by Anna Bradley
Sophia leaned back on her heels, stunned. It was a strange story, but she knew Jeremy was telling them the truth. It was too complicated a tale for him to have concocted on his own, and he was trembling with horror at the memory of it. No one could feign such anguish.
Lord Gray had gone still when Jeremy described what happened to Henry Gerrard, but now he asked, very quietly. “Henry Gerrard, Jeremy. Was he…did he say anything before he died?”
Just talking about that night had sent Jeremy into a panic. His breath was sawing in and out of his chest, but he calmed at the sound of Lord Gray’s soft voice. “Nay. He couldna talk, my lord, but he…he…”
“Yes? I’d be grateful, Jeremy, if you could tell me anything more.”
“He were looking at the spire of St. Clement Dane’s Church when ’e passed, my lord. Just staring up at it, like, and he…he were calm there at the end, just staring up at that spire, an’ I thought ’e must a’ been a good man, ’cause he died peaceful.”
“He was a good man.” Lord Gray pulled himself to his feet like a man who’d aged a lifetime in the past half hour. “He was the best of men.”
Sophia’s throat closed at the pain in Lord Gray’s voice, and tears stung her eyes. She’d been so caught up with saving Jeremy she hadn’t given as much thought as she should have to Henry Gerrard. But now, witnessing Lord Gray’s stark grief, she wanted to shrink away from a pain so dark and heavy, so suffocating.
All at once, she understood his desperate need to see someone pay for the crime. Such grief as his couldn’t go unanswered. Sophia understood that sort of grief. She’d suffered it herself when her mother died. As young as she’d been at the time, she’d never forgotten the pain of that loss, the burning need for justice, the paralyzing helplessness of not having been able to stop it.
The shame of surviving.
“Jeremy wasn’t Sharpe’s target,” Lord Gray muttered to Sophia. “He mistook Jeremy for someone else.”
“Yes, but who?” They had more questions than they did answers.
Jeremy had simply happened to wander through St. Clement Dane’s at the wrong time. Sharpe had been lying in wait for someone else to pass through the churchyard, with the intention of leaping out at them and accusing them of theft. He’d seen Jeremy coming from the direction of the Turk’s Head, and he’d thought Jeremy was his man.
But why would Sharpe want to frame an innocent man for a crime, and at whose bidding had he done it? Sharpe wasn’t clever enough to come up with such a scheme himself. No, he was a mere pawn in something far, far bigger than a random theft.
And how was the Turk’s Head involved in this mess? Who was the fourth man? Of all the information they’d learned from Jeremy, the presence of a fourth man at the scene of the crime was the most shocking.
Whoever he was, he was a murderer, and Jeremy was going to hang for his crime.
* * * *
Neither Sophia Monmouth nor Jeremy Ives seemed to remember Tristan was there.
He watched, his chest tight, as she held Jeremy’s head to her shoulder, stroking his hair. Tristan could hardly believe this lady with her low, sweet voice and soft eyes was the same sharp-tongued hellion who’d defied him in St. Clement Dane’s churchyard—the same calculating thief who’d slipped her locket into Peter Sharpe’s pocket as coolly as if she sent innocent men to prison every day.
Except that wasn’t what she’d been doing. Peter Sharpe wasn’t innocent, but Jeremy Ives was. Miss Monmouth hadn’t been trying to send an innocent man away. She’d been trying to set an innocent man free.
Tristan hadn’t gotten a good look at Ives’s face at the trial. When they’d entered his cell today, he’d been stunned to find Ives was hardly more than a boy, seventeen at most. He looked to have been a hearty enough lad at one point, but now his flesh hung loose on his wasted frame, and Tristan could see by his stooped shoulders and the tinge of gray in his skin the weeks he’d spent in Newgate had taken a dreadful toll on him.
Before he came here today, Tristan had thought nothing could change his mind about Jeremy Ives’s guilt, but he’d been mistaken. There was simply no way Ives could have committed the theft Peter Sharpe had accused him of, much less a murder. Not just because he was simple, although that alone was reason enough to question his guilt. He’d looked at Tristan with that same slack-jawed misery and confusion Tristan had noticed in the courtroom the other day. It wasn’t the look of a murderer.
