The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray

by Anna Bradley

  Sophia sucked in a breath.

  A man’s legs.

  She leaned closer, and her hand landed in something wet, a warm, thick puddle that clung to her fingertips before dripping off in slow, heavy drops, like…

  Blood.

  It was a man’s body, covered in blood. Unmoving, but still warm.

  Sophia’s own blood froze in her veins. A cry rose in her throat but she bit it back and crawled closer, her hands moving over the still figure in front of her.

  A man, yes. She felt her way down to his feet, running her palm over the rough heel of a pair of heavy boots, then upward, over a torso and arms clad in a thick, woolen coat, and then upward again until her fingers brushed over flesh. She felt a faint trace of warmth under her fingertips, but the man’s skin was rapidly cooling, and soon enough she found out why.

  His life’s blood was gushing from a long, jagged slit in his throat. Sophia gagged as a heavy, metallic smell filled her nostrils and more of the thick, sticky warmth flowed over her fingers. For one endless, dreadful moment she froze, her mind reeling, but then she jerked her fingers to the pulse point behind his ear. The blood was flowing so quickly from the gash in his throat she despaired of finding any flutter there, but she pressed her fingers hard against his flesh.

  No, not a twitch. She hovered her damp fingers over his nose and mouth, but he was no longer breathing.

  Dead.

  Another man murdered in St. Clement Dane’s churchyard. Sophia fell back against her heels, her heart squeezing with shock in her chest. Another man, nameless and faceless, lying lifeless in his own blood, his throat glutted with it, breathing his last alone in a deserted graveyard.

  Who was he? Not Thelwall.

  Who, then?

  Tristan.

  Dread rolled over her, but she’d spent hours touching Tristan’s body, his face—had spent the night wrapped in his arms. She’d never forget the warmth of his skin under her fingertips, the long, smooth muscles of his body moving over hers.

  Sophia’s brain recognized at once it wasn’t him, but her heart wasn’t so easily convinced. It was thrashing about inside her chest like a frantic bird, demanding certainty. She reached for the man with shaking hands, trying to avoid touching his blood again as she searched his face with desperate fingers. His chin, the bones of his cheeks, his lips, gasping all the while with hope and terror.

  She might have stayed there all night, her hands moving over the dead’s man’s face, rocking and muttering incoherent pleas and prayers if a sudden dull gleam of light hadn’t fallen over her. Sophia stared down at the features under her fingertips, and her heart rushed into her throat.

  It wasn’t Tristan.

  It was Peter Sharpe, blood still oozing from his ravaged throat, his eyes open and staring blankly up at her.

  “Shame about Sharpe, innit it, Miss Monmouth?”

  Sophia froze. The light that had fallen across Peter Sharpe’s ghastly face had come from a lamp. Again, her first thought was it must be Tristan, but it wasn’t Tristan’s voice. No, there was someone else looming over her, a lamp in his fist. She turned slowly, holding up her hand to protect her eyes from the light.

  “I been after ye for days, but yer a cunning one, aren’t you? Sneaky, like.”

  Sophia couldn’t see his face. The light blinded her, rendering the man before her nothing but a dark, hulking silhouette, his features hidden in shadows, but she recognized his voice at once as the same voice she’d overheard arguing with Lord Everly yesterday morning.

  The fourth man.

  The man who’d killed Henry Gerrard all those weeks ago. The man who’d let Jeremy stand trial for his crime, and who’d gladly have seen him hang for it.

  The man who’d killed Peter Sharpe tonight.

  Sophia’s mind was sluggish with shock, and she had to grope for the connection between the man standing over her now and the villain who’d made an attempt on her life on Pollen Street two nights ago. Tristan had said he’d had a club, or a stick…

  Her gaze darted to the heavy walking stick in his hand. He let it dangle loosely between his fingers, tapping it repeatedly against the heel of his boot with a careless flick of his wrist.

  “Knew I’d get ye alone sooner or later, an’ now here ye are.”

  He grabbed the brass knob at the top of the stick, and Sophia heard the unmistakable clash of steel being drawn from its sheath. She gasped as a long, wicked blade emerged from the hilt.

