The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray

by Anna Bradley

  He hadn’t, after all, made any secret of his feelings about Lady Clifford.

  “I was suspicious of Lady Clifford at first, but in this instance, she hasn’t done anything wrong.” Tristan paused, then added, “That is, nothing that would land her in prison.”

  Sophia thought of Jeremy’s escape from Newgate, and sucked in a quick, stunned breath. She’d as good as admitted to Tristan Jeremy was still alive, and they were behind his miraculous escape. Tristan was well aware spiriting away an accused murderer before a noose could find his neck would most certainly land them in prison.

  He was lying for them.

  Her pounding heart calmed a bit as warmth filled her chest, but it started thrashing again at Sampson Willis’s derisive snort. “I see. I suppose that little dark-haired chit you’ve been gallivanting about with is equally as innocent, isn’t she? What’s her name again? Sophia something?”

  “Sophia Monmouth.” Tristan’s voice was even. “Yes, I was wrong about her, too. She’s innocent in this business.”

  Wrong about her? A sharp arrow of hurt pierced Sophia’s chest. That meant he’d thought her guilty at some point, but then she already knew that. He hadn’t made a secret of it, and she could hardly blame him. She wasn’t, in fact, innocent at all, and hadn’t been since the age of seven, when she’d begun to see the law as a thing to be bent and shaped according to her needs.

  As suggestions, not imperatives.

  To a man like Tristan, a former Bow Street Runner, she was closer to being a criminal than she was a proper, law-abiding citizen, yet he was defending—

  “Tell me, Gray. Does your belief in the girl’s innocence arise from her spotless behavior, or might there be something else influencing your opinion?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Tristan’s voice was tight with warning.

  “Oh, I think you do.” There was a brief pause, then the sound of footsteps. When Willis spoke again, he was closer to the door. “She’s a pretty thing, Miss Monmouth. Perhaps I should have taken that into account when I assigned you to investigate her.”

  “Miss Monmouth’s appearance has nothing to do with—”

  “But it’s been days since you brought me a report of her activities,” Willis went on, as if Tristan hadn’t spoken. “I should have realized then the girl had turned your head. Ah, well, perhaps it was inevitable, what with the way you’ve been scrutinizing her every move. We all have our weaknesses, don’t we, Gray?”

  Tristan said something in reply, but Sophia didn’t hear it. A dull roar filled her ears, and she sagged back against the wall. It was one thing to suspect her, but quite another to investigate her. Another still to—how had Willis put it?

  Scrutinize her every move.

  The meaning of Willis’s words sank in, and everything that had happened since that first night Tristan had chased her suddenly took on a more sinister cast. Of course, he’d been investigating her. Why, she couldn’t imagine how she hadn’t suspected it from the start.

  A pair of gray eyes and tempting lips, that’s how.

  But if he’d intended to turn her over to Willis, mightn’t he have done it when he found out about Jeremy’s escape? A tiny thread of hope rose in Sophia’s breast. Perhaps he had come to care for her, just as he claimed, but hadn’t known how to tell her the truth.

  Except he’d had plenty of opportunity to confess it, and he hadn’t said a single word.

  Still, that didn’t necessarily mean he—

  “Perhaps it would be best if you returned to Oxfordshire, Gray.” It was Sampson Willis again, his voice heavy with derision, and something else, a hint of something that was more difficult to identify. It sounded like…a warning.

  “I’m not going anywhere until this matter is brought to a satisfactory end.” Tristan’s voice was edged with ice.

  Willis let out an impatient huff. “Come now, Gray. Isn’t your mother expecting you at your country estate? Aren’t you meant to be marrying soon, as well? Surely, your betrothed is anxious for your return.”

  The tiny spark of hope still flickering in Sophia’s breast stuttered, then died.

  Tristan was betrothed.

  A laugh tore loose from her throat, silent and bitter. Had she really thought he cared about her? Dear God, how could she have been such a fool? He was an earl, a Bow Street Runner, and she was a grubby little orphan from Seven Dials with a shadowy past, and very likely a shadowy future.

