by Anna Bradley
Tristan smirked. “Think about it, Poole. I’m sure the answer will come to you.”
But it didn’t come to him. For all Poole’s viciousness, he wasn’t a deep thinker. He looked from Tristan to Sophia with a puzzled expression.
“For God’s sake, Poole. Do I have to explain everything to you? Very well, then. Let me be more specific. If Miss Monmouth were to invite you to join her for a quick tumble amongst the tombstones, would you refuse her?”
From the corner of his eye Tristan noticed Sophia flinch, but he could see the dawning understanding on Poole’s face, and he forced himself to go on. “I don’t think there are many men alive who would refuse her. I doubt Mr. Sharpe proved to be an exception.”
Poole licked his lips and leered down at Sophia. “She’s a tempting bit, isn’t she?”
Tristan’s hand ached to strike the leer right off Poole’s face. It closed into a fist of its own accord, but he forced himself to keep his arm by his side. “Very. Once she had him down, it would be the easiest thing in the world for her to slit his throat. It doesn’t take strength so much as cunning. One swipe when Sharpe least expects it, and the thing is done.”
Tristan waited, his muscles tensed to pounce the moment Poole made a move, but the villain still hadn’t released Sophia.
“We’ll both claim to have witnessed Sharpe’s murder, of course. I doubt anyone will question the word of two Bow Street Runners, one of them an earl, particularly since Miss Monmouth has been seen following Sharpe all over London. But do as you will, Poole.” Tristan shrugged, as if he didn’t care one way or the other what Poole decided. “Though if you think you have trouble with Lady Clifford now, imagine what she’ll do when she finds one of her precious girls has been murdered in St. Clement Dane’s churchyard. Ah, well. I’m sure you’ll come up with some explanation that will satisfy Daniel Brixton.”
Poole went pale at the veiled threat, and while he retained his hold on Sophia’s arm, he dropped the one he’d wrapped around her neck. “All right, Gray. What do we do now?”
“Take her up for murder. What else?” Tristan was ready to snatch the dagger from Poole’s hand, but he held back, playing for an even greater advantage. “Wipe off your dagger in the dirt first. I’d rather not drag Miss Monmouth off to the magistrate for murdering Peter Sharpe while the man’s blood is still dripping from your blade.”
He’d hoped Poole would crouch down to clean the dagger in the dirt so he could pounce on him and smash his face into the ground, but Poole only shrugged, and wiped the blade across his pant leg.
“Come here, Miss Monmouth.” Tristan beckoned Sophia forward, his gaze holding hers. He didn’t dare do more than that until she was out of Poole’s reach, but he prayed she’d read his intent in his eyes. “I do apologize our time together had to come to such an unpleasant end. Speaking as a man who’s sampled your charms, I daresay I’m more upset about it than you are. You see, I wasn’t nearly done with you.”
Poole snorted.
Sophia took a shaky step forward, toward Tristan. His fingers twitched subtly, urging her another step closer to him, away from Poole. “Come along, Miss Monmouth. No sense in delaying the inevitable.”
She took another step toward him, her green eyes dazed. Another step, another…
“We haven’t got all night, Miss Monmouth.” Tristan stretched his hand out to her, his gaze steady on hers, but just as she stepped out of Poole’s reach, sudden doubt filled the man’s face. His eyes narrowed on Tristan, and whatever he saw there made him snatch at Sophia.
But Tristan was quicker. He grabbed her hand and jerked her forward with a wrench so powerful her feet left the ground, and he caught her in his arms and shoved her behind him. He heard her stumble, but there was no time for him to help her, or even to look back and reassure himself she was all right.
Poole was already on him, fury in his face and his dagger raised to strike. It came toward Tristan in a blur, the blade turned outward, aimed right at his throat.
Chapter Twenty-two
A burning pain shot up Sophia’s leg as she crashed onto her side on the ground behind Tristan. She lay there stunned, gagging and coughing, her hand flying up to clutch at her throat. It felt as if Poole’s punishing grip had crushed her windpipe, and a thin trickle of blood from his blade wetted her fingertips. She dragged in a desperate breath, then another, struggling to fight back the sharp edge of panic.
