The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray

by Anna Bradley

  Sophia licked delicately at the corner of her lip, but when he let out a soft hiss and leaned toward her again, she pressed her hands to his chest. “You do remember why we’re here, Tristan? Let’s concentrate on the matter at hand.” She nodded to the window behind them.

  “That would be easier if you weren’t wearing breeches.” Tristan ran his hand up her thigh and over her hip. “I can see your—”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord, but your hand on my backside isn’t helping my concentration. Or yours, I’d wager.”

  “On the contrary. I’m perfectly able to concentrate on your backside.”

  A grin stole over Sophia’s lips. “Pay attention, will you? Has anyone left Lord Everly’s house this evening?”

  He sighed, but he removed his hand and shoved both of them into his pockets. “Not yet. I only hope he has an engagement tonight. If he leaves, he’ll call his carriage and go through the front door. We’re not likely to miss him, but it will be far trickier to track Sharpe’s movements, as he might go out the servants’ entrance.”

  “He may have already done so.” Sophia tapped her lip, thinking. “I’m not as concerned with Mr. Sharpe, however. He isn’t likely to be lurking about Lord Everly’s study.”

  Tristan frowned. “It’s risky to assume that, Sophia. He could be anywhere on the ground floor, or in the kitchens.”

  “We should be able to tell if anyone is in the kitchens from outside the door. We’ll wait until it’s dark and silent, then sneak inside.”

  Tristan rested his forehead against hers for a quiet moment, then he drew her toward the window. “Watch for Everly.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on the top of her head. “As soon as he leaves, we’ll go.”

  Midnight came and went, but there was no discernible activity from Lord Everly’s townhouse. Sophia grew more anxious as the moments slipped by, but at last a carriage emerged from the darkness, rattled down the street, and stopped in front of Lord Everly’s townhouse.

  “About bloody time,” Tristan muttered. “I thought he’d never go.”

  The door opened, and the light illuminated Lord Everly’s round figure as he hurried down the front steps. He climbed into the carriage, and it disappeared down Great Marlborough Street.

  Tristan dropped a quick kiss on the top of Sophia’s head, then took her hand and led her from the library. Tribble had vanished, and none of Tristan’s other servants were about. No one saw them as they crossed the hallway toward the staircase leading to the lower floor, and within minutes they were standing in the mews outside of Lord Everly’s kitchen door.

  They listened for a few moments, but it was silent on the other side, and no lights shone through the narrow crack underneath the door.

  Sophia sucked in a breath, rested her fingers against the wood, and pushed. The breath rushed from her lungs when the door opened with a soft squeak. For all her brave talk about the carelessness of Everly’s servants, she couldn’t quite believe they hadn’t discovered the buckle under the door.

  “This way.” Tristan guided her across the dim kitchen to the doorway Sophia had noticed that morning. It was a small alcove with a series of cupboards on one side and a narrow staircase on the other. They crept up one set of stairs, then peered around another door at the top of the landing.

  “We’re under the main staircase, at the back of the entrance hall. The layout is similar to my townhouse.” Tristan tipped his chin toward a shadowy hallway on the other side of the entryway. “Everly’s study will be down there on the left.”

  Sophia could hear the soft tread of footsteps above their heads. A servant, likely snuffing the candles, but it was impossible to tell whether they were coming down the stairs, or ascending to the upper floors. Tristan and Sophia waited, hardly daring to breathe, but no one appeared, and the footsteps faded.

  “Now.” Sophia laced her fingers with Tristan’s, her heart racing as they darted across the entryway. She didn’t dare look anywhere but straight ahead until they reached the relative safety of the dim hallway on the other side. They paused there, but when silence continued to reign over the house she peered around the corner.

  No one was there. Aside from her and Tristan, this part of the house was deserted.

  “Everly’s not the trusting sort,” Tristan whispered as they tiptoed toward the study door. “What’s more, given his position and connections in the House of Lords, he considers himself very important, indeed. Be prepared for his study door to be locked.”

  He said no more, but Sophia heard what Tristan didn’t say.

  If it’s locked, we’re not breaking in.