  He run the sword across the man’s throat…

  It had to be the same walking stick that had disappeared from the scene of Henry Gerrard’s murder, and inside it was the murder weapon. Jeremy had called it a sword, but the lamplight revealed the deadly edge and the ornately carved hilt of a dagger.

  “Looks like yer luck’s run out, girl.”

  There was no time to speak, to move, or even to think before he grabbed her by her hair. Sophia cried out in pain when he wrenched her to her feet, but it died to a whimper when he pressed the cold blade of his dagger to her throat.

  Sophia reacted instantly, without thought or reason, her defense born of an instinct honed by years spent wandering the most dangerous streets in the grimmest neighborhoods of London.

  “No!” It was a deafening scream, pitched high enough to carry to every corner of St. Clement Dane’s churchyard and into the Strand beyond. If anyone was near—Lady Clifford or Daniel, Thelwall, or Tristan—they’d hear it.

  The scream had been building in her chest since she’d stumbled over Peter Sharpe’s mangled body, and she gave voice to it now as close to her attacker’s ear as she could manage. With any luck, it might shatter his eardrum.

  “Shut yer mouth!”

  The man kept his arm pressed tightly to her neck, but the shock of her scream threw his balance off, and Sophia took immediate advantage of it. She slammed the heel of her foot back, connecting with his knee. He let out a pained grunt as his leg buckled, and the arm around her neck loosened.

  Sophia tore loose from his grip and fled, her harsh breath drumming in her head as she flew over the uneven ground of the graveyard towards the entrance to the church.

  She didn’t get far.

  Her attacker was a hardened criminal who’d survived much more powerful blows than hers. He came after her, caught her by the hem of her tunic and yanked her backwards, sending her sprawling into the dirt. Another cry left her lips as her head slammed into the ground with a loud, dizzying thump.

  “Bloody little bitch,” he spat, and then he was on her, wrenching her to her feet with a vicious tug on her arm. This time he didn’t give her a chance to scream, but slapped a hand over her mouth with such violence she tasted blood as her teeth cut into the inside of her lip. There was no chance for her to bite him, or even to draw a breath before his forearm jabbed into her throat.

  She raked her fingernails over his flesh, clawing him as hard as she could, but he’d snatched hold of her hair again, and now he yanked her head backwards, exposing her vulnerable neck. Sophia kicked and flailed in his grip, but this time her feet didn’t find his knee, only empty air.

  “Quit yer fussing, girl. It’ll be over quicker that way.”

  His hot breath drifted over her ear, and she just had time to think, this is what happens to wicked little girls before she felt the tip of his blade prick her neck, and she didn’t think at all.

  * * * *

  Tristan raced across London, his horse’s hooves pounding the streets between Great Marlborough Street and St. Clement Dane’s Church into powder.

  But no matter how quickly he flew, it wasn’t quickly enough.

  How long had it been since Sophia left his house? An hour? Longer than that? How much time had he wasted, listening to Sampson’s Willis’s lies?

  If only he’d told Tribble to send Sampson Willis on his way. If only he hadn’t left Sophia a
lone in his bedchamber, or returned to her sooner, or caught her before she slipped out the door…

  If only, if only…

  He leaned over his horse’s head, a mumbled prayer on his lips. He didn’t know what he prayed for, only that his words grew more desperate when St. Clement Dane’s spire appeared in the distance.

  Nearly there. Past Arundel and Aldwych, another block further along the Strand…

  His heart eased a fraction in its frantic pounding as the entrance to the church and the churchyard came into view. It appeared deserted. He knew Sophia was here, but she would have taken care to hide herself well.

  There was no sign of Sharpe, either, but that was little consolation to Tristan, who knew there were far more dangerous men hiding in the darkness than Lord Everly’s cowardly servant.

  Men like Richard Poole.

  Wily, quick, and a ruthless murderer. He’d ended Henry’s life with a swipe of a blade, and if given a second chance, he’d do the same to Sophia.

  Tristan didn’t intend to give him a second chance.

  As soon as he made it to the church he leapt from the saddle, drawing in deep, calming breaths as he stole cautiously toward the entrance. A battle would certainly unfold in St. Clement Dane’s churchyard tonight, but by some miraculous bit of luck he seemed to have arrived before it—

  “No!”

