The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray

by Anna Bradley

  “Thank you, Daniel.” Lady Clifford dropped into her own seat on the opposite side. “I believe I saw Lord Gray’s horse wandering nearby. Take it, and call on Giles Wakeford. Tell him we need him at No. 26 Maddox at once, and that it’s urgent.”

  Daniel’s lips thinned.

  Giles Wakeford was the doctor, surgeon, and all things medical for the Clifford School. Wakeford was handsome, amusing, and discreet. All of them loved him—everyone, that is, but Daniel Brixton. No one knew what Wakeford had done to offend Daniel, but over the years Daniel’s distaste for the man had remained implacable.

  “Once you’ve fetched Wakeford, call on Kit Benjamin. Explain the circumstances, and ask him to see to it that unpleasant gentleman with the cracked skull is dealt with.”

  “Peter Sharpe, too.” Sophia met Lady Clifford’s eyes. “He’s in the graveyard. Mr. Poole slit his throat.”

  Daniel nodded and closed the carriage door, and then Sophia and Lady Clifford were on their way to No. 26 Maddox Street with Tristan. Sophia said nothing as they rattled through the dark streets of London toward the Clifford School, but sat silently on her side of the carriage, pressing the cravat firmly against the wound in Tristan’s chest.

  Lady Clifford watched her for a moment, then retrieved her reticule, rummaged around inside it, and leaned across the seat to dab at Sophia’s nose with a dainty linen handkerchief. “Your nose is bleeding, dearest.”

  Sophia looked down at herself. Her hands and gown were covered with Tristan’s blood. “I think it’s too late for that, my lady.”

  Lady Clifford gave her a cryptic smile. “My dear child, it’s never too late for anything.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  It was a short drive from St. Clement Dane’s Church to No. 26 Maddox Street, but tonight London felt as vast as an ocean to Sophia as they made their way through an infinity of dark, endless streets.

  She cradled Tristan’s head in her lap and murmured soothingly to him, but his eyes never flickered. He hadn’t regained consciousness by the time they arrived, and a dark red pool of his blood was spreading across the pale gray velvet carriage seats.

  Sophia was able to draw a few calming breaths into her lungs when they arrived at the school at last, but then another lifetime seemed to pass as they waited in the carriage for Daniel and Giles Wakeford to arrive. It wasn’t more than ten minutes before a hackney coach skidded up behind Lady Clifford’s carriage and disgorged the two men at the curb outside the Clifford School, but by then Sophia was shaking with stark panic.

  Lady Clifford ordered Tristan be taken to a downstairs bedchamber, and she, Daniel, and Giles Wakeford remained closeted inside it with him for the better part of the night. Sophia had been left to hover outside the door, her eyes burning with unshed tears and her every breath choked with dread. One hour dragged after the next until finally Lady Clifford emerged to tell Sophia Tristan’s condition remained uncertain, and ordered her to her bedchamber to rest.

  Rest. Sophia did as she was told, but there would be no rest for her today. She thought of Tristan’s wan face, his pale lips, the dark red blood soaking his shirt, and wondered if she’d ever sleep again. She didn’t even attempt to lie down in her bed, but stood by her bedchamber window, the drapes fisted in her white-knuckled grip. “Why doesn’t someone come?”

  “Someone would have, if the worst had happened.” Cecilia had joined Sophia in their bedchamber, her usually rosy cheeks as pale as Tristan’s had been. “Until then, we won’t give in to despair, will we? Indeed, I won’t allow it, Sophia. Now, come here, dearest.”

  She held out a hand to Sophia, who abandoned her post by the window to join Cecilia on the bed. “There, that’s better,” Cecilia murmured, patting Sophia’s hand.

  Cecilia was making a great effort to remain optimistic, and a less discerning friend might have believed she was. She sat stoically on the edge of the bed, every hair in place, with Sophia’s hand securely between her own.

  But Sophia wasn’t fooled.

  Cecilia was more unnerved than Sophia had ever seen her. Of all the bad omens and waking nightmares that had made up this night, Cecilia’s disquiet bothered Sophia most of all. If Cecilia was anything less than unrelentingly positive, then things were very bad, indeed.

