by Anna Bradley
“I knew you were here, pixie. Even before I woke, I knew you were here.” His voice was thick and raspy, and though he tried to hide it, Sophia could see by the white lines around his lips that he was in a great deal of pain.
Sophia smiled and slid her hand into his. “How did you know?”
“Your scent. Honeysuckle. You smell like honeysuckle.” A faint smile drifted over his lips, but it faded as he searched her face. “You won’t leave me?”
“No. I won’t leave you.” She held his gaze as she raised his hand to her lips. “Never, Tristan.”
Chapter Twenty-four
It was five days before Tristan was alert enough to make sense of his surroundings. The time before that was hazy, just a series of images drifting through his head—drape-shrouded windows, soft voices, white-hot, burning pain in his chest, and a tall, dark-haired man with kind brown eyes and silver frosting his temples leaning over the bed.
There’d only been one constant, only one thing that made sense.
Sophia.
Each time he forced an eye open she was there beside his bed, her anxious gaze fixed on his face, her fingers tucked into his hand. He tried to talk to her, to swim to the surface, but the dizziness kept sucking him back down again. At one point he thought he’d spoken to her, had watched her lips moving in reply, but when he struggled to consciousness much later, he wondered if he’d dreamt it.
He couldn’t make any sense of time as he floated in this nebulous state. Once or twice he woke and couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Sophia’s voice. He’d fallen into a panic each time, and flailed and thrashed in the bed to get to her, but he was too exhausted to struggle for long, and inevitably unconsciousness would wrap him in silken threads and draw him down into darkness again.
Then, late one afternoon his surroundings came into focus at last.
Sophia’s was the first face he searched for.
“Well, good afternoon, Lord Gray. How pleased I am you’ve woken at last. We were growing rather concerned.”
That voice…cultured, but with a faint hint of amusement underlying every syllable. He recognized it at once.
Lady Clifford.
Tristan blinked up at her in confusion. Where was he, and why wasn’t Sophia—
“You’re in a bedchamber at the Clifford School, my lord. I daresay you would have been more comfortable in your own home, but given a good deal of your blood had already vacated your body before we got you into the carriage, time was of the essence.” Lady Clifford leaned over him, her brow furrowing as she studied his face. “Not quite yourself still, I see. Do you remember what happened?”
Tristan squeezed his eyes closed. The light from the fire made his head ache, but he tried to think. He’d been at St. Clement Dane’s Church, hadn’t he? Yes, he remembered riding there, but everything after that was fuzzy, as if it had happened long ago, or to someone else.
But…something awful had happened, hadn’t it? Uneasiness stole through him as a memory began to unfold in his head. He recalled hearing someone cry out, and a lantern tipped over onto the ground. It had been dark, but the lantern had given off just enough light for him to see…
Tristan gasped, and his eyes flew open.
Peter Sharpe lying in a puddle of blood. Richard Poole, knife in hand, and Sophia—
“Sophia!”
Tristan shot upright, ignoring the searing pain in his chest, but before he could throw off the coverlet and scramble to his feet Lady Clifford caught hold of his shoulders and eased him back down against the bed. “No, no. That won’t do. Listen to me, Lord Gray, and cease that thrashing about at once, or I’ll be forced to summon Daniel Brixton.”
He continued to struggle, hardly able to hear her beyond the panicked roaring inside his head, but either Lady Clifford was surprisingly strong for such a slender, elegant lady, or else he was as weak as a kitten. She held him fast until he subsided against the bed at last, exhausted by his efforts, his entire body clammy with sweat.
“My goodness, my lord. Sophia warned me you’re stubborn, but I confess I didn’t expect quite so much resistance from a gentleman who’s been stabbed in the chest.” Lady Clifford was panting to regain her breath.
“Tell me where Sophia is,” Tristan begged, his voice breaking. The last time he could remember seeing her, Poole’s knife was at her throat—
“Calm down, if you please, Lord Gray. Now, Sophia is perfectly well, though I couldn’t say precisely where she is at the moment. I ordered her to her bedchamber to rest, but I’ve just been to check on her, and she isn’t there. Ah, well. She’ll turn up when she’s ready. Until then…” Lady Clifford shrugged. “You know for yourself our Sophia’s rather good at keeping herself hidden.”