  The high-pitched scream rent the air, shattering the silence. Tristan’s head whipped toward it, his blood freezing to ice.

  Sophia. He’d know her voice anywhere.

  The scream had come from the graveyard beyond the church. Tristan tore off in that direction, his long legs eating up the ground at his feet. As he drew closer, he noticed a dim light at the base of a white marble crypt.

  A lantern, lying on its side, and beside it, just at the edge of the pool of light was the lifeless body of Peter Sharpe. Tristan didn’t gasp or flinch at the sight. He didn’t blink, and he didn’t pause in his flight. One glance, and he could see by the spreading pool of blood seeping into the ground around the body that Peter Sharpe was beyond help.

  But Sophia wasn’t. She was here, and she was alive.

  He ran for her, the graveyard unfolding at his pounding feet, and suddenly he was trapped in his nightmare of the past few weeks, the white marble crypt at his back as he ran for her, faster, then faster still, drawing closer with each step, his hand reaching for the long strands of her dark hair, catching it between his fingers just as she dissolved into mist.

  But he ran on, his heart shuddering in his chest, each breath tearing from his lungs until there, at last, just ahead, at the edge of the graveyard…

  He couldn’t see them, but he sensed movement, some sort of struggle, and an instant later he heard it. A muttered curse, and a woman’s choking cough, as if someone was squeezing her by the throat. Tristan’s heart clenched with fear, but as terrifying as it sounded, he wasn’t prepared for the sight that met his eyes when he found them at last.

  It was the scene out of his worst nightmare.

  Poole had a handful of her hair in his fist, her head back to expose her neck, and a dagger, the edge of the blade gleaming, was pressed hard against her throat. Sophia was fighting him, but Tristan could see she was weakening as she struggled to draw breath into her lungs.

  Poole was either going to slash her throat, or strangle her.

  Tristan bit back the agonized shout that tried to escape his own throat. The only advantage he had was Poole hadn’t yet seen him. His body tensed to attack, to leap on Poole and tear Sophia loose from his arms, but once again a tiny shred of reason prevented him.

  Poole had a blade pressed to Sophia’s neck. All it would take was an unexpected noise or movement for Poole to startle and for the dagger to slip…

  No. He couldn’t risk it. Before he had a chance to stir a step, Poole would spill Sophia’s blood all over the ground at their feet. There was only one way, and it wasn’t a battle of blows.

  It was a battle of wits.

  He crept as close as he dared, his footfalls silent against the soft ground. “You’ve saved me a good deal of trouble this evening, Poole. I owe you my thanks.”

  Poole’s head jerked up, and his entire body went rigid when he saw Tristan emerge from the shadows. His arm tightened around Sophia’s neck, and his fingers curled on the hilt of his dagger. “Stay where you are, Gray. Not one bloody step, or I’ll carve a slit in her throat before you’ve drawn a single breath.”

  Sophia was retching and choking against the pressure on her throat, and it took every ounce of Tristan’s control not to look at her, to wipe all expression from his face. “Go ahead. I don’t give a damn what you do to her, though it occurs to me she’d be far more useful to us alive than dead.”

  “Us?” Poole gave a scornful laugh. “Who’s ‘us,’ Gray?”

  “You, me, Everly, and Willis, of course. Sharpe’s part is finished, by the look of him. Willis told me you’d manage it, but Everly wanted me to come after you, just to be certain.”

  “You!” Poole’s grip on Sophia loosened as he stared at Tristan in disbelief.

  Tristan stared steadily back at him. As far as Poole knew, the only way Tristan could know Willis and Everly were involved in this business was if Tristan was involved in it, too. “Yes, Poole. Me.”

  Poole was staring at Tristan with his mouth open. “What do you know about Everly’s business, Gray?”

  “A great deal more than you do, I suspect. For God’s sakes, man, why else would I be wandering around St. Clement Dane’s churchyard in the middle of the bloody night? Sharpe’s a loose end Lord Everly wants tied up. You know his lordship too well to think he’d leave something as important as this to chance.”