  Sophia spent the next few hours pacing from the bed to the window to the bedchamber door, listening for Lady Clifford’s footsteps in the hallway. She and Cecilia didn’t speak much, but her friend never abandoned her. The sun had just sent its first tentative rays into the sky when Sophia turned from the window to face Cecilia, and broke her silence at last. “I love him, Cecilia. I’m in love with him.”

  Cecilia raised her head, and her gaze met Sophia’s. “I know.”

  Sophia managed a half-smile and a shrug, but the tears she’d kept at bay all night glittered at the corners of her eyes. “I’m in love with an earl. It’s the most foolish, absurd thing ever, yet I’ve gone and fallen in love with an earl.”

  An earl who’s betrothed to a lady in Oxfordshire.

  It was on the tip of Sophia’s tongue to say it aloud, to confide everything to Cecilia, but something held her back.

  “I know, dearest,” Cecilia repeated with a sigh, then patted the empty space beside her on the bed. “Come here.”

  Sophia shuffled over to the bed, dropped down beside Cecilia, and wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. When had it grown so cold? “How did you know?”

  Cecilia tucked an arm around Sophia’s shoulders, squeezing her closer when Sophia lay her head against her shoulder. “Because it’s who you are, Sophia. You hang about deserted graveyards at night. You scale earls’ townhouses, hide on their roofs, and break into their kitchens. You’ve never been one to shy away from danger, even at the expense of your own safety. So, why should you behave any differently with your heart?”

  “Oh, dear. You do insist on making me into a heroine, don’t you?” Sophia asked, with a forlorn little laugh.

  “Of course, you’re a heroine, a wonderfully brave sort of heroine. You always have been.”

  Sophia sniffled. “I wish I was a coward. I’d be much better off.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” Cecilia stroked a hand over Sophia’s hair. “Falling in love is a great risk, certainly, but it offers the greatest reward. Why, just look at Adeline and Theodore.”

  Sophia closed her eyes and tried to empty her mind of everything but Adeline and Theodore’s happy ending, but the image of Richard Poole on top of Tristan with the knife raised over his head seemed to be painted on the inside of her eyelids. Time and again she saw the knife arc through the air, the blade gleaming in the faint light before it plunged into Tristan’s chest, and the blood, thick and dark, spurting everywhere…

  She shuddered, and turned her face into Cecilia’s shoulder. “What reward? He’s going to die, Cecilia. Tristan’s going to die, and I’ll be left alone.”

  She’d been alone before. The thought of being so again shouldn’t cause her such despair, yet somehow losing Tristan made her feel more alone than she ever had before.

  “Hush. You know better than that. You’ll never be alone, no matter what becomes of Lord Gray.” Cecilia kept stroking Sophia’s hair and muttering words of comfort, but she didn’t try and convince Sophia Tristan would be all right. She didn’t make any empty promises, and she didn’t say he wouldn’t die.

  Cecilia was a true romantic, but she never lied. For all her starry-eyed dreams and fancies, she’d seen too much of life to believe every story had a happy ending.

  So, Sophia wept, and Cecilia rocked her gently as the hours crawled by. The summer sun, which had chosen this day of all days to shine with unrelenting cheerfulness, was high in the sky before Sophia gave up her struggle to stay awake, and succumbed to an exhausted sleep.

  She startled awake sometime later to a soft knock on the door.

  When she opened
her eyes, Cecilia was hurrying to open it, and a moment later Lady Clifford entered the bedchamber. She glanced at Sophia huddled under the covers Cecilia had draped over her, and her face softened. “Ah, that’s good, dear. You’ve managed to get some sleep.”

  “Just for little while, yes.” Cecilia wrung her hands, tutting as she gazed anxiously at Lady Clifford. “My goodness, my lady. You look in dire need of some sleep yourself.”

  Lady Clifford was sagging with fatigue, and her smooth face was creased with worry. Her fair hair had fallen from its elegant chignon and was plastered to her damp forehead. She pushed a lock of it back and gave Cecilia a wan smile. “I don’t look nearly as bad as poor Mr. Wakeford does. Another hour, and the dear man would have collapsed.”

  Cecilia glanced at Sophia, who’d sprung bolt upright when Lady Clifford entered the room, but hadn’t yet managed to say a word. “And Lord Gray? How does he do?”