  Gentlemen like the Earl of Gray didn’t fall in love with common criminals.

  “Lady Esther Whitstone, isn’t it?” Willis asked. “Lovely girl, Lady Esther. She’ll make an admirable Countess of Gray. Substantial portion on her too, eh?”

  Sophia’s hands came up instinctively to cover her ears, but it was too late for that. She’d heard it, and she couldn’t unhear it. Couldn’t undo it.

  Her throat closed. She’d taken Tristan to No. 26 Maddox Street, given him access to Lady Clifford, and shared everything she knew about Peter Sharpe with him. She’d fallen right into line, and right into his bed. He’d been damn clever, the way he’d gone about it, but then he was the Ghost of Bow Street. He knew how to manage a suspect, and his efforts had paid off.

  Lady Clifford, Cecilia and her other friends, Daniel and Jeremy—she’d put them all at risk when she’d brought Tristan to them. They trusted her judgment, and in return she’d exposed them to a man who’d lock the lot of them up in Newgate if given the chance.

  There was a brief silence, then Tristan said stiffly, “My personal affairs have nothing to do with this business, Willis.”

  It wasn’t a denial.

  Willis said something in reply, but Sophia had heard enough. She backed away from the library door and hurried down the hallway.

  The entryway was deserted.

  She paused at the bottom of the stairs, but there was no reason for her to return to Tristan’s bedchamber. No reason for her to have been there in the first place.

  As quickly and quietly as she could, she stole toward the door. No one saw her open it and slip out into the dusk.

  * * * *

  Sampson Willis was trying Tristan’s patience.

  He’d always admired Willis—had thought him a decent man, an honest one—but at the moment Tristan would have been happy to toss the magistrate out his front door.

  He’d never known Willis to be so obstinate before, but no matter what Tristan said, Willis seemed to be determined to argue with him.

  Tristan drew a breath, and tried again. “Listen to me, Willis. Jeremy Ives wasn’t the first man Sharpe accused of theft. A few months before the incident with Ives, Sharpe claimed a weaver from Clare Court—a man named Patrick Dunn—had tried to steal his pocket watch.”

  Willis was pacing from one end of the library to the other, but now he paused in front of the fireplace. “Sharpe was the victim of two thefts? That’s hardly unheard of in London, Gray.”

  “Not two, Willis. Four, two of them earlier this year. All four thefts took place at St. Clement Dane’s Church. If you doubt me, then check the Proceedings yourself. It’s right there for anyone who cares to look.”

  “That’s…I grant you that’s a rather startling coincidence.” Willis fumbled in his coat, withdrew a handkerchief, and used it to mop his brow.

  “Not startling, Willis. Suspicious. Sharpe is a liar. He’s been falsely accusing innocent men of theft for the better part of a year, and he’s not simply choosing any man who happens to be unlucky enough to cross his path. His victims aren’t random.”

  Willis stilled, his back to Tristan. “What do you mean?”

  Tristan paused, knowing Willis wasn’t going to care for what he had to say next. “Lord Everly’s been feeding him the names. All of the men Sharpe has accused are members of the London Corresponding Society. Odd coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  Willis whi
rled around, and his face had drained of color. “My God, Gray. You’re accusing a peer of committing a crime?”

  Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t suggesting an aristocrat is above the law, are you, Willis? Or are you arguing an earl is too noble to have committed a crime?”

  “No, I…n-no, of course not. It’s just all rather shocking. I…well then, Gray, I’ll do as you ask and dispatch a Runner to St. Clement Dane’s Church tonight.” Willis pressed a hand to his forehead. He looked shaken, as if he were trying to regain his wits. “After that cockup of Sharpe’s, Poole knows his way around St. Clement Dane’s.”

  Tristan froze.

  Cockup of Sharpe’s…

  Willis didn’t seem to realize what he’d revealed, but it was as if lightning had struck Tristan with a deafening crack, illuminating the truth in one cold, harsh flash of light.

  Willis could only be referring to one thing.

  Henry Gerrard’s murder.

  Poole had somehow been involved in Henry Gerrard’s murder.