  But the door wasn’t locked. In fact, it stood wide open, as if beckoning them inside. Sophia’s heart leapt with hope, but it crashed again seconds later when they crossed the threshold and their eyes adjusted to the dim room.

  Aside from an inkstand and quill and a half-empty glass of brandy, Everly’s desk was bare. The handsome mahogany credenza against the wall was equally disappointing, the polished surface also bare. The only pieces of furniture in the room that looked as if they’d been touched were the leather chair behind the desk, which was worn in the seat, and the liquor cabinet.

  “It looks as if he uses this room primarily for sitting and drinking.” Tristan pulled the brass knob on the drawer in the center of the desk. It slid open easily, but there was nothing inside but a letter opener. Another drawer contained a set of uncut quills, sticks of wax and a seal, and third a small stack of blank, loose paper. Otherwise, the desk was empty.

  Sophia stared at it in disbelief. “I don’t understand. What sort of earl doesn’t have a scrap of paper in his desk? Lord Everly’s a member of the Lords, for pity’s sake.”

  Tristan was staring at the empty drawer, his eyes narrowed. “No, it doesn’t make sense. Everly does more running and fetching for William Pitt than any other lord in the house. His desk should be crammed with documents and papers. Suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”

  Sophia met Tristan’s gaze from the other side of the desk. “Everything about Lord Everly is suspicious, and grows more so by the moment.”

  “There’s only one reason a man like Everly would take such care to make certain not a single shred of paper can be traced back to him.”

  A shiver darted up Sophia’s back at Tristan’s foreboding tone. “What reason is that?”

  Tristan slid the drawers closed. “To make absolutely certain whatever he’s up to, he doesn’t get caught at it.”

  “But there must be something here, Tristan. How else could—”

  Sophia broke off, and their heads snapped toward the door. They’d both heard it at once—a soft thud, like the sound of a door closing above. They waited, frozen, and a moment later they heard the sound of footsteps shuffling down the stairs.

  “They’re coming this way. Quickly.” Tristan grasped Sophia’s hand and tugged her to the far side of the room, away from Everly’s desk and the muted glow of the fire, but there wasn’t time to do more than tuck themselves against either side of a massive bookshelf, and hope the shadows would hide them.

  A moment later, a man strolled into the study, whistling to himself, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Sophia shrank back against the wall, not daring to draw a breath as he strode toward the desk and slid open one of the bottom drawers. He rummaged about, digging under the neat stacks of blank paper until at last he pulled a tiny scrap out from underneath it.

  He closed the drawer with a click, then crossed to the fire. It was late enough the servants had let it die to embers, but there was enough feeble light to reveal Sharpe’s rodent-like features. He held the slip of paper between his fingers, moving it closer to the light. He squinted down at it, his lips moving as he read it once, then once again.

  Sophia couldn’t see much from her place by the bookshelf, but she already knew what was written on the paper.
r />   A name.

  Sharpe read it over a few more times, obviously committing it to memory, then with a careless flick of his fingers he tossed the slip of paper into the fire, and strolled back out the way he’d come in. Neither Tristan nor Sophia moved until the muted thud of Sharpe’s footsteps faded, then both of them shot up and hurried across the room toward the fireplace.

  “Can you still read it?” Sophia hung over Tristan’s shoulder as he knelt down and snatched the slip of paper out of the fire.

  “Mr. Sharpe’s as careless in this as he has been in everything else.” Tristan read it, then held it up so Sophia could see it. “Thelwall.”

  The paper was singed and the edges curled enough to obscure the first name, but it didn’t matter. The last name was clearly visible, and it was enough. Sophia gasped softly. “Francis Thelwall?”

  “They’re either getting bolder, or more desperate.” Tristan shoved the paper back into the fire. They both watched as the embers devoured it until it was nothing more than scorched ash in the grate, then Tristan grasped Sophia’s hand and led her from the study.

  They tiptoed back down the hallway and across the entryway to the kitchens below. Sophia took care to remove the buckle she’d inserted under the door, then she and Tristan hurried into the mews and back to Tristan’s kitchen, where he threw himself into one of the chairs at Mrs. Beeson’s table. “Not a single paper in the desk, yet a fruitful visit, all the same.”