  Indeed, Everly was much cleverer than Tristan and Sophia had given him credit for being. As soon as Tristan saw Sharpe’s dead body lying in the dirt, he knew they’d made a miscalculation.

  Lord Everly hadn’t sent Sharpe to St. Clement Dane’s tonight to target Thelwall. After that mess with Henry and Jeremy Ives, Everly must have realized his scheme was falling apart, and he’d decided to eliminate the players, starting with Peter Sharpe.

  Francis Thelwall wasn’t the intended victim of tonight’s crime.

  Peter Sharpe was.

  “Just as well Sharpe’s dead,” Tristan said with a shrug. “He’s made a great many blunders, starting with Jeremy Ives. Bloody inconvenient, the way Sharpe called Lady Clifford’s attention to our affairs. One doesn’t need her poking about.”

  “Everly never said a word about you to me.”

  Poole didn’t release Sophia, but Tristan saw the uncertainty on the man’s face, and his heart leapt with hope. “Why should he? My business with Lord Everly is none of your concern. It’s an agreement between gentlemen, Poole.”

  It was the right thing to say. Poole’s utter ruthlessness made him useful to Everly, but Poole wasn’t an aristocrat, and Everly would have taken care to make him painfully aware of that fact.

  Tristan gave a lofty lift of his eyebrow, ready to press his advantage. “Everly came to me once Lady Clifford became involved. Someone had to keep Miss Monmouth occupied, after all. You didn’t suppose it would be you, did you? Miss Monmouth here may be as common as dirt, but I doubt even she would have fallen victim to your, er…questionable charms. Why would Lord Everly send you when he has an earl at his disposal?”

  Poole’s face flushed angrily, but he knew how preoccupied with rank Lord Everly was, how grand he thought himself. He had to be wondering if Tristan was telling him the truth.

  “I don’t recall Lord Everly saying anything about killing her tonight, though,” Tristan added, his voice cool.

  He let his gaze wander to Sophia, who was staring at him with huge green eyes, her face a ghostly white. A trickle of blood was running down her neck from where Poole’s dagger had pierced her skin, and Tristan coul
d see a livid red mark over her windpipe where Poole had grabbed her. His stomach lurched.

  Poole gave him a sullen look. “He didn’t know she’d be here, did he?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, he knew. Miss Monmouth has been skulking around St. Clement Dane’s Church since Jeremy Ives was taken up for murder here. You had your chance to dispatch her the other night, Poole, and you squandered it. The last thing Everly wants is another dead body to explain tonight.”

  “What are we meant to do with her, then?” Poole whined. “We can’t just let her go. Best way to keep her quiet is to slit her throat.”

  Tristan suppressed a shudder at the nonchalance with which Poole spoke of murdering Sophia. The man was an utter villain, without scruples or conscience. He wouldn’t have thought twice about slitting Sophia’s throat tonight. Panic swept through Tristan at the thought, and he had to fight to control his breath. “Why, see her sent to Newgate Prison for murdering Peter Sharpe, of course.”

  Poole’s mouth thinned. He yanked on Sophia’s hair, jerking her closer as if he was afraid Tristan was about to march her off to Newgate right there and then. “Thelwall’s taking the blame for that. Lord Everly said so.”

  Tristan gave Poole a bored look. “Did he? Well, let me ask you something, Poole. Do you see Thelwall here? Curious, isn’t it, that he hasn’t yet arrived, given the LCS’s meeting at the Turk’s Head broke up more than an hour ago.”

  Ah. That hadn’t occurred to Poole. “But Lord Everly said he’d be here! Where’s he gone?”

  “Christ, you’re dim, Poole. Miss Monmouth here must have sent a note to Lady Clifford, and her ladyship sent someone to the Turk’s Head to see to it Thelwall avoids St. Clement Dane’s Church tonight.” Tristan waved a desultory hand. “Bad luck, eh, Poole? A dead body, and no one to blame for his murder? No one, that is, but you and Miss Monmouth.”

  “Her! Who’s going to believe she finished off Sharpe? She’s no bigger than a bedbug. How’s a little bit of a thing like ’er going to fell a grown man?”