  Lady Clifford sat down on the edge of the bed and took Sophia’s hand. “I know you’ve been anxious, dearest. I beg your pardon for not coming sooner, but I wanted to wait until I had something definitive to tell you.”

  Definitive. Sophia’s throat moved in a swallow. Was Lady Clifford trying to tell her Tristan was dead? “Is he…is Tristan…”

  “Lord Gray is doing as well as can be expected, given the severity of his injuries. He’s resting comfortably at the moment.” Lady Clifford frowned. “That is, resting as comfortably as any gentleman who’s taken a dagger to his chest can be, which is to say, not so comfortably at all. But one takes what one can get, doesn’t one? He’s alive and breathing, which is remarkable enough, considering the circumstances.”

  Sophia was very still for a long moment, staring at Lady Clifford, then all of her strength drained from her at once and she collapsed back against the pillow. “He’s…he’s alive? He’s going to be all right?” Her voice was faint, as if she didn’t dare believe Lady Clifford could be telling her the truth.

  Lady Clifford squeezed Sophia’s hand. “For the moment, he is. Mr. Wakeford can’t make any promises regarding Lord Gray’s future condition, of course, but he seems inclined to be optimistic.”

  “But…how? I saw Poole stab him, a vicious blow, right in Tristan’s chest. How could he have survived it?” Sophia gripped Lady Clifford’s hand, her eyes pleading. “Are you q-quite sure he’s all right, my lady?”

  “I’m quite sure he’s still alive, yes. It’s a bit of a strange tale, really. Giles Wakeford was astonished when we removed Lord Gray’s shirt, and realized what had happened.”

  Cecilia looked at Sophia, then at Lady Clifford. “What do you mean? What happened?”

  Lady Clifford didn’t answer right away. She studied Sophia, her head cocked to the side, but then she reached into the pocket of her skirts and drew something out. Cecilia had drawn the curtains closed to darken the room while Sophia slept, but muted light from a low lamp on the table revealed a glint of silver and a long, heavy chain.

  Sophia gasped. “My locket! How do you happen to have it? I left it at…”

  Tristan’s. He’d taken it off her last night, and laid it on the table beside his bed. She’d left in such a rush yesterday, she’d forgotten it.

  Sophia’s gaze met Lady Clifford’s. The only way Lady Clifford could have the locket now was if she’d gotten it from Tristan. He must have found it on the table, taken it up, and brought it with him to St. Clement Dane’s Church last night. “Lady Clifford?”

  “I took it off Lord Gray.” Lady Clifford was watching Sophia closely. “He was wearing it around his neck.”

  Tristan had been wearing her locket? Sophia stared at Lady Clifford, her mouth falling open in shock. “H-he was wearing it?”

  Lady Clifford fingered the locket in her palm, then took it up by the chain and let it dangle between her fingers. “Look at it, dearest. Here, right in middle.”

  She held the locket out to Sophia, who took it, laying it face up in her palm. There was something there, right in the center of the plain silver oval. A mark, or…

  Sophia’s eyes went wide, and a soft cry left her lips. “No. It can’t be.”

  But it was. There, right in the center where the locket rested over the wearer’s heart was a small hole, the same size as…

  As the tip of a dagger.

  Sophia fumbled at the catch on the locket, her hands trembling. She thought she already knew what she’d find when she opened it, yet when she saw it with her own eyes her heart rushed into her throat, and her hand flew up to cover her mouth. “I-I can’t believe it.”

  No one who hadn’t seen it with their own eyes could have believed it, but the proof was right there in the palm of her hand.

  “Poole’s dagger went through the lid of the locket, and left a deep puncture in the bottom half.” Lady Clifford traced a fingertip over the gouge there. “It was a near thing, but the blade didn’t go all the way through.”

  The dagger hadn’t touched Tristan’s heart. The locket had stopped it.

  “What is it? Let me see.” Cecilia leaned closer to peer over Sophia’s shoulder. She let out a soft exclamation and reached out to touch the hole in the center of the locket. “My goodness, that’s astonishing! I’ve never seen anything like that in my entire life.”

