by Anna Bradley
Sophia winced at this description of last night’s attack, but she refused to give way on this. If she allowed Tristan’s overprotective instincts to run amok now, the next thing she knew he’d have her locked in his bedchamber. “Chasing after criminals involves risk, Tristan. Last night was unfortunate, but despite that near miss, you have to trust I do know how to handle myself.”
“It’s not that I don’t…I do trust you, Sophia, but I can’t…” Tristan shook his head. “I don’t want to lose you.”
Sophia touched her fingers to her throat to smooth away the sudden lump there. The worry on his face, the note of fear in his voice—oh, he’d just broken her heart in two. Spontaneously, she caught his hand, raised it to her lips and pressed a fervent kiss to his knuckles. “I swear to you I will take the utmost care.”
“See that you do.” Tristan’s voice was still tight, but his eyes darkened as her lips brushed against his fingers.
They were quiet as the carriage made its way toward the Turk’s Head, until Tristan broke the silence with a sigh. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but how did you end up dressed as a milkmaid?”
Sophia turned to him with a tentative grin. “Ah, now that was a stroke of genius, if I do say so myself. I’d retreated to your kitchen and was peeking out a crack in the door, waiting for Lord Everly to leave before venturing out again. So, you see, I was being careful.”
Tristan rolled his eyes, but a reluctant smile twitched at the corner of his lips. “I’m relieved to hear it, but the milkmaid outfit, Sophia? Unless Lord Everly tossed it out his carriage window, I fail to see how you ended up dressed in it.”
“Yes, well, that’s the genius part. As soon as Lord Everly’s carriage was out of the way, who do you suppose I saw coming down the mews?”
“Let me see if I can guess. A milkmaid?”
Sophia beamed. “Yes, just so. I offered Polly—that was her name—a guinea to loan me her garb and let me take her milk buckets to Lord Everly’s kitchen. She was quite amenable to the idea, and agreed to duck into the stables and wait for me to come back out. The thing was done in a trice, as easily as snapping my fingers.”
Tristan nodded slowly. “Yes, that’s very good, but what did you hope to gain from a visit to Lord Everly’s kitchen?”
“I wanted to have a look around to see if I could determine the easiest way to get from the kitchens to the ground floor. That way when we go back tonight, we won’t waste time fumbling about in the dark.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “You want to break into Everly’s house.”
It wasn’t a question.
Sophia gave him a shocked look. “Certainly not, Lord Gray. Why, that would be a crime. We won’t need to break in. We’ll walk right through the kitchen door.”
His gray eyes narrowed. “What did you do to Lord Everly’s kitchen door, Sophia?”
She shrugged. “Nothing much. Just wedged my shoe buckle into the crack at the bottom. The door wasn’t hung properly, which is rather shoddy of Lord Everly, if you ask me. As long as none of his kitchen servants notice it—and I daresay they won’t, as they’re not the most observant lot—we can get into his townhouse through the kitchen door and make our way up to Lord Everly’s study.”
“Everly’s study isn’t anywhere near the kitchens, Sophia. It’s up a flight of stairs and on the other side of the entrance hall. His servants might not be the sharpest in London, but even they are bound to notice the two of us strolling about. So, how do you intend to get from the kitchens to the study?”
Sophia cast a look up at him from under her eyelashes. “Er…carefully?”
Tristan blinked. “Carefully? That’s the extent of your plan? To sneak about Everly’s house carefully, and hope for the best?”
Sophia bit her lip. “Well, yes. It worked with the roof, didn’t it?”
“No, it bloody didn’t. If you recall, I saw you up there and chased you halfway across London!”
Sophia crossed her arms over her chest, nettled at this disparaging account of her rooftop scheme. “You saw me, yes. Lord Everly never did.”
Tristan dragged a hand through his hair. “That may be true, but Everly’s far more likely to see you wandering his hallways than lying on his pediment roof, and that’s to say nothing of Sharpe. It’s too dangerous.”
Dangerous. Sophia blew out a breath at the word. They were back here, again?