“Yer a bloody fool. I thought ye were smarter than to think with yer cock, Gray.” Poole’s menacing voice jerked her back to awareness, and she looked up to find Tristan had managed to throw Poole off, and they were now circling each other. “You’ve made a mistake tonight, my lord. The last one you’ll ever make.”
“You’ll hang for certain if you murder an earl, Poole, but then you’re going to hang anyway, aren’t you?” Tristan appeared calm, his tone faintly mocking, but his body was tensed as he waited for an opportunity to strike.
He was the bigger of the two men, but that advantage was more than offset by his lack of a weapon, and Poole knew it. He grinned at Tristan as he toyed with the dagger, tossing it lightly into the air, then catching it by the hilt again. “Not if I kill you. I’ve never heard of a dead man testifying in court, Gray.”
“Another murder won’t help you this time, Poole. Lady Clifford knows all about you and Peter Sharpe and Lord Everly, and you can be certain she’s told Kit Benjamin. Your neck is destined for a noose whether you kill me or not. Or perhaps she’ll simply turn you over to Daniel Brixton.” Tristan’s lips stretched in a bloodthirsty smile. “I’d rather face the noose, myself.”
Poole’s face paled with fear. “Then I may as well kill you. I don’t have anything to lose, and I’ve never liked you much, Gray. Always so grand, thinking you’re better than the rest of us.”
Tristan laughed. “Better than you, certainly.”
This taunt had the intended effect. Poole let out a snarl of fury and lunged at Tristan. Sophia’s heart rushed into her throat as the dagger arced through the air. Anger made Poole clumsy, and Tristan dodged him easily, but it was only a matter of time before Poole struck again, and the next time, Tristan might not be so lucky. All it would take was one well-aimed blow, one slice with the blade, and it would be over.
She staggered to her hands and knees, her first thought to crawl behind Poole and grab him around the legs, but Tristan kept his body in front of her, shielding her as he shifted in a wide arc around Poole. He was doing everything he could to protect her, which put him at a further disadvantage. How could he fend off Poole if part of his attention was focused on her?
A weapon. Tristan needed a weapon, but what? Sophia scrabbled blindly at the ground, praying she’d come across a loose rock or even a branch, but she found only dirt and a few loose pebbles. It wasn’t much, but if she could get close enough to Poole and catch him unawares, she might be able to blind him.
Sophia snatched up a handful of the dirt in a tight fist and scrambled into a crouch, ready to scurry around Tristan to get to Poole, but a grunt of pain stopped her. She stumbled to her feet just in time to see Poole drag the edge of his blade across Tristan’s forearm.
“That one’ll bleed nicely.” Poole sprung back with a bloodthirsty smirk and flicked his gaze over the blade of his dagger, his mouth curling with satisfaction at the blood dripping from the tip. “Not feeling dizzy, are you, Gray? It’ll be your chest next time.”
Sophia watched in horror as blood spurted from Tristan’s wound, turning the sleeve of his white shirt a dark red. Nausea swamped her, nearly sending her to her knees again.
Tristan pressed his other hand against the wound to staunch the flow, but he didn’t waste his energy replying to the taunt. His gaze darted from Poole’s face to the dagger in his hand as he and Poole continued to circle each other.
Poole lunged again, missed, then lunged a second time, aiming his blade at Trist
an’s chest. Tristan dodged at the last minute and the strike flew wide. Before Poole could regain his balance, Tristan charged at him, grabbing him around the waist and knocking him onto his back on the ground. The breath left Poole’s lungs in a stunned whoosh. Tristan fell on top of him and closed his hands around Poole’s throat, but Sophia could see his wounded arm was stiff. He was weakened by blood loss, as well, and Poole managed to throw him off.
Sophia rushed forward then, ready to blind Poole with the dirt in her hand while he was down, but for all that Poole lacked cleverness, he was a skilled fighter, as deadly with a dagger as he was vicious. He was up again in a flash, rolling onto his feet in one smooth move.
He saw Sophia approach from the corner of his eye and sent her sprawling with one blow from the back of his hand. She vaguely registered a howl of rage, and the sounds of a furious scuffle as she crumpled to the ground.
