by Anna Bradley
Delicate but strong, lissome, with perfectly proportioned curves—
“Well? Is she, then?”
Lyndon’s amused voice broke into his musings, and Tristan turned from the window. “Is she what?”
Lyndon raised an eyebrow at him. “Lovely?”
A denial rose to Tristan’s lips, but all that emerged was a resigned sigh. “She is, damn her. Exceedingly.”
“Ah. I thought so.” Lyndon shot him a satisfied grin, then slid his queen across the chessboard. “Checkmate.”
Tristan turned back to the window, and his gaze fell on the roof of Lord Everly’s pediment. Cursed Everly and his cursed pediment. This was all his fault.
“Come away from that window, will you? She’s not there now, for God’s sake, and your incessant hovering is irritating me.” Lyndon was tidying the chess set away in its wooden box, his lips tight with annoyance. “Why are you in such fits over this woman, Gray? So, she’s attractive. London is teeming with attractive ladies, and you’ve never gotten into a dither over any of them.”
“They aren’t liars or felons.” It wasn’t a convincing reply, but what could he say? That he found Sophia Monmouth, with her pert mouth and barbed tongue far more tempting than any of the noted beauties in London?
Lyndon’s face darkened. “I beg to differ. Lady Clarissa Warrington is a thief. By the time I broke with her she’d squeezed a fortune in jewels out of me.”
“That’s not the same thing, Lyndon.” Tristan crossed the room and threw himself into one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. “I wouldn’t hold Lady Clarissa up as a model of virtue, but I never saw her commit an actual crime. I saw Miss Monmouth slide her locket into Sharpe’s coat, as stealthy as any thief.”
Lyndon sank into the chair opposite Tristan. “Perhaps he deserved it. He may be every bit the liar Miss Monmouth claims he is, and as guilty as any other criminal locked up in Newgate.”
“He may be, but he hasn’t been convicted of any crime, and it’s just as likely Miss Monmouth is the liar. She doesn’t have any evidence against Sharpe. She accuses him, but of the two of them, she’s the only one I’ve caught in a crime.”
He’d been a fool to let those pink lips and green eyes seduce him into taking her at her word, especially given her association with Lady Clifford, who balanced on a fine line between guilt and innocence herself.
“It’s a bit of a mess,” Lyndon agreed. “But I’m not sure it matters as far as you’re concerned, Gray. You’re not a Bow Street Runner anymore. Fulfill your promise to Sampson Willis, then put Miss Monmouth out of your mind.”
Tristan sat quietly, studying the flames dancing in the grate, then muttered, “It’s too late for that, Lyndon.”
Part of the trouble was, Tristan couldn’t quite convince himself Miss Monmouth wasn’t right about Sharpe. He didn’t have any real reason to suspect the man, but his instincts warned him there was something off about Sharpe, and he’d spent enough time scraping London’s criminal underbelly to know people were rarely as they seemed.
She’d taken an enormous risk, forcing herself on Peter Sharpe’s notice as she had. Sharpe was a dull-witted sort, but even he must have realized Miss Monmouth intended to do him mischief yesterday. If he really was the villain she claimed, she’d just made herself his next target.
“Miss Monmouth isn’t your responsibility, Gray—not beyond what Sampson Willis has asked of you,” Lyndon reminded him.
“I’ve already gone beyond that. Willis asked me to follow her, nothing more. It was my choice to interfere in her dealings with Sharpe. I’m involved now, whether it’s convenient or not.”
He should have known the dark, mysterious figure on Everly’s roof would lead him into trouble. A wise man would have tossed back the rest of his port and gone straight to his bed without a second glance.
A wise man, yes, but not a Bow Street Runner.
Lyndon gave a heavy sigh. “Scruples are inconvenient things. You do realize yours will be the end of you, don’t you?”
“No, my mother will be the end of me when she finds out I’m not returning to Oxfordshire straightaway. Go and see her, won’t you, Lyndon? There’s a good fellow.”
“Me?” Lyndon gulped. “I thought we were friends, Gray. What have I ever done to deserve such a dreadful fate as—”
“Careful, Lyndon,” Tristan warned with a grin.