  Had he been at St. Clement Dane’s Church that night? According to both Willis and Sharpe’s accounts, there’d been only three people there that night—Sharpe himself, Jeremy Ives, and Henry Gerrard. Willis had come later, after Sharpe ran to No. 4 Bow Street to fetch help.

  No one had said a single word about Poole being there.

  Until now.

  Tristan slowly raised his gaze to Willis’s face, an icy chill racing over his skin.

  Willis, who was now in a tearing hurry to leave, didn’t notice Tristan’s stare, nor did he realize he’d let slip a small detail he’d much better have kept hidden. “Right then, Gray. I’d best be off—great deal to do, you understand.”

  He didn’t give Tristan a chance to respond, but hurried from the library with the haste of a criminal fleeing the scene of a crime.

  Because that’s precisely what he was.

  For silent, endless moments after the front door slammed behind Willis, Tristan stood utterly still, images from the night Sophia was attacked drifting through his mind. He could recall with perfect clarity the man emerging from the shadows, a club gripped in his black-gloved hands.

  As for the man himself…

  He was tall but slight, lean and wiry. His face had been covered with a cap, but Tristan had a vague impression of pale skin, and sparse, dark hair.

  The last time he’d seen Poole was the day Tristan had gone to Bow Street, the morning after he’d caught Sophia chasing after Peter Sharpe. Poole had been slouched on a bench outside Willis’s office, a black cap on his head, his fingers wrapped around—

  A walking stick.

  A heavy wooden one, with a brass knob. The rhythmic tap of it against the heel of Poole’s boot echoed in Tristan’s head.

  Hadn’t Sophia said something about a cane, or a walking stick, on the day of Jeremy’s trial? Something about Sharpe claiming to have used a cane as a weapon again Jeremy—a cane that had since gone missing.

  There was only one explanation, only one way to fit all the pieces together, and the picture that emerged made Tristan’s blood run cold.

  Richard Poole is the fourth man.

  Tristan flew into the hallway and up the stairs two at a time—to the second floor, where he burst through his bedchamber door. “Sophia?”

  No answer. He ran from the sitting room toward his bedchamber, ducking his head into his dressing-room on the way. She wasn’t there.

  When he reached his bedchamber, he turned around in a circle, hoping with everything inside him she’d come to him, his dressing gown trailing behind her, the smile that had somehow become everything to him lighting up her face.

  She wasn’t there. His apartments were empty.

  Where was she? He strode toward the bed, his heart pounding with sudden fear. The room was dim, but the muted light caught on something on the table beside his bed—a dull gleam of silver.

  Tristan strode across the room and snatched it up.

  Sophia’s locket. He closed it in his fist.

  Her locket was here, but Sophia was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The last faint streaks of light faded in the sky as Sophia made her way down Great Marlborough Street, leaving Tristan’s townhouse behind, her steps taking her toward St. Clement Dane’s Church.

  Lady Clifford and Daniel would be leaving No. 26 Maddox Street by now. She could have gone to meet them at the Turk’s Head, but somehow, Sophia couldn’t bring herself to turn toward the Strand.

  There was an uncomfortable tightness pinching at her chest, like a stone wedged under her breastbone. It wasn’t guilt, precisely…regret, perhaps, but there was something else there that was worse than regret.

  Shame.

  She was ashamed of having allowed herself to believe, even for such a short time, that a man like Tristan Stratford could ever have any tender feelings for a woman like her. As soon as Lady Clifford saw her face, she’d read the truth there, and Sophia didn’t want her to see what a fool she’d been.

  It was difficult enough to bear her disappointment in herself. She couldn’t bear to disappoint her friends, especially Cecilia, who truly believed every lady was the heroine of her own story, and that love could be their saving grace. Perhaps it was even true, for the good little girls Sophia’s mother had so often spoken of.

  She’d never told Sophia what happened to wicked little girls.

  There was no sign yet of Peter Sharpe at St. Clement Dane’s, so Sophia ducked into the deserted graveyard beside the church, taking care to keep to the deepest shadows at the back, where cracked stone angels and broken crosses kept vigil over the moldering crypt with the iron gate hanging by a single, broken hinge.