Don’t swoon. Not now, not now…
The clouds had receded, and a dark sky sprinkled with stars swam above her. Their bright edges blurred together, then began to fade to black as her vision tunneled, but just as consciousness threatened to desert her, the spire of St. Clement Dane’s Church came into focus, the light gray stone pale against the midnight sky.
Henry’s spire…
That spire was the last thing Henry Gerrard had seen before his eyes closed forever. He would have found serenity in the sight of that spire reaching into the heavens—a final moment of peace before his heart beat its last. Sophia could understand that peace as she lay on her back, her gaze fixed on the spire soaring into the sky.
She’d have to remember to tell Tristan how it felt…
Because she wouldn’t die here tonight. She wouldn’t die, and she’d do whatever she must to see to it Tristan didn’t either. The spire of St. Clement Dane’s Church wouldn’t be the last thing she ever saw.
It had begun here, but it wouldn’t end here.
Sophia dragged in deep breaths as she stared up at the spire, focusing on it until the dizziness receded. One breath, another…slowly, her heart ceased its panicked thrashing, and the darkness receded from the edges of her vision. A calm descended over her, almost as if someone were whispering soothingly into her ear.
Such a good girl, Sophia…
Not a good girl, no. She’d never been that, had never even understood what it meant to be that. But maybe once, just this one time, she could be the heroine.
Sophia staggered to her feet, blood spurting out of her nose from the blow to her face. Tristan and Poole were scrambling in the dirt, each of them trying to pin the other to the ground and gain the upper hand. Hope surged in Sophia’s chest as Tristan rolled on top of Poole, but she didn’t wait to see who’d emerge the victor.
There was no time.
Instead she flew towards the church, stopping halfway there and falling to her knees in front of the dilapidated crypt she’d hidden inside earlier tonight. There was a heavy marble cross half-buried in the dirt in front of the arched doorway. She’d noticed there was a long, deep crack in it, close to the bottom. One kick was all it would take to break it, but she’d have to land the blow carefully, or she risked the entire thing crumbling to pieces.
The cross tilted crazily in the loose dirt at its base. She clawed at the ground, shoving the dirt to one side, then staggered to her feet and muttered a quick prayer just as she brought her heel down hard right over the crack near bottom of the cross.
The marble fractured with a cold, hollow snap. Bits of chipped stone flew everywhere, but the cross remained mostly intact, and heavy enough to use as a weapon. Sophia heaved it up in both hands and ran with it back to where Tristan and Poole were struggling in the dirt.
What she saw when she drew near made her freeze, and her heart stop in her chest.
Tristan was on his back, with Poole on top of him. Poole’s hands were raised over his head, and between them he held the dagger, the point aimed for Tristan’s heart. The faint hint of moonlight peeking through the clouds gleamed dully on the blade as it arced downwards. Tristan caught Poole’s wrists before Poole could plunge the dagger into his chest, but gravity and momentum worked against him.
He was able to slow the dagger, but not to stop it. Poole’s wrists slipped through Tristan’s fingers and the dagger plunged downward into Tristan’s chest.
A scream echoed around them in the clear, dark night then—a scream filled with an inhuman anguish. At first Sophia thought it must be Tristan screaming with pain, but as her feet pounded across the graveyard towards him, she realized it wasn’t.
It was her.
She was flying across the ground, running faster than she’d ever run in her life, yet her feet felt sluggish and her legs heavy as she watched Poole raise his hands over his head a second time, and dear God, they seemed miles away still, the expanse of ground between her and Tristan vast, an ocean. She wasn’t fast enough—she wasn’t going to make it to them in time to stop Poole from stabbing Tristan a second time.
He was going die, to bleed to death right in front of her eyes—
But then suddenly in the next breath she was there, behind Poole, her own arms raised in the air, the stone cross clutched between her hands. He turned just as she swung it at his head, and she saw the knowledge of what was about to happen flash in his eyes before she brought it down in a vicious strike against his temple. She struck him as hard as she could, with every bit of her strength behind the blow.
When Poole fell, he was never going to get back up again.