  Sophia ran her thumb over the hole wonderingly, then looked up at Lady Clifford. “But how? Tristan was bleeding. I saw the blood myself—”

  “Lord Gray didn’t escape unscathed, unfortunately. Giles Wakeford thinks the dagger glanced off the locket when Poole brought it down in the center of Lord Gray’s chest. The blade likely skidded sideways. It left his lordship with a nasty wound, but it prevented the knife from reaching his heart.”

  Sophia stared at Lady Clifford, too stunned to speak.

  Her locket…it was precious to her, special, yet she’d given it up to Mr. Hogg the day she and Tristan had gone to Newgate to see Jeremy. It had pained her to lose it, especially to someone so loathsome as Hogg, but she’d given it up for Jeremy’s sake.

  Then Tristan had got it back again, for hers.

  That it should be the locket that saved Tristan’s life, when it had been Tristan who’d rescued it for her, that the kindness he’d shown her had been the means by which his life had been saved…dear God, even she couldn’t deny there was something mystical there, a sort of otherworldly balance.

  Fate, or perhaps a perfect iteration of justice.

  Lady Clifford’s dark blue eyes met Sophia’s. “If Lord Gray hadn’t been wearing the locket—if the blade had touched his heart—he’d be dead now. Your locket saved his heart, and then you saved his life, my dear, when you hit Poole with the cross before he could stab Lord Gray a second time.”

  “My goodness, Sophia.” Cecilia squeezed Sophia’s arm, nearly breathless with the romance of it. “A dagger-wielding villain in a dark graveyard, and a magical locket that saves the hero’s life? Why, it’s a Gothic romance come alive! Mrs. Radcliffe herself couldn’t have written a more perfect ending!”

  Sophia gave a shaky laugh. It did sound like something out of one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s romances. She was an unlikely enough heroine—so much so she could hardly credit such an ending could belong to her—but despite her many imperfections, she loved Tristan with all her heart.

  Perhaps that was all it took for a happy ending?

  Lady Clifford wrapped Sophia’s slack fingers around the locket. “Lord Gray had fallen into an uneasy sleep when I left his bedchamber just now, but he asked for you over and over again tonight—each time he regained consciousness. Indeed, when he was at his most agitated Daniel was obliged to hold him down. He’ll likely sleep for some time, but I think he’ll be quite pleased to see you when he wakes again.”

  “Yes, you must be waiting by his bedside when his eyelids flutter open, Sophia.” Cecilia took Sophia’s hand and tugged her from the bed. “That’s what a proper heroine
would do.”

  Sophia closed the locket tightly in her fist and rose from the bed, leaving her dread behind her in the tangled sheets. She was more than ready to see her hero.

  * * * *

  Sophia’s courage nearly deserted her when she crept into Tristan’s bedchamber. She paused at the door, her heart swelling into her throat at how pale and still he was.

  He was lying on his back in the center of the bed, his arms laid carefully at his sides. The coverlet was pulled down just enough so she could see his bare chest and torso were wrapped heavily in bandages. A bit of blood was already pooling over his breastbone, despite the fresh dressing.

  Sophia edged closer and took his hand in hers. His skin was cool and dry, his fingers slack. He didn’t react when she touched him, not even a twitch of his eyes under his eyelids. Tears stung Sophia’s eyes as she thought of how close he’d come to never opening those gray eyes again. A few tears escaped down her cheeks, but she brushed them aside and settled herself into the chair beside his bed.

  Tristan was alive. She could see his chest moving up and down with each of his shallow breaths. This wasn’t a time for tears, but a time for gratitude.

  She stayed by his bed for the rest of the day and into the evening, leaving his side only when Giles Wakeford chased her from the room so he could assess his patient’s condition and change his dressing. Tristan slept through it all, oblivious to everything around him. Sophia had hoped he would wake, if only for a moment so he’d see her, and know she was there with him, but hour after hour passed and his eyes remained closed. Finally, worn out with watching and waiting, Sophia folded her arms on the edge of the bed, rested her head on them, and fell into a fitful sleep.

  When she woke, the bedchamber was dark, the fire having burned down to embers. She blinked groggily, uncertain why she’d woken until she felt the softest touch on her head, like fingers moving slowly through her hair.

  She lifted her head and looked up. Tristan’s face was turned toward her, and he was gazing down at her with gray eyes so soft her heart melted like warm honey in her chest.