“You’re certain she’s well? She’s all right?” Lady Clifford had said so, but Tristan needed to hear it again.
“Yes, my lord. I promise it. She has a few scratches and scrapes and some bruising on her neck, but otherwise she’s quite well.” Lady Clifford cocked her head, studying him. “I believe I’ve misjudged you, Lord Gray. I’ve always thought you a stern, cold sort of man, but you’re truly fond of Sophia, aren’t you?”
Fond of her? No. What he felt for Sophia went far beyond fondness.
He was deeply, madly in love with her, but Sophia would be the first to hear those words from his lips, not Lady Clifford. So, he simply nodded. “I—yes, of course I’m…fond of her.”
A slight smile drifted across Lady Clifford’s lips. “You may well be stern and cold, but I’m inclined to overlook these flaws, given your extraordinary discernment in regards to Sophia. Now, my lord, if you’re willing to lie quietly and listen to me, I’ll tell you what happened.”
Tristan didn’t want to lie quietly. He wanted to tear through the house and peek behind every curtain and under every bed until he found Sophia, but that was out of the question. He’d collapse before he made it to his bedchamber door. So, he rested his head obediently against his pillows, but kept his eyes stubbornly open.
“Peter Sharpe is dead. Richard Poole slit his throat in St. Clement Dane’s churchyard five nights ago, on Lord Everly’s orders. May I assume, my lord, that you know all this already?”
Tristan nodded grimly. “I saw Sharpe’s body myself.” If he’d been a better man, Tristan would have felt some compassion for Sharpe having come to such a grisly end, but he’d felt nothing but satisfaction when he’d looked on Sharpe’s bloody, mangled body. “What about Poole?”
“Ah, Mr. Poole. Such a distasteful gentleman, Poole. He did his best to send you the way of poor Peter Sharpe. He succeeded in plunging a blade in your chest, and he might have finished the job if Sophia hadn’t crushed his skull with a single blow.”
Tristan stared at Lady Clifford, his body going cold. “How? Sophia is half Poole’s size.”
“Yes, she’s always been a tiny little thing, but presence of mind is far more valuable in these matters than size, and I don’t think I need to tell you, Lord Gray, how wily Sophia is.”
“How?” Tristan croaked again, pushing the word through numb lips. Had Poole gotten hold of her a second time, while Tristan was unable to defend her? “Did he hurt her?”
He must have looked desperate indeed, because Lady Clifford took pity on him. “He never had a chance to lay a finger on her, my lord. She struck him with a stone cross she liberated from a crypt in St. Clement Dane’s graveyard. Richard Poole was dead before he even knew what hit him. Sophia killed him before he could kill you.”
Lady Clifford’s tone was neutral, and her face carefully blank, but she hadn’t made any attempt to soften the facts. Tristan was certain her bluntness was intentional. She was watching him closely, as if searching his face for some hint he’d change his mind about Sophia once he discovered she’d killed a man.
He wouldn’t.
Tristan thought of the courage it m
ust have taken her to overcome Poole, the incredible strength of character, the fierceness and resolve hidden inside that dainty body, and his throat closed. Sophia didn’t do anything in half measures, and though she hadn’t told him so, Tristan believed she loved him with her whole heart. He couldn’t imagine his life without her, and nothing—nothing—would ever change that.
His gaze met Lady Clifford’s. “Sophia saved my life.”
“She did, indeed. Not long after you saved hers.” Lady Clifford gave him a considering look. “It’s almost enough to make one believe in fate, isn’t it?”
Tristan didn’t answer, because once again, his stomach was roiling with panic. “What’s going to happen to Sophia?”
She hadn’t done anything she hadn’t been forced to do to save his and her own life, but Tristan had come to understand justice wasn’t as blind as he’d always imagined it to be. What if Everly saw to it Sophia was taken up for murder, or—
“There’s no need to worry, my lord. I’ve explained the situation to Kit Benjamin, and he’s promised to take care of any…oh, shall we call them inconvenient details? You may have heard, Lord Gray, that Mr. Benjamin and I have an understanding.”
