The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,103

brought Tristan to them. They trusted her judgment, and in return she’d exposed them to a man who’d lock the lot of them up in Newgate if given the chance.

There was a brief silence, then Tristan said stiffly, “My personal affairs have nothing to do with this business, Willis.”

It wasn’t a denial.

Willis said something in reply, but Sophia had heard enough. She backed away from the library door and hurried down the hallway.

The entryway was deserted.

She paused at the bottom of the stairs, but there was no reason for her to return to Tristan’s bedchamber. No reason for her to have been there in the first place.

As quickly and quietly as she could, she stole toward the door. No one saw her open it and slip out into the dusk.

* * * *

Sampson Willis was trying Tristan’s patience.

He’d always admired Willis—had thought him a decent man, an honest one—but at the moment Tristan would have been happy to toss the magistrate out his front door.

He’d never known Willis to be so obstinate before, but no matter what Tristan said, Willis seemed to be determined to argue with him.

Tristan drew a breath, and tried again. “Listen to me, Willis. Jeremy Ives wasn’t the first man Sharpe accused of theft. A few months before the incident with Ives, Sharpe claimed a weaver from Clare Court—a man named Patrick Dunn—had tried to steal his pocket watch.”

Willis was pacing from one end of the library to the other, but now he paused in front of the fireplace. “Sharpe was the victim of two thefts? That’s hardly unheard of in London, Gray.”

“Not two, Willis. Four, two of them earlier this year. All four thefts took place at St. Clement Dane’s Church. If you doubt me, then check the Proceedings yourself. It’s right there for anyone who cares to look.”

“That’s…I grant you that’s a rather startling coincidence.” Willis fumbled in his coat, withdrew a handkerchief, and used it to mop his brow.

“Not startling, Willis. Suspicious. Sharpe is a liar. He’s been falsely accusing innocent men of theft for the better part of a year, and he’s not simply choosing any man who happens to be unlucky enough to cross his path. His victims aren’t random.”

Willis stilled, his back to Tristan. “What do you mean?”

Tristan paused, knowing Willis wasn’t going to care for what he had to say next. “Lord Everly’s been feeding him the names. All of the men Sharpe has accused are members of the London Corresponding Society. Odd coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

Willis whirled around, and his face had drained of color. “My God, Gray. You’re accusing a peer of committing a crime?”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t suggesting an aristocrat is above the law, are you, Willis? Or are you arguing an earl is too noble to have committed a crime?”

“No, I…n-no, of course not. It’s just all rather shocking. I…well then, Gray, I’ll do as you ask and dispatch a Runner to St. Clement Dane’s Church tonight.” Willis pressed a hand to his forehead. He looked shaken, as if he were trying to regain his wits. “After that cockup of Sharpe’s, Poole knows his way around St. Clement Dane’s.”

Tristan froze.

Cockup of Sharpe’s…

Willis didn’t seem to realize what he’d revealed, but it was as if lightning had struck Tristan with a deafening crack, illuminating the truth in one cold, harsh flash of light.

Willis could only be referring to one thing.

Henry Gerrard’s murder.

Poole had somehow been involved in Henry Gerrard’s murder.

Had he been at St. Clement Dane’s Church that night? According to both Willis and Sharpe’s accounts, there’d been only three people there that night—Sharpe himself, Jeremy Ives, and Henry Gerrard. Willis had come later, after Sharpe ran to No. 4 Bow Street to fetch help.

No one had said a single word about Poole being there.

Until now.

Tristan slowly raised his gaze to Willis’s face, an icy chill racing over his skin.

Willis, who was now in a tearing hurry to leave, didn’t notice Tristan’s stare, nor did he realize he’d let slip a small detail he’d much better have kept hidden. “Right then, Gray. I’d best be off—great deal to do, you understand.”

He didn’t give Tristan a chance to respond, but hurried from the library with the haste of a criminal fleeing the scene of a crime.

Because that’s precisely what he was.

For silent, endless moments after the front door slammed behind Willis, Tristan stood utterly still, images from the night Sophia was attacked drifting through his mind. He could recall with perfect clarity the man emerging from