy’s tunic, and that black cap—he shook his head, a half-smile on his lips. Now he’d seen her curves laid bare, he couldn’t imagine how he’d ever mistaken her for a boy.
The nimble grace with which she’d slipped through that wrought iron gate, the look on her face when he’d climbed it. She’d led him on quite a chase through London that night, and in truth, she hadn’t stopped since. He was still chasing her, not knowing which corner she’d dart around, which direction she’d lead him next.
She was reckless, stubborn and willful, yes, but more than anything else, she was alive. Her vibrancy, her determination, the way she was a little too much to handle. It was like galloping through a forest on a magnificent horse that wasn’t quite broken—risky, even dangerous, but breathtaking. That wildness in her called to something inside him, the same thing that had turned him into a Bow Street Runner. They weren’t so very different, really. In some ways, Sophia was more like him than anyone else he’d ever known.
In the ways that mattered.
Tristan lifted his gaze to Lyndon. “Sophia isn’t a thief, and she isn’t a criminal. She’s as ethical as you or me. She simply sees things differently than we do.”
Lyndon didn’t appear to hear him. “Gray? You may want to see this.” He was looking at something outside the window, his shoulders tense.
“I can’t walk away from this now, Lyndon,” Tristan murmured. His feelings for Sophia were complicated, but they were too powerful to deny. He’d always been wary of intense emotions because he hadn’t wanted to become like his mother or his elder brother, Thomas, who were both victims of their passions. He’d never wanted that for himself, but perhaps he was more like them than he’d ever realized. He’d been swept up into the whirlwind of Sophia Monmouth before he was even aware his feet had left the ground.
Lyndon leaned further over the sill to get a better look out the window, and a soft exclamation fell from his lips. “What the devil? I tell you, Gray, you’ll want to come and take a look out the window.”
Tristan stayed where he was, his gaze hardening as he fixed it on Lyndon’s back. “Did you hear me, Lyndon? I’m not turning this business over to Sampson Willis. I can’t.”
Lyndon made an impatient noise in his throat, then beckoned to Tristan with one hand, keeping his gaze on whatever was taking place outside. “For God’s sake, Gray, cease your blathering and come here, will you?”
Still, Tristan didn’t move. “You’re wrong about her, Lyndon. She’s unconventional, but—”
“Unconventional? Er…yes. You could say that.” Lyndon flapped a hand toward the window. “See for yourself.”
Tristan crossed his arms over his chest. “I grant you she’s unpredictable, and not the sort of lady we’ve ever known before, but for all her unpredictability, I don’t believe she’s up to anything truly unscrupulous.”
“No?” Lyndon turned and leaned back against the windowsill with his eyebrow raised. “Well, then. I suppose there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation why I’ve just seen her darting about in the mews, dressed as a milkmaid, with a yoke over her shoulders and a bucket of milk in each hand.”
Tristan stared at him for one frozen moment, then leapt from his chair and rushed to the window. He glanced from one end of the mews to the other, then peered directly below before turning to Lyndon with an incredulous expression. “Have you gone mad, Lyndon? She’s not down there!”
“The devil she isn’t.” Lyndon crowded into the window beside Tristan, and pointed at the mews below. “She right there, Gray, at Lord Everly’s kitchen door.”
Tristan nudged Lyndon aside. He could make out Everly’s servants’ entrance at the edge of the window, and he caught a glimpse of dark hair and drab skirts before the kitchen door opened, and the small figure disappeared into the depths of Lord Everly’s townhouse.
Chapter Sixteen
“Yer not Polly.” A slovenly-looking creature in a soiled apron stood in the doorway to Lord Everly’s kitchen, glaring at Sophia. “What’s ’appened to Polly?”
Not a thing had happened to Polly. On the contrary, she’d come upon Sophia at precisely the right time, and met with an extraordinary stroke of good luck. Polly had taken one look at the shiny gold sovereign in Sophia’s palm, snatched it up, and turned over her garb, yoke, and pails without a single question or a word of argument.
“Polly’s ill. I’m her, er…her sister.”
Just before Sophia had knocked on the door, she’d uttered a quick prayer Lord Everly didn’t employ one of those despotic French cooks—they were a fussy lot, always asking questions—but it seemed his lordship had gone in quite the opposite direction.