One only had to look at the boy to see he didn’t have the viciousness to commit a crime. Ives didn’t even know why he was here, or understand in any meaningful way what he’d been accused of. He couldn’t make sense of the concept of guilt or innocence. The judge had told him he was a bad man, and so he believed it to be true, even if it contradicted what he also knew to be true—that he wasn’t a thief, or a murderer.
Or a liar. The account he’d given of the night at St. Clement Dane’s, the tussle with Peter Sharpe, the existence of the fourth man…there wasn’t a chance Jeremy Ives could have invented such an extravagant lie.
Tristan dragged a hand down his face. Jeremy’s agitation had calmed when he described the last moments of Henry’s life, when Henry had been gazing up at the spire. It had comforted Jeremy to know for those few fleeting moments before he died, Henry had been at peace. That said more about the boy’s heart than words ever could.
Jeremy Ives didn’t know it, but he’d given Tristan a gift today—a single tiny, precious drop of peace in an ocean of rage and despair.
Tristan was grateful to him, so unbearably grateful—
“Time’s up, milord.” There was a harsh jangling of keys, then Hogg slammed the cell door open with a crash.
Miss Monmouth stiffened at the sound of Hogg’s voice. She’d been whispering to Jeremy, but now she rose to her feet. “Jeremy, I’ll be right back, sweetheart. I need to have a quick word with Mr. Hogg here. Perhaps Lord Gray would be kind enough to wait with you?”
Tristan’s gaze followed her as she and Hogg moved into the corridor, then he turned back to Jeremy, who was watching him with wide eyes. It was clear the boy couldn’t think of a single thing to say to an earl, and Tristan was equally at a loss.
“I’ve never talked to a lord much before,” Jeremy said at last, ducking his head shyly.
Tristan’s chest tightened. Someone had taught the boy his manners, but they were little enough use to him here. He opened his mouth to say something comforting—what, he hadn’t the faintest idea—but before he could get a word out, he heard raised voices coming from just outside the door of Jeremy’s cell.
Hogg was standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, and Miss Monmouth was saying something to him, her words quick and urgent. Her shoulders sagged when Hogg’s face remained hard, but then she reached into the pocket of her skirt, pulled something out, and held it out to him.
Her silver locket. She stared down at it for a long moment, then offered it to Hogg.
Tristan watched, anger searing his veins as Hogg snatched it up, and turned it over in his hands to test its weight. Finally, he nodded.
A bribe for…something. Something she wanted badly enough she was willing to part with the locket once again. He’d seen the way she looked at it when he held it out to her yesterday, had heard the slight break in her voice when she’d told him it had belonged to her mother. He hardly knew her, and even he could tell how dear it was to her.
She turned her face away as Hogg stuffed it carelessly into his pocket. Tristan got a glimpse of her bleak expression before she schooled her features into the same calm cheerfulness with which she’d greeted Jeremy when they arrived.
That one glimpse was enough.
When she joined Tristan and Jeremy again, she wore a bright, false smile on her lips. “I have good news for you, sweetheart. Mr. Hogg says you don’t need to wear the irons anymore, and you’re to have some broth, an
d a blanket.”
Tristan stood silently next to her as she related this welcome news, the knot in his chest choking off his breath. She’d traded her locket for better accommodations for Jeremy. She’d given up something dear to her, and gained very little by it. Between the violent treatment from the guards and the disease that infected every corner of this cell, Jeremy Ives was going to die in Newgate. A blanket and some broth wouldn’t change that.
Tristan cornered Hogg while Miss Monmouth was bidding goodbye to Jeremy, who, despite the improvement in his circumstances, was weeping piteously. “That locket the lady gave you. I want it back.”
Hogg eyed him sullenly. “She change ’er mind?”
“No. I did.” Tristan moved a step closer, so Hogg could feel the difference in their height, and held out his hand. “Give me the lady’s locket.”