  Sophia shook her head. “I don’t understand it, Tristan. Do you think they’re really foolish enough to target Francis Thelwall? He doesn’t enjoy the same obscurity as Patrick Dunn.”

  Francis Thelwall was one of the founding members of the London Corresponding Society. He was clever, charismatic, and an outspoken critic of William Pitt’s Parliament. All of London knew who he was. If he was suddenly arrested for thievery, uncomfortable questions would arise.

  “Patrick Dunn may have been an experiment to see if the scheme would work,” Tristan said. “Not many people in London would connect Dunn to the LCS. They likely targeted him to see if they could get away with it, and now they have, they’re going after Thelwall.”

  Sophia nodded slowly. “It would be convenient for Mr. Pitt if Francis Thelwall was shipped off to an Australian penal colony, particularly now the LCS has connected with other reform groups.”

  “Yes. They likely think it’s worth the risk.”

  The LCS had members in Norwich, Manchester, Sheffield—even Scotland, and they were growing more powerful by the day. “A theft charge would be a tidy way to get rid of Thelwall.”

  “It would be even tidier if he were hung.” Tristan’s tone was grim. “Six thousand members of the public signed the LCS’s latest petition, and it was presented to Parliament in May. When did the rash of thefts begin at St. Clement Dane’s?”

  Sophia’s head was spinning as all the disparate puzzle pieces began to fall together. “Jeremy was accused in June, and Patrick Dunn a month or so before that. What of Jeremy, though? He’s not a member of the LCS. What do Sharpe and Everly gain by accusing him?”

  “Yes, I thought of that, too. Sharpe must have made a mistake. He likely saw Jeremy approaching St. Clement Dane’s, and not being the cleverest criminal, mistook him for someone else, and sprung his trap only to find he’d got the wrong man.”

  “Yes, of course.” Sophia drummed her fingers against the table, thinking. “Sharpe got the wrong man, and if that weren’t enough to end the scheme, Henry Gerrard caught them out at it. He knew to go to St. Clement Dane’s on the first Tuesday of the month, and he caught Sharpe attempting to frame Jeremy for theft.”

  Tristan fell back against his chair. “Jeremy told us the fourth man was there that night. He must have leapt from the shadows when he realized Henry had uncovered the scheme, and stabbed him. Who better to blame for his murder than Jeremy? He was already there, and likely too confused to put up much resistance.”

  “We still don’t know who the fourth man is. It can’t be Everly.” Sophia had seen Everly and the fourth man together herself, in Everly’s carriage this morning. “Everly might maneuver it from behind the scenes, but he wouldn’t soil his hands with something so gruesome as a murder, which means…” Sophia met Tristan’s gaze over the scrubbed tabletop, and her voice trailed off. “Tristan? You look strange. Are you ill?”

  * * * *

  Tristan gazed across the table at Sophia, into the lovely green eyes he’d fallen into the first time he’d seen them—the eyes he was still drowning in today—and his stomach lurched with fear.

  If Everly had had his way, it wouldn’t have been a single murder.

  It would have been two.

  “Tristan? Are you unwell?”

  Tristan opened his mouth to answer her, but no words came out. The fourth man had murdered Henry Gerrard, and only two nights ago he’d tried to murder Sophia.

  Tried, and nearly succeeded.

  If Tristan hadn’t spotted Sophia on Everly’s pediment roof that night, the villain would have spilled her blood all over Pollen Street. Panic rose in Tristan’s throat when he thought of how near a thing it had been.

  If he’d come upon them even a few seconds later, he would have lost her. Now, sitting across from her, looking into her eyes, he knew without a shadow of a doubt if the worst had happened, he never would have recovered from the loss of her.

  I’m in love with her.

  This wild, reckless lady, so small and dainty yet so fierce, this dark-haired pixie, half-angel and half-thief, with her devastating green eyes and her troubling tendency to climb onto roofs and slip through fences. Stubborn, clever, brave—perhaps just a bit broken. She wasn’t at all the sort of lady he imagined he’d ever fall in love with, yet she was all he could think about, all he could see.

