The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,104
the shadows, a club gripped in his black-gloved hands.
As for the man himself…
He was tall but slight, lean and wiry. His face had been covered with a cap, but Tristan had a vague impression of pale skin, and sparse, dark hair.
The last time he’d seen Poole was the day Tristan had gone to Bow Street, the morning after he’d caught Sophia chasing after Peter Sharpe. Poole had been slouched on a bench outside Willis’s office, a black cap on his head, his fingers wrapped around—
A walking stick.
A heavy wooden one, with a brass knob. The rhythmic tap of it against the heel of Poole’s boot echoed in Tristan’s head.
Hadn’t Sophia said something about a cane, or a walking stick, on the day of Jeremy’s trial? Something about Sharpe claiming to have used a cane as a weapon again Jeremy—a cane that had since gone missing.
There was only one explanation, only one way to fit all the pieces together, and the picture that emerged made Tristan’s blood run cold.
Richard Poole is the fourth man.
Tristan flew into the hallway and up the stairs two at a time—to the second floor, where he burst through his bedchamber door. “Sophia?”
No answer. He ran from the sitting room toward his bedchamber, ducking his head into his dressing-room on the way. She wasn’t there.
When he reached his bedchamber, he turned around in a circle, hoping with everything inside him she’d come to him, his dressing gown trailing behind her, the smile that had somehow become everything to him lighting up her face.
She wasn’t there. His apartments were empty.
Where was she? He strode toward the bed, his heart pounding with sudden fear. The room was dim, but the muted light caught on something on the table beside his bed—a dull gleam of silver.
Tristan strode across the room and snatched it up.
Sophia’s locket. He closed it in his fist.
Her locket was here, but Sophia was gone.
Chapter Twenty-one
The last faint streaks of light faded in the sky as Sophia made her way down Great Marlborough Street, leaving Tristan’s townhouse behind, her steps taking her toward St. Clement Dane’s Church.
Lady Clifford and Daniel would be leaving No. 26 Maddox Street by now. She could have gone to meet them at the Turk’s Head, but somehow, Sophia couldn’t bring herself to turn toward the Strand.
There was an uncomfortable tightness pinching at her chest, like a stone wedged under her breastbone. It wasn’t guilt, precisely…regret, perhaps, but there was something else there that was worse than regret.
Shame.
She was ashamed of having allowed herself to believe, even for such a short time, that a man like Tristan Stratford could ever have any tender feelings for a woman like her. As soon as Lady Clifford saw her face, she’d read the truth there, and Sophia didn’t want her to see what a fool she’d been.
It was difficult enough to bear her disappointment in herself. She couldn’t bear to disappoint her friends, especially Cecilia, who truly believed every lady was the heroine of her own story, and that love could be their saving grace. Perhaps it was even true, for the good little girls Sophia’s mother had so often spoken of.
She’d never told Sophia what happened to wicked little girls.
There was no sign yet of Peter Sharpe at St. Clement Dane’s, so Sophia ducked into the deserted graveyard beside the church, taking care to keep to the deepest shadows at the back, where cracked stone angels and broken crosses kept vigil over the moldering crypt with the iron gate hanging by a single, broken hinge.
Sophia slipped through the gap, shivering at the breath of cold air inside the crypt that whispered over her skin. She didn’t venture deep inside, but lingered close to the gate, peering between the iron bars into the churchyard beyond.
The sky turned a dark midnight blue above her and the shadows grew longer and thicker around her as she waited. London had been rainy this summer, but tonight there was no rain—just the thin, icy air inside the crypt, so steeped in decay and death it was a struggle to draw a deep breath.
An hour passed. The moon tucked herself behind a bank of heavy clouds, plunging the graveyard into a murky darkness. Sophia’s limbs began to ache from standing too long in the same position, and still, no one came. Unease rose in her chest. Despite Tristan’s lies to her, she couldn’t believe he’d leave her to face Peter Sharpe and the fourth man alone.