“Nay. It’s too late fer that, milord. She gave it up fair like, and I’m keeping it.”
“No, I don’t think you are.” Tristan voice was soft, but menacing. The wardens at Newgate were some of the most loathsome, corrupt men in London, and Hogg was no exception. There wasn’t a drop of honor or compassion in him, but what he lacked in sensibility, he more than made up for in greed.
Tristan drew a handful of guineas from his pocket. “You can take these, hand over the locket, and consider yourself fortunate, or I can take the locket off you myself, and keep the guineas.”
Hogg sized him up, then he snatched up the coins, dug around in his pocket, and handed the locket over to Tristan.
“Wise choice.” Tristan slid the locket into his waistcoat pocket. “It would be a great pity if I were to discover young Mr. Ives didn’t receive his broth and blanket, or has been mistreated in any way. You don’t want me as your enemy, Hogg. Be sure you keep your end of the bargain, or I’ll haunt your every bloody step.”
Hogg’s face drained of color. Satisfied, Tristan strode back across the cell, where Miss Monmouth had managed to calm Jeremy to some degree. The lad’s pale blue eyes were still swimming with tears, but he offered Tristan a wobbly smile. “Goodbye, my lord. I thank ye for coming to see me today.”
Tristan managed a smile and a goodbye for Jeremy, but the boy’s words echoed in his head as he and Miss Monmouth followed Hogg back through the dank stone passageways and into the turnkey’s lodge.
Thank ye for coming to see me today.
For all the good it had done, Tristan thought as they emerged into the fresh air, leaving the hell that was Newgate behind them.
For all the good any of it had done.
Chapter Ten
It was some time after they returned to the carriage before either Sophia or Lord Gray said a word. The minutes ticked by, but Lord Gray didn’t instruct his coachman to drive, and Sophia, who was staring blindly out the window, didn’t ask him to.
It had taken every bit of her strength to leave Jeremy’s cell just now—every bit of her forbearance not to collapse with fury and grief when she saw what they’d done to him. She’d been on the verge of sinking to her knees with each step through that endless, winding maze of stone and iron. She gripped the folds of her cloak in cold, numb fingers, her eyes dry despite the misery lodged in her throat. The brutality of Jeremy’s fate, the injustice of it was too profound for tears.
“I believe you, Miss Monmouth.”
Lord Gray’s voice was so quiet Sophia might not have heard him but for the stillness inside the carriage. She turned away from the window and found him staring straight ahead, his face strangely blank.
“About Jeremy Ives,” he clarified, when she didn’t reply. “He’s no murderer. He didn’t kill Henry. I…don’t know who did.”
He turned to face her then, and Sophia’s breath hitched in her throat at his lost expression, the bleak hopelessness in his eyes. She hadn’t known Henry Gerrard. She’d grieved for him still, even shed tears over his fate, but she hadn’t truly understood the depth of the loss of him until she saw it in Lord Gray’s eyes.
Henry Gerrard had a life, and friends and family. How could she have forgotten, even for a single moment, Jeremy wasn’t the only victim of this crime? She knew better than anyone a tragic loss, especially a violent one, couldn’t be kept inside a clenched fist. It couldn’t be contained. It was like a contagion, infecting everyone it touched.
“My mother was murdered,” Sophia whispered, then froze, shocked she’d said the words aloud. She never spoke of her mother, not to anyone, and she was choosing to start with Lord Gray?
It seemed so.
“I saw it happen. I was hiding in a cupboard, and saw it through the keyhole.” It hadn’t been the first time she’d been in that cupboard, or even the first time a man had knocked her mother down.
But this had been different. This time, her mother hadn’t gotten up again.
“There was…a great deal of blood.” Sophia didn’t look at Lord Gray as she spoke, but she was aware he’d gone still beside her. “I was very young at the time, but I remember trying to staunch the blood.” Even at seven years old, Sophia knew what to do when there was blood.
Bits of wadded linen for blood, and kisses for bruising…
It hadn’t worked, of course, but she’d stayed there for hours, crooning to her mother and stroking the matted dark hair until the light in the window faded, then lightened—once, then again, and again a third time. Three days. By the time Lady Clifford and Daniel came, her mother’s body had begun to decay.
