The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,110
join her for a quick tumble amongst the tombstones, would you refuse her?”
From the corner of his eye Tristan noticed Sophia flinch, but he could see the dawning understanding on Poole’s face, and he forced himself to go on. “I don’t think there are many men alive who would refuse her. I doubt Mr. Sharpe proved to be an exception.”
Poole licked his lips and leered down at Sophia. “She’s a tempting bit, isn’t she?”
Tristan’s hand ached to strike the leer right off Poole’s face. It closed into a fist of its own accord, but he forced himself to keep his arm by his side. “Very. Once she had him down, it would be the easiest thing in the