  He stared at her, dumbfounded. Did she love him back? Did she even trust him? If not, would she ever? The questions spun inside his head, but no sooner did they arise than he tossed them aside again, unanswered.

  It didn’t matter. He was in love with her, and there was no going back from that. She might walk away from him and never look back, and it wouldn’t make any difference. He’d go on loving her against reason, sanity, or logic. He’d go on loving her even after he’d lost all hope.

  She reached across the table and grasped his hand, her green eyes troubled. “Tristan? Are you all right? You’re scaring me.”

  Tristan forced a smile to his lips. “Just reminding myself you’re here with me, and you’re safe and well. Well, aside from scraped palms and knees.”

  Her eyes went soft as they moved over his face. “Only because of you. I had no right to expect you to follow me that night, but you did.”

  It was on the tip of Tristan’s tongue to tell her he’d follow her everywhere, anywhere for the rest of his life if she’d let him, but this wasn’t the time to declare himself. He wouldn’t speak to her of love with the same breath as he spoke to her of murder.

  “Henry’s mistake was in thinking Sharpe and Everly were working alone.” Tristan’s lips twisted with sadness as he thought of his friend. “He hadn’t counted on there being a fourth man there that night, lurking in the shadows.”

  “You realize what this means, Tristan.” Sophia’s voice was quiet. “At the least we’re accusing Everly—a member of the House of Lords—of sending innocent men to prison to put an end to the London Corresponding Society, which is a perfectly lawful reform group. At worst, we’re accusing him of being an accessory to murder.”

  “We are, and that’s to say nothing of Pitt himself. There’s no denying he’s the primary beneficiary of the scheme, and Everly doesn’t stir a step without Pitt’s approval. I find it difficult to believe he’d go as far as this without Pitt knowing of it.”

  Tristan had known all along this business went much deeper than a few thefts—a Bow Street Runner doesn’t get murdered over a
stolen pocket watch—but he’d never imagined it might reach such staggeringly high levels. At the very least, Everly was involved.

  As for Pitt, they’d likely never know whether or not he’d set the whole plot in motion. If he had, they’d never be able to prove it. But Sharpe, Everly, and the fourth man—the murderer who’d killed Henry and tried to kill Sophia? Tristan’s jaw hardened. They’d be held accountable for their crimes.

  He rose, and held his hand out to Sophia. “Come with me.”

  She took his hand without hesitation, and hope shot through him. Perhaps she did trust him, after all. “The library. I’ve got copies of the Proceedings there. We may find this business didn’t start with Patrick Dunn, after all. Peter Sharpe may have accused a number of men of theft over the past year, all of them members of the London Corresponding Society.”

  Sophia had only gone back as far as May in the Proceedings, but it turned out Tristan was right. It took hours of pouring over the published accounts, but they found Peter Sharpe had been the unfortunate victim of two additional thefts since the start of the year, both of which had taken place at St. Clement Dane’s Church. He’d been careful to leave months between each incident to prevent anyone becoming suspicious, but the dates of the thefts corresponded with LCS meeting dates at the Turk’s Head.

  “I need to let Lady Clifford know about Francis Thelwall.” Sophia set aside the Proceedings from the last session she’d been reading and rubbed her hand over her eyes. “Peter Sharpe will have a great deal more company at St. Clement Dane’s Church tomorrow night than he anticipates, but we need to warn Francis Thelwall first.”

  “Tomorrow, pixie,” Tristan murmured. “It’s late. Come upstairs, and I’ll put you to bed.”

  He half-expected her to demand to be taken back to No. 26 Maddox Street, but she didn’t. Instead she gave him a sweet smile, took the hand he offered, and let him help her to her feet. Tristan led her upstairs to his bedchamber and tucked her into his bed. He unclasped her locket from her neck and set it carefully aside on the table, but he didn’t dare strip her of her clothing. He left her safely covered by her tunic and breeches, so he wouldn’t be tempted by her soft skin or supple curves.