“It isn’t even just Everly and Sharpe, either. What of all the other servants? Housemaids, footmen—”
“Tristan.” Sophia lay a hand on his arm to quiet him. “I don’t deny it’s risky, but we’re running out of time. We’ve known since our visit to Jeremy whatever’s happening at St. Clement Dane’s Church didn’t originate with Sharpe. Now we know Lord Everly has a hand in it.” She met and held his gaze. “An important piece of the puzzle has just fallen into place, but we’ll never find out how it fits into the whole without taking some risks.”
“I’ll go see Everly myself, then. I’ll invent some business or other I need to discuss with him. I’ll call on him, he’ll take me to his study, and I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Sophia interrupted, beginning to lose patience with him. “Interrogate him? Demand to see his private papers? No, Tristan. We know Jeremy didn’t murder Henry Gerrard. Lady Clifford asked me to find out who did it, and why, and that’s what I intend to do.”
Silence.
Sophia turned her face to the window, her throat closing. She’d suspected it would come to this sooner or later, but with Tristan, she’d hoped it would be later. “This is who I am, Tristan,” she murmured, still not looking at him. “It’s…I know it’s too much for most people.”
She was too much for most people. Even Lady Clifford, who’d seen the worst London had to offer, occasionally despaired over Sophia.
“No.” Tristan’s warm fingers touched her chin, and he turned her face back to his. “Not for me, pixie.”
Sophia’s gaze met his, and she swallowed at the tenderness in those gray eyes.
Tristan cupped her face in his hands. “You’re not too much for me.”
Sophia let her forehead fall against his sturdy chest, her fingers curling into the edges of his coat. Even when the carriage turned onto the Strand, she didn’t move away from him. His soft, warm breath stirred the wisps of hair at her temples, his words echoing in her head, stilling her.
You’re not too much for me.
She’d never before wanted to believe a man’s words quite so badly as she did now.
Tristan rested his big palm against the back of her head until the carriage drew to a stop in front of the Turk’s Head. Then he stirred, and pressed a kiss to Sophia’s forehead. “Come. Let’s see what we can find out, shall we?”
* * * *
“Dunn, ye say?” Will Pryor, the proprietor of the Turk’s Head rubbed a hand over his bristly jaw.
“Patrick Dunn, yes.” Sophia leaned eagerly toward him. “Have you heard the name before?”
Pryor thought for a moment longer, then shook his head. “Afraid not, miss. It sounds familiar, but I can’t recall why. Beg pardon, but I doubt I’ll be much help to ye.”
Tristan glanced at Sophia, then turned to Pryor. “Dunn was taken up for theft a few months ago, for stealing a man’s pocket watch. The crime took place just down the street from here, at St. Clement Dane’s Church.”
The story seemed to jog Pryor’s memory. “Oh, aye,” he said with a slow nod. “I remember him now. I recall thinking it was odd when he was taken up. Seemed a good bloke, did Dunn.”
“Not the thieving sort, then?” Tristan asked.
“Not a bit of it, no. Quiet bloke, studious like, and respectable. Didn’t overindulge in the drink either, not like some of ’em who come here. He’s a silversmith, or some such, I think.”
“A weaver. Or he was, before he was convicted of the
ft.” Sophia’s face darkened. “Now he’s confined to a prison hulk on the Thames, awaiting transport to Australia, and his wife and two children are left alone with no protection.”
Pryor’s mouth twisted. “That’s not right, that isn’t. Not if he didn’t do it, leastways.”
“We have good reason to think he didn’t. That’s why we’re trying to help him. So, you can see, Mr. Pryor, why it’s so important you tell us anything you can remember about the night he was taken up.”
Pryor gave a helpless shrug. “I’d help you if I could, miss, but that was months ago. This is a busy place, and the days tend to all run into each other, ye see.”
Sophia’s face fell. “I do see, of course.”
“Just one more thing, Mr. Pryor, if you would.” Tristan braced his elbow on the bar and gave Pryor an affable smile. “Another customer of yours was also taken up for a crime committed at St. Clement Dane’s Church, this one a great deal more serious. Do you recognize the name Jeremy Ives?”