What Tristan had heard was that Kit Benjamin and Lady Amanda Clifford were involved in a torrid affair, and Benjamin was so blinded by his passion for her, he often overlooked her more…legally questionable activities.
Like most of London, he’d believed the rumor to be true, and perhaps they were having an affair, but he’d been wrong about Lady Clifford in one respect, and it was the only respect that mattered. “I misjudged you as well, my lady, and I beg your pardon for it. I assumed you were working on the wrong side of the law, and Kit Benjamin was covering your tracks for you.”
She laughed. “Oh, dear. That would be rather dreadful, wouldn’t it? But what makes you so sure that’s not the case?”
He wasn’t sure, but whatever Lady Clifford got up to, whether she happened to be working on the side of the law or against it, Tristan believed she was as anxious to see justice done as he was himself.
Lady Clifford gave Tristan’s hand a little pat. “Shall we say the law sometimes needs a little nudge in the right direction, and simply leave it at that, Lord Gray?”
“Perhaps that would be for the best.”
They exchanged tentative smiles, but then Tristan sobered. Peter Sharpe and Richard Poole might have met their just ends, but this business hadn’t begun with either of them. Three men were dead, and Jeremy Ives had been sent to rot away in Newgate for a crime he didn’t commit. “What of Lord Everly? He’s at the center of this, pulling the strings, and Sampson Willis has been helping him.”
Christ, even though he knew it to be true, Tristan could hardly credit Willis could have turned out to be such a villain. All the information he’d given Willis about Jeremy Ives and Sophia and Lady Clifford, Willis had been using against them.
Tristan had always admired Willis—had thought him a good, decent man. It never once occurred to him Willis could be behind Henry’s death, and why? Because he’d assumed Willis, a magistrate, must be on the right side of the law.
Tristan’s blindness had nearly cost Sophia her life.
“Yes, we’re well aware of Lord Everly’s and Mr. Willis’s roles in this business, and don’t think for a moment we haven’t considered who might be pulling their strings.”
Neither Tristan nor Lady Clifford said the name, but they were both thinking it.
William Pitt.
“There’s no evidence against Lord Everly, unfortunately. The two men who might have implicated him in this, Sharpe and Poole, are both dead. That said, we now know Lord Everly’s not quite the upstanding peer everyone assumed him to be, and the same is true of Sampson Willis. There’s a great deal of power in knowledge, Lord Gray. As for the other…” A troubled look crossed Lady Clifford’s face. “I’m afraid there’s only so much one can do, and there’s a limit to Kit Benjamin’s influence, as well. Even he can’t reach that high.”
“No. No one can.” Indeed, that was rather the problem.
Lady Clifford gave his hand another pat, then rose to her feet. “Now, Lord Gray. I advise you to get some rest.”
“No, my lady. Not until I see Sophia.” Tristan pulled the coverlet aside, determined to go find her, even if he had to climb onto the roof to do it.
“Ah, yes. Sophia. No, there’s no need to leave your bed, Lord Gray.” Lady Clifford made her way to the bedchamber door, but before she disappeared into the hallway she paused and said, “You can come out of the cupboard now, Sophia, dear.”
“The cupboard!” Tristan’s mouth fell open. His gaze shot to the tall cupboard on the other side of the bedchamber. The door creaked open, one inch at a time. When Sophia’s dark head appeared, his lips curved in a grin. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Sophia gave Tristan a sheepish look, then turned to Lady Clifford. “How in the world did you know I was in the cupboard?”
“I know everything that happens at the Clifford School. You should know that by now, dear.” Lady Clifford lifted her chin, but there was a gleam of mischief in her blue eyes. “Well, that, and a fold of your skirt was caught in the cupboard door.”
Sophia looked down at her skirts. “Blast it,” she muttered, her face flushing.
Lady Clifford’s soft laugh drifted across the bedchamber, and then she was gone, closing the door with a quiet click behind her.