  Sophia slipped through the gap, shivering at the breath of cold air inside the crypt that whispered over her skin. She didn’t venture deep inside, but lingered close to the gate, peering between the iron bars into the churchyard beyond.

  The sky turned a dark midnight blue above her and the shadows grew longer and thicker around her as she waited. London had been rainy this summer, but tonight there was no rain—just the thin, icy air inside the crypt, so steeped in decay and death it was a struggle to draw a deep breath.

  An hour passed. The moon tucked herself behind a bank of heavy clouds, plunging the graveyard into a murky darkness. Sophia’s limbs began to ache from standing too long in the same position, and still, no one came. Unease rose in her chest. Despite Tristan’s lies to her, she couldn’t believe he’d leave her to face Peter Sharpe and the fourth man alone.

  And what of Daniel and Lady Clifford? Surely, they should be here by now. They were meant to follow Francis Thelwall from the Turk’s Head to St. Clement Dane’s, but there was no sign of any of them. Lady Clifford would have sent her a message if plans had changed, but it might have arrived at Tristan’s townhouse after Sophia left.

  She wrapped her fingers around the iron bars, leaned her forehead against her hands, and did her best not to think about Tristan. Was he still arguing with Sampson Willis, or had he returned to his bedchamber and discovered she’d gone? He’d come after her once he did, if not for her sake, then for Henry Gerrard’s—

  Sophia’s head snapped up, her body tensing as she peered into the darkness. She’d seen something, a flash of movement, like…

  Yes, there it was again. A figure clothed in black, hardly discernible from the shadows surrounding the entrance to St. Clement Dane’s Church. Sophia strained to see into the gloom before her, waiting, until at last the shape broke free from the shadows, the dark silhouette of a man, creeping toward the churchyard.

  But which man? Peter Sharpe, Francis Thelwall, or the fourth man? It was too dark and the man still too far away for her to tell, but she knew it wasn’t Tristan. She’d recognize him instantly from the shape of his frame and the fluid, arrogant grace with which he walked, as if
he assumed everyone in his path knew him to be Lord Gray and the Ghost of Bow Street, and would scurry out of his way accordingly.

  Which, of course, they always did.

  Sophia edged around the side of the iron gate, keeping her gaze fixed on the lone figure as she crept to the west side of the graveyard, closer to the church itself. The man was moving steadily away from the entrance to the church, his head down and his hands shoved into his coat pockets.

  Closer, just a bit closer and she’d be able to see his face…

  It wasn’t Francis Thelwall. The man approaching was rather tall, but he was slender and wiry, much too slight to be Thelwall. Sharpe, then. It had to be Sharpe, here on Lord Everly’s orders to accuse Francis Thelwall of theft.

  Sophia paused, searching the front of the church, the churchyard behind her, and the rows of gravestones on either side of her. Where was Tristan, and Daniel and Lady Clifford? She bit her lip. It was possible they were hiding nearby—that they’d seen Peter Sharpe and were waiting for him to accost Francis Thelwall before revealing themselves, but if they were hidden in the graveyard or the churchyard, Sophia couldn’t see them.

  She skirted the edge of the graveyard, careful to keep low to the ground, where she was hidden by the thick gloom surrounding the headstones. She peered down the Strand in the direction of the Turk’s Head, her breath catching when she saw it was still deserted. She could handle Peter Sharpe, but there was no telling where the fourth man was lurking—

  “Oof!” Sophia let out a shocked gasp as her foot came up against something hard, half-hidden in the shadows. She stumbled and fell, but dragged herself up again on her hands and knees and scrabbled about, patting the ground around her, searching for whatever had tripped her.

  It was as dark here as it had been inside the crypt, the moon not having reemerged from the clouds. She couldn’t see a thing, but she crawled blindly forward until her hand landed on what felt like…the sleeve of a woolen cloak? She reached out cautiously, patting at the object, until her forward movement brought her knee up against…