Pryor had been running a damp cloth over the bar, but at Jeremy’s name his head snapped up. “Ives? ’Course I remember him. He was the blackguard what murdered that Bow Street Runner. I told my wife, I says, Ives must have slit that poor man’s throat not more’n half an hour after he left here that night. Gives ye the shivers to think about it, don’t it?”
“Had you ever seen Ives here before?” Jeremy had told them he’d never been to the Turk’s Head before that night. Tristan believed him, but this was a good way to gauge Pryor’s honesty and the accuracy of his memory.
“Nay, never laid eyes on him before.” Pryor frowned. “Now ye mention him, I don’t mind telling ye he was the last lad in the world I ever would have said were a killer.”
Sophia opened her mouth, but Tristan shot her a warning look. This wasn’t the time to argue Jeremy’s innocence. “Indeed, why is that, Mr. Pryor? He’s a—that is, he was an unusually large man, from what I understand. Certainly, he was large enough to easily overpower his victim.”
“He was a big one, aye, but a gentle bloke, for all that. More childlike, ye understand, than ye’d expect for a bloke that size. He didn’t seem like the violent sort.” Mr. Pryor braced his hands on the bar, his brow furrowing as he thought back to that night. “He was soft-spoken, like, and polite. The place was stuffed to the rafters that night, ye see, it being a meeting night, but he waited patient as a saint while everyone around him was demanding their drink—”
“A meeting night?” Sophia interrupted, a sudden tension in her voice. “What sort of meeting?”
“LCS meeting. They come the first Tuesday of every month, ye see, just like clockwork.”
“LCS? You mean the London Corresponding Society? They meet here at the Turk’s Head?” Tristan asked, his casual tone utterly at odds with the chill rushing over his skin.
Mr. Pryor gave him an odd look. “Aye. Every first Tuesday of the month, like I said.”
The London Corresponding Society had formed in January of the previous year, and had been a thorn in the government’s side ever since. And, by default, Lord Everly’s side, and the side of every one of William Pitt’s supporters in Parliament. Pitt tended to frown upon radical reform groups in general, but he’d singled out the LCS for his particular ire. Not surprisingly, he didn’t care for the idea of every citizen in England having a vote.
“You wouldn’t happen to recall, Mr. Pryor, if Patrick Dunn was a member of the LCS?” Under the bar, Sophia reached for Tristan’s hand. “That is, was he generally here on meeting nights?”
Mr. Pryor’s face cleared. “Aye, he was. I didn’t recall that at first, but now ye ask I remember he came on Tuesdays with the other LCS blokes.”
Sophia’s palm had gone damp against Tristan’s, and he knew she was thinking the same thing he was. “Thank you, Mr. Pryor. You’ve been very helpful.”
“My God, Tristan,” Sophia whispered as he took her arm and led her out to the carriage. “Lord Everly’s even more of a villain than I supposed. He’s got Peter Sharpe going after members of the London Corresponding Society! Sharpe accuses them of theft, and the fourth man…what of the fourth man? He lurks in the shadows, and if Sharpe’s business goes awry, he leaps out, and sets it right again?”
Tristan gave a grim nod. “That’s my guess. Today is Monday, and tomorrow is the first Tuesday of the month. Whatever it is Everly’s planning next will happen tomorrow night at St. Clement Dane’s Church.”
Sophia ducked inside the carriage. “Yes, but who’s their next target? We have to find out, and make certain he stays away from St. Clement Dane’s churchyard tomorrow night.”
“No.” Tristan closed the carriage door behind him and sat back against the seat, his brow furrowed in thought. “No, whoever it is, he’ll have to go to St. Clement Dane’s, and let the thing play out. It’s the only way to catch Sharpe and his accomplice at the crime. If their victim doesn’t come, there’s no one for Sharpe to accuse, and no reason for the fourth man to intervene. We may never get a look at him then.”
Sophia turned a stricken gaze on Tristan. “The fourth man will be waiting to pounce as soon as Sharpe accosts their next victim. We have to find out who they’re targeting next, Tristan, and warn him of the danger. He has to know what to expect when he passes by the church, or this thing could go terribly wrong.”
“We’ll see what we can discover at Everly’s tonight. Whatever else happens, I intend to be at St. Clement Dane’s tomorrow night to catch Peter Sharpe, and find out who this fourth man is before he hurts someone else. Brixton and a few of Willis’s Bow Street Runners can come with me.”