Tristan’s gaze met Sophia’s. “Sophia. Come here, pixie.”
Sophia gave him an uncharacteristically shy look, but she crossed the room and stopped by the side of his bed. He reached and took her hand in a weak grip. “You look fatigued, sweetheart.”
“You developed an infection a few days ago, and I thought…I was worried.” Her lower lip began to tremble, and she sank her teeth into it to still it. “You’re much better now. Giles Wakeford took good care of you.”
Giles Wakeford. The man with the dark hair and brown eyes. Tristan would thank him later. Much later.
For now, all he wanted, all he could see, was Sophia.
“Come closer, sweetheart.” After an exhaustive effort and more than one curse and hiss of pain, Tristan managed to shift a little to his left. “Lie down with me.”
“No.” Sophia hung back. “I don’t want to jostle you.”
“You won’t. There’s plenty of room.”
Sophia glanced at the door. “Lady Clifford will scold dreadfully if she finds out.” But when she turned to Tristan again, her face was filled with longing.
“Lady Clifford is gone. Please, Sophia. I need to hold you and reassure myself you’re here, and in one piece.”
Sophia’s resolve disintegrated in the face of that soft plea. “Oh, well, perhaps for just a moment.” She rested a knee on the bed and climbed up beside him, taking care not to hurt him. Once she was settled, she lay her hand gently against his neck and pressed her face into his shoulder.
More than anything Tristan wanted to wrap his arm around her and ease her head down to his chest, but that would have to wait until he’d healed, so he settled for turning his head and burying his face in her hair. “There’s something I need to know, Sophia. You overheard me talking to Sampson Willis, didn’t you?”
Sophia stiffened. “It doesn’t matter now—”
“Yes, it does. It matters to me.”
She let out a long, deep sigh, her warm breath ghosting over his neck. “Yes. I…he said you were investigating me.”
Tristan heard the tremor in her voice, and pressed a kiss into her dark hair. “I won’t lie to you, or pretend it isn’t true. Willis did ask me to investigate you, but I agreed to do it the morning after our first meeting at St. Clement Dane’s Church, the night I followed you there. I didn’t know you then, Sophia.”
She sighed. “No, you didn’t. I don’t blame you for agreeing to inves
tigate me, Tristan. Henry Gerrard was your friend, and anyone would have been suspicious of me, but once you did know me, you should have told me the truth.”
“I made a mistake, and I’m sorry for it. You were so skittish at first, I thought you’d never trust me again if I told you, and then later, I…this won’t make much sense to you, but I became so preoccupied with you, I didn’t think about the investigation at all.”
She raised her head to stare at him. “How could you forget you were investigating me? You’re a Bow Street Runner, Tristan.”
He chuckled. “I didn’t forget, precisely. It was more that the investigation ceased to matter to me. The mistake I made was in thinking it wouldn’t matter to you.”
She lay her head back on his shoulder. “It doesn’t now.”
Tristan waited, knowing there was more. Sophia didn’t speak for a long time, but then she sniffled, and he felt the trickle of tears against his shoulder. “Are you betrothed, Tristan?”
He pressed his cheek into her hair, regret sweeping over him. “No. I’m not betrothed.”
“I heard Sampson Willis say—”
“Shhh.” Tristan pressed a kiss to her temple. “I know what he said, but it isn’t true. I won’t deny there’s a lady in Oxfordshire my mother wishes to see become the Countess of Gray, but I’m not betrothed to her. I haven’t seen the lady in years. I can’t even remember her face.” More often than not he couldn’t even remember her name, but it didn’t seem gentlemanly to say so.
“You don’t…you don’t love her, then?” Sophia asked with another sniffle.
Tristan’s injuries prevented him from taking her into his arms, but he nestled her as close against him as he could, and then the words began to spill from his lips in an awkward rush. “No. I’ve only ever loved one lady. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the first time I saw you, Sophia. Well, perhaps not the first time, because I thought you were a boy, but—”
“Yes, I’ve been meaning to mention that. It’s not very flattering, Lord Gray.”