The woman swept a critical look over Sophia, then let out a derisive snort. “Sister, eh? Polly’s got two stone on ye, girl. Ye look like yer about to topple over with them pails.” She shifted half a step away from the door. “Aw right, then. The master must ’ave ’is milk, one way or t’other.”
Sophia stepped over the threshold of Lord Everly’s townhouse and into his kitchen, grinning to herself over the success of her plan. Yes, she was trussed up with a wooden yoke over her shoulders like a pair of oxen, but aside from the heavy milk pails she was staggering under, it had worked brilliantly.
Even better than the pediment roof.
Thinking of Lord Everly’s roof instantly conjured up thoughts of Tristan, but Sophia pushed them resolutely away. If she could judge by the scowl on Lord Everly’s cook’s face, she wasn’t the chatty, friendly sort, which meant Sophia had only a little time to work out how to get her business done before she was tossed out the door.
She glanced around, noting the layout of the kitchen, particularly the doors and windows. There was a tiny sliver of space underneath the door behind her. Sophia fingered the small metal buckle she’d pried off her shoe and shoved into her pocket. The gap was awfully narrow, but a good shove with her toe might see the thing done.
There was another doorway at the opposite end of the kitchen, but it was impossible to tell where it led. Then there was the one window behind her that looked out onto the mews. Sophia narrowed her eyes, considering it. It was small, but she might be able to slip through it if she were careful—
“Don’t stand about gaping like a half-wit, girl. Do yer work, and git.” The cook shoved a heaping spoonful of what appeared to be porridge into her mouth with one hand, and waved a meaty hand at the door with the other.
“Er…yes, ma’am.”
A timid scullery maid approached and offered her a milk jug. Sophia took it and upended the contents of her pail into it, one eye on her work, the other darting around the kitchens. The doorway on the opposite side of the room might lead into a stillroom with access to the small back garden, but it was difficult to tell from her position in front of the long wooden table. She craned her neck to the side, but all she could make out was a row of cabinets lining one wall, and—
“Ye’ve spilled the milk, ye clumsy chit! I told ye those pails were too heavy for ye! Ye got no meat on yer bones, girl.”
The scullery maid let out a terrified squeak, and Sophia looked down to see a single drop of milk had spilled from the pail onto the table. “I beg your—”
“Give it here.” The cook snatched the pail from Sophia’s hand, dumped the rest of the milk into the jug, then shoved the pail back into her arms. “Ye tell yer master to send Polly next time, or don’t bother coming to ’is lordship’s door. Now git!”
The cook turned a menacing look on the poor scullery maid, who darted across the kitchen as if the devil himself were after her and opened the door leading into the mews. “This way, miss.”
Sophia trudged across the room after her, muttering a prayer the gap beneath the door was wider than it looked. She didn’t necessarily expect her praye
rs to be answered—heaven didn’t look kindly on sinners like herself—but as she was being thrust out the door, she slid the buckle free from her pocket, hiding it in her palm.
“Beg pardon, miss.” The scullery maid gave her an apologetic look and stepped back from the door. She pushed it closed behind her, but before it could latch Sophia pressed her fingertips against the wood, stopping it.
She sucked in a breath, half-expecting the cook to descend on her with a rolling pin, but the woman didn’t come.
No one did.
Sophia crouched down, slid the yoke carefully from her shoulders, set it down as quietly as she could on the cobbles, and tried to slide the buckle under the door.
It didn’t fit.
She gave it a little shove, but it didn’t budge.
“Dash it.” She sat back on her heels, biting her lip with vexation. It was maddening to come so close only to give it up now, but the blasted buckle was too thick—
Sophia went still as she studied the space, then she got down on her knees to get a closer look, one hand still on the door. It sat crookedly in its frame, as if it hadn’t been hung properly. She pressed her fingertips against the bottom edge of the door and slid them from one side to the other. The slit was just a touch wider at the end closest to the hinge, just wide enough to…
Yes!
She jammed the end of the buckle into the space beneath the door, then gave it a shove with the heel of her hand. The buckle slid forward a tiny bit more, just enough so it was securely wedged beneath the door.
Sophia scrambled to her feet, a wide grin on her lips. She took up her yoke, balanced it on her shoulders, and made her way to the other end of the mews, where she handed it back over to Polly, who’d been waiting in a shadowy corner of the stables, out of sight of Lord Everly’s door. The girl swung the yoke onto her own shoulders as if it were no heavier than a silk shawl, and disappeared down the street.