Sophia shook her head. “Daniel’s not in London at the moment. Lady Clifford sent him off somewhere with Jeremy.”
Tristan blew out a breath. “Damn it. How far have they gone? Can he be brought back to London quickly?”
“I truly don’t know where they are, Tristan. I wasn’t lying to you about that. Lady Clifford is careful to keep each of us focused only on whatever part of a task we’ve been assigned. There’s fewer chances of errors that way.”
“Clever of her,” Tristan muttered, then tapped on the roof to signal the driver. “Will you come back to Great Marlborough Street with me?”
“No, not just yet. Drop me at No. 26 Maddox, will you? I need to speak to Lady Clifford. I’ll let her know what we’ve discovered about Lord Everly and the LCS, and see if Daniel can’t be made available tomorrow night. I’ll return to Great Marlborough Street later for our foray into Lord Everly’s study.”
Tristan’s gray eyes were dark with worry. “Or you could stay at the Clifford School. I promise I’ll come and see you as soon as everything is—”
Sophia pressed her fingers to his lips before he could say anything more. “You’re wasting your breath, my lord. You know very well I’m going with you.”
“Yes, I suppose I do. Very well, then, we’ll do this your way. But I’ll have my way, as well.” He turned her hand to press a kiss to her palm, his gaze meeting hers. “Don’t keep me waiting long tonight, Miss Monmouth.”
Chapter Eighteen
Darkness had settled over London by the time Sophia returned to Great Marlborough Street. Tribble opened the door to her knock, and offered her a solemn bow. “Good evening, Miss Monmouth.”
“Good evening, Tribble.” Sophia sank into an equally solemn curtsy and followed Tribble obediently down the hallway, but when they reached the library door, she pressed a finger to her lips before he could announce her. Tribble’s eyebrow ticked up a fraction at this untoward request, but he didn’t make a practice of arguing with Lord Gray’s guests. He offered her a stiff bow and disappeared back toward the entryway.
Tristan was standing in front of the window, his back to her. Sophia didn’t announce herself, but paused in the doorway. She couldn’t recall ever having had the opportunity to watch him without him noticing, and she took it now, s
tudying his broad shoulders and muscled back. Her gaze lingered on his elegant fingers wrapped around the tumbler he held in his hand, and a shiver tripped down her spine.
He’d touched her with those strong hands, those long, teasing fingers. He’d made her squirm and writhe for him, cry out for him…
Perhaps he felt the intensity of her stare, because Tristan turned from the window, his eyes meeting hers. Surprise flashed in the gray depths, and something else that looked like relief, as if he hadn’t truly believed she’d return this evening, despite her promise. That flicker of doubt was so fleeting another person might not have noticed it, but Sophia did. She noticed everything about this man.
“You look surprised to see me, Lord Gray. Did you think I wouldn’t come? I did promise you I would.” She strode into the library, a smile on her lips.
“Not at all, Miss Monmouth. I simply expected you to come through the window rather than the door.”
“The evening’s just begun, my lord. We may yet find ourselves climbing through windows and dangling from rooftops. I do hope you’re prepared.”
He took a leisurely sip of his port, watching her approach over the edge of his glass. His gray eyes heated to molten silver as he swept his gaze over her. “I see you are. Dressed for prowling, are we?”
Sophia paused to glance down at her black tunic and breeches. “You may call it prowling, if you like. I prefer to think of it as pursuit of the guilty.”
“They’re one and the same for you, Miss Monmouth.” He linked his fingers with hers and drew her forward, turning her so her backside was against the edge of his desk. “May I offer you a drink? Some sherry, perhaps?”
Sophia cocked her head to the side, eyeing the ruby red liquor in his glass before taking it from his hand and sipping from it. “I prefer port.”
He laughed softly, his gaze darting to her mouth. He touched his thumb to her chin to raise her head, and leaned in to taste her lips. “I prefer port as well, particularly from your mouth.” He pressed his glass to her lips once more, tipping in another sip of port, his eyes gleaming as he looked down at her.