“I only mean to point out the countess is…well, you must admit she’s a—”
A subdued knock on the library door saved Lyndon from having to articulate what, precisely, the Countess of Gray was.
“Yes?” Tristan called. “Come in.”
Tribble, Tristan’s butler entered. “There’s a young lady here to see you, Lord Gray. A Miss Monmouth.”
Tristan’s startled gaze met Lyndon’s, and they both shot to their feet at once.
“Miss Monmouth! Attractive lady, Tribble? Looks rather like a pixie?” Lyndon’s voice had risen an octave.
Tribble blinked. “I, er…as to that, I couldn’t say, my lord.”
“Never mind, Tribble.” Tristan shot Lyndon a warning look. “Did she say what she wanted?”
“No, my lord, only that she must see you at once. I tried to send her away, you not being home to callers, but the lady is rather…insistent.”
“Insistent?” It seemed an awfully tame word to describe Sophia Monmouth, but perhaps she was on her best behavior. “Yes, she is that, among other things. By all means, send her in, Tribble.”
Tribble bowed his way out, leaving Tristan and Lyndon standing there silently, staring at the door like a pair of fools. It wasn’t long before Tribble’s heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway, followed by a lighter tread.
A few moments later, Miss Monmouth appeared on the threshold. “Good morning, Lord Gray.” She strode into Tristan’s library, as if she had a perfect right to be there.
Lyndon stared at her, his eyes about to fall out of his skull, then he turned to Tristan with a half-dazed, and half-pitying look. “It all makes perfect sense now, Gray.”
She was wearing a day gown the color of the sun just before it burst over the horizon. It was simple, plain even—nothing at all remarkable about it—yet somehow, she made it look as if she’d wrapped herself in sunbeams. It wasn’t a shade of yellow many ladies could wear, but with her dark hair and skin and those bright green eyes, she looked like a spring day.
Tristan, amazed and appalled at himself at once, shook the fanciful notion from his head. “Miss Monmouth.” He bowed. “What an unexpected surprise to see you here.”
“Yes, I imagine it is. But my appearance isn’t as surprising as it might have been, my lord. I was planning to come through your window if your manservant turned me away.” She gave him a—damn it, there was no other word for it—a sunny smile. “I daresay I’d have managed it easily enough. Your pediment is very much like Lord Everly’s.”
There was a moment of stunned silence, then Lyndon gave a shout of laughter. “It’s a great pity you didn’t. I would have liked to see that.”
Miss Monmouth dipped into a polite curtsy. “I may yet be able to accommodate you, ah…ah…”
She turned to Tristan, who only stared at her like a fool until Lyndon cleared his throat. “Lyndon. I mean, the Earl of Lyndon. That is…Miss Monmouth, may I present Lord Lyndon?”
By the time Tristan finished this fumbling introduction his face was hot with embarrassment, and Lyndon was shaking with silent laughter. Miss Monmouth, however, only swept a cool gaze over Lyndon, then drawled, “How do you do, Lord Lyndon. I never realized Great Marlborough Street had such an overabundance of earls.”
Lyndon bowed. “Wherever you find columns and pediments, Miss Monmouth, you’ll find earls and marquesses and the like. Perhaps even a stray duke or two.”
Miss Monmouth laughed. “Which of the lovely townhouses on th
is street belongs to you, my lord?”
“None of them, I’m afraid. I live in Berkeley Square. No one ever climbs onto our roofs there, a circumstance I never regretted until now.”
Tristan’s gaze bounced back and forth between them with a frown. Lyndon was flirting with Miss Monmouth. Rather pathetically, yes, but flirting nonetheless, and Miss Monmouth seemed to be enjoying it immensely, her green eyes twinkling.
Tristan glared at Lyndon, more irritated with his friend than he had any reason to be. “What can I do for you, Miss Monmouth? I confess I can’t think of a single reason for your presence here.”
She waved a hand, dismissing this. “Yes, yes, this is all very irregular, but we haven’t time to ponder it now, Lord Gray.”
“I beg your pardon?” Tristan’s gaze narrowed on her, and for the first time he noticed the hectic flush on her cheeks, and the nervous way she fiddled with the fingers of her gloves.
Miss Monmouth wanted something from him.
Well, whatever it was, he’d already made up his mind to refuse her. “Are we going somewhere?”
She glanced at him, biting her lip, then drew in a breath and ceased fidgeting, dropping her hands to her sides. “Yes. We’re going to Newgate Prison.”
The silence that fell after this announcement was once again broken by Lyndon, who took up the coat he’d tossed aside with a low whistle. “On that note, I’ll just take my leave, shall I? Miss Monmouth, it was a great pleasure meeting you.” He gave her an elegant bow, then turned to Tristan, his lips twitching. “I wish you luck, Gray.”
“What a pleasant gentleman,” Miss Monmouth remarked, once the library door had closed behind Lyndon.
Tristan ignored this. “Whatever mischief you’re up to this time, Miss Monmouth, I don’t want any part of it.”
“How do you know? I haven’t told you what it is yet.” She glanced up at Tristan from under her lashes. “It may be a perfectly charming mischief. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
Tristan swallowed. Damn it, anything could happen if she kept looking at him with that hint of bright green iris peeking through the thick, dark fringe of her eyelashes. “All right, Miss Monmouth. Let’s have it out, shall we? What’s your business at Newgate?”
She met his gaze. “I must speak to Jeremy.”
Tristan stilled. Of course, he’d known what she wanted as soon as she mentioned Newgate, yet even so it was, quite literally, the last request he ever would have imagined she’d make of him. “Your business with Ives has nothing to do with me.”
“Neither did my business with Peter Sharpe, but you didn’t let that stop you.”
He raised an eyebrow at her waspish tone. “Is this how you persuade me to grant you a favor, Miss Monmouth?”
She took a breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer. “We’ve all been forbidden to see him, likely to prevent him from having a chance to give us his side of the story. If he dies in Newgate, which he most certainly will, we’ll never know the truth about that night.”
“I already know the truth. Jeremy Ives slit Henry Gerrard’s throat, and he’s been sentenced to hang for his crime.” Tristan heard the words leave his mouth, and wondered if they were true. There was a part of him that wanted to believe it could be that simple, that justice could be that accurate, that absolute. That part of him wanted to take Miss Monmouth by the arm and see her out of his library, his house, and his life.
But the other part of him stood there and gave Sophia Monmouth a chance to persuade him to act against his better judgment. Not because of her soft lips, or her green eyes, but because he couldn’t forget the lost look on Ives’s face as he was led from the courtroom yesterday, a death sentence hanging over his head.
“Please, Lord Gray.” She wrung her hands, all pretense of nonchalance gone. “You saw Jeremy at his trial yesterday. He’s in desperate need of help.”
Tristan hesitated. He wasn’t sure he liked Sophia Monmouth. He certainly didn’t trust her, yet at the same time he found it difficult to refuse her. “If what you say is true, and someone has taken the trouble to keep him quiet, what makes you think I’ll be permitted to see him?”
She took a step toward him. “You will be. You’re the Ghost of Bow Street.”
“Not anymore.”
“You must know someone who can get us inside. A guard, perhaps?” She laid a hand on his arm. “Yesterday you claimed to care about justice. If that’s so, how can you condemn a man to the noose without hearing his account? If you have even a shred of doubt about Peter Sharpe’s testimony, I don’t see how you can refuse me.”
Neither did Tristan. That was the trouble.
He gazed down into Sophia Monmouth’s pleading eyes, and with a muttered curse, Tristan reconciled himself to a visit at Newgate.
* * * *
“To tell you the truth, Lord Gray, I didn’t think you’d agree to this scheme.”
For all Sophia’s careless confidence when she’d breezed into his library this morning, she hadn’t truly believed Lord Gray would take her to Newgate Prison.
He gave a short laugh. “I’ve no idea why I did.”
“Well, I-I’m grateful to you, my lord. I realize you would much rather have refused me.”
It cost Sophia a few pangs of wounded pride to say it, but he merely nodded as if he didn’t notice her discomfort, then cleared his throat with the sort of awful dignity only an earl could command. “Let me be plain, Miss Monmouth. I don’t trust you. I’m not convinced you’re not a thief, or worse.”