She winced at the dull crack of stone against flesh and bone. Poole made a faint sound, a gurgle of surprise more than pain before he listed over, blood pouring from an enormous gash in his head.
Sophia didn’t spare him another glance. She shoved him hard to the side and he slumped into the dirt. “Tristan? Tristan, look at me.” She bent over him, her shaking hands hovering helplessly over his chest. There was so much blood…dear God, he was soaked with it, and she couldn’t think, didn’t know what to do to stop it, where to even begin. She couldn’t see the wound, just great clouts of blood spurting from Tristan’s chest, but she pressed both hands against him where the blood seemed to be flowing the heaviest.
It wasn’t enough. All she could do wasn’t enough to save him. She stared down at his blood spurting between her fingers. She could feel his heart beating weakly under her palms, but she knew it was no use, that there was no way he could survive such a wound, but broken pleas continued to tear loose from her throat, as if she thought she could save him with her words alone. “Tristan, please. Please—”
“Sophia!”
She heard her name echo across the graveyard, but Sophia didn’t look up. She kept her gaze locked on Tristan’s still, pale face, hope struggling inside her even as she was tumbling over the edge of despair. She pushed Tristan’s hair away from his eyes, leaving a smear of blood on his forehead. “Tristan, can you hear me?”
This time, her voice seemed to get through to him. He didn’t open his eyes, but she was certain she saw them flutter under his eyelids. “Tristan?” She leaned closer, but before she could reassure herself there was some part of him still alert enough to respond to her voice, a pair of large, masculine hands closed over her shoulders.
“No! Don’t touch me!” Sophia thrashed against the man’s hold, panic making her strong. She heard a muttered curse when her fingernails raked down a muscular forearm. That voice, low and deep and with a pronounced Celtic lilt, it sounded familiar…
“Sophia, look at me.” This second voice was firm, calm, and the hands that came up to hold her face were gentle. “Let Daniel move you away from Lord Gray so we can tend to him.”
It was Lady Clifford. Sophia stared into that comforting face, a face as dear to her as her own mother’s had been, and all at once all the fight went out of her. She sagged as her limbs went liquid, and would have collapsed in the dirt if Daniel
hadn’t lifted her gently away from Tristan and placed her securely in Lady Clifford’s waiting arms.
Sophia buried her face in Lady Clifford’s shoulder, her entire body now shaking with the sobs she’d been fighting to hold off since she’d tripped over Peter Sharpe’s body.
But the sobs weren’t for her. “Tristan. His chest. He’s…he’s dying.”
They were for Tristan.
Lady Clifford, who had yet to meet a crisis that could crack the steel in her spine, soothed Sophia with pats and murmurs. “We don’t know that, Sophia. We don’t know anything yet. Lord Gray is a strong, hearty gentleman. You won’t give up on him quite yet, will you?”
Sophia shook her head, and Lady Clifford patted her cheek with a smile. “That’s a good girl. Daniel?” She met Daniel’s gaze over Sophia’s shoulder and her expression shifted subtly, a slight tightening in her lips that hadn’t been there before.
Daniel had been kneeling beside Tristan, assessing his injuries with swift, sure hands, but now he rose to his feet and met Lady Clifford’s gaze. “Bad, but not as bad as I thought.” Daniel glanced at Sophia, an odd look on his face. “The blade didn’t touch his heart.”
Sophia stared dumbly at him. She’d seen Poole plunge the dagger directly into Tristan’s chest. How could it not have pierced his heart?
She didn’t have time to ask, because Lady Clifford was talking quickly, issuing instructions. “Do what you can to stop the bleeding, if you’d be so good, Daniel—just enough so we can get him into the carriage and back to Maddox Street.”
Daniel unwound his cravat, folded it neatly, and pressed it to Tristan’s chest. “Hold that there, Miss Sophia, and don’t be afraid to press down hard. That’s it, lass.”
Sophia did as she was told, stifling her gasp as Daniel lifted Tristan into his arms as if he weighed no more than a child, and carried him to Lady Clifford’s carriage. Sophia scrambled in, and Daniel laid Tristan across the seat, his head in Sophia’s lap.