Sophia had fled back into the cupboard when she heard their steps on the splintered boards in the hallway. Years later, Lady Clifford told her they’d known she was there because she’d left a trail of bloody footprints from her mother’s body to the cupboard door.
Sophia risked a glance at Lord Gray. His stern face had softened, and his gray eyes had gone dark with shared grief. “Will you…will you tell me a little about Mr. Gerrard?”
His throat worked, and without thinking, Sophia reached across the seat and took his hand. He jerked in surprise at the touch of her fingers, but he didn’t pull away. “He was…alive. I know that sounds foolish, but no other word fits quite as well as that one. He loved to laugh.” He made a helpless gesture with his hand. “It’s been weeks, and even now, I still can’t believe he’s gone. It seems incredible a life like his could end so quickly, with so little fanfare, like…snuffing out a candle.”
Sophia gave the long fingers in her hand a hesitant squeeze. “How did you know him?”
“The three of us—myself, Lord Lyndon, and Henry—were at Eton together, and later Oxford.” A sad smile lifted one corner of his lips. “His high spirits got us into no end of trouble, but he always managed to talk his way out of being sent down. He had a good heart. No one could stay angry at him for long.”
Sophia nodded, waited.
“His son, Samuel, is just two years old. His widow, Abigail…all she and Henry wanted was to be together, to watch their son grow into a man.” Lord Gray trailed off with a shake of his head that said more than words could have. “They should have had that chance. None of them deserved this.”
“No, they didn’t.” How wrong it was, that a man like Henry Gerrard should suffer such a tragic fate, while men like Peter Sharpe went about their lives unscathed.
Lord Gray met her gaze. “Jeremy Ives doesn’t deserve it, either.”
Sophia’s heart twisted at his words. Until he said them aloud, she didn’t realize she’d ached to hear them. Not from Lord Gray, exactly, but ever since this nightmare began, she’d been waiting for someone, anyone from outside the Clifford School to listen to her, and believe her.
Believe Jeremy.
The tears she’d been holding back stung her eyes. They didn’t fall, but Lord Gray saw them. He brushed his fingers under her eyes and caught the moisture on his fingertip. It was the last thing Sophia expected him to do, and from the stunned look on his face, the last thing h
e expected of himself.
They stared at each other, tension crackling between them, until Lord Gray broke their gaze. He cleared his throat. “I intend to speak to Sampson Willis about Jeremy. He may be able to do something to help him.”
Sophia nodded, but she already knew it wouldn’t do any good. The courts had pronounced Jeremy guilty. Sampson Willis wouldn’t challenge the verdict, and even if he did, it would come too late to save Jeremy.
But she didn’t say so. There was no point.
Yesterday she’d accused Lord Gray of not caring if an innocent man were sent to the gibbet, but she’d been wrong. He did care. Perhaps he even cared as much as she did, but he was still the Ghost of Bow Street. He still had faith in men like Sampson Willis. He still believed in justice, in courts and witnesses, in magistrates and scaffolds.
Perhaps she’d believed in those things once, too, but if she ever had, it was so long ago it was a mere echo in her memory. But perhaps once, before her mother’s death, there’d been a time when she believed in justice. She’d been too young to call it that then, of course, but when her mother had promised her good little girls were rewarded for their behavior, Sophia had believed her.
She’d been a good little girl, once upon a time, but it hadn’t made any difference. She’d still been that little girl who’d torn strips of linen from the hem of her mother’s petticoat to try and bandage her head. She’d still ended up in a dismal, empty room, her pinafore soaked with her dead mother’s blood.
Somehow, it was this image of her childhood self, still young and naïve enough to believe a bandage could heal every wound, that haunted Sophia. A child, crooning broken fragments of lullabies to her murdered mother, waiting for her to wake up.
Good little girls didn’t get rewards. Justice didn’t have anything to do with goodness, any more than it did with evil. So, there was really no point in being good at all, was there?