Sophia blinked. Well, that was plain enough.
“Be warned,” Lord Gray went on. “I don’t expect to hear anything this afternoon that will change my mind about Jeremy Ives. Peter Sharpe may be every bit the blackguard you claim he is, but that doesn’t make Ives any less of a murderer.”
“I understand, my lord.” Sophia’s voice was meeker than usual, but in truth she hadn’t expected Lord Gray would miraculously start believing in Jeremy’s innocence. Her best hope for today was to see Jeremy, listen to his account of that night at St. Clement Dane’s, and ease him in any way she could.
Sophia peeked at Lord Gray from the corner of her eye. He had a strong profile, with a proud, aristocratic nose, sharp cheekbones, and a jaw that looked as if it had been coaxed from a block of marble by a sculptor’s hands. It was the sternest face she’d ever seen.
Lady Clifford was right. If anyone could get access to Jeremy, it was this man.
She suppressed a sigh. Emma was right, too. With his broad shoulders and piercing gray eyes, Lord Gray was undeniably handsome. Certainly, he was the most aristocratic, the most ruthlessly elegant gentleman she’d ever seen. Every inch of him shrieked nobility. Looking at him now, it was difficult to recall he’d ever been a Bow Street Runner, but for…
“Where did you get that scar?”
He raised a self-conscious hand to his top lip. “It’s a dull story.”
It wasn’t a large scar, but one noticed it because it was in a curious place, just above the corner of his mouth, a narrow line of white bisecting the red of his lip.
All at once, she had an overwhelming urge to touch it. It was the sort of scar that told a story, and rendered a face more interesting. The sort of scar that begged to be touched. What would it feel like under the pad of her finger? Sophia traced a finger over her own top lip, trying to imagine it.
The next thought came out of nowhere, like a lightning strike from a cloudless sky.
What would it be like to kiss him?
The tip of her tongue darted out to touch her upper lip. She didn’t realize she’d done it until a flicker in the gray eyes drew her gaze back to his. He’d followed the movement, and was now staring at her mouth.
Well, that was…strangely titillating. She didn’t realize she’d instinctively parted her lips until his eyes darkened, and suddenly flu
stered, Sophia rushed awkwardly into speech. “Were you injured while chasing down a criminal? Is it a knife wound, or—”
“No, no, it’s…nothing like that.”
She cocked her head to the side to study it. “Were you struck? A fist, one with a jeweled ring on the finger might have left such a scar as that.”
“I assure you, Miss Monmouth, the story will disappoint you.”
She rested her hand on the seat between them, leaning closer to get a better look at his lips. “Was it a thief with long, sharp fingernails, or—”
“No!” He jerked his head back. “As I said, it’s a dull story.”
Was he blushing? Goodness, the origin of that scar grew more fascinating by the moment. “I think it must be something terribly exciting, for you to be so secretive about it.” Sophia tapped her lip as she considered the scar. “Was it a quarrel with one of your mistresses? Or a duel over one of your mistresses? Or perhaps one of your mistresses found out about another and she—”
“For God’s sake, Miss Monmouth!” The hint of color on his cheekbones had deepened to crimson. “Your fevered imagination does you no credit at all, and in any case, we’ve arrived.”
Sophia glanced out the window. They had indeed arrived, and Lord Gray was mightily relieved at it. She frowned. There must be quite a story behind that scar if he preferred a wander through Newgate Prison to divulging it.
She hopped out of the carriage without waiting for the coachman’s assistance, but Lord Gray stopped her with a hand on her arm when she stepped toward the main entrance of the prison. “Not that way. Follow me, Miss Monmouth.”
He led her to a smaller doorway on the left with an arch above it, and two narrow windows set high into the brick on either side. He reached up to rap the end of his walking stick against one of these windows, and a few seconds later a face appeared behind the glass. Lord Gray jerked his head toward the left, and the face disappeared.
A few moments later, the door opened and a grimy man with a long, narrow chin peered out. He didn’t look pleased to see Lord Gray, but he managed a sullen bow. “Afternoon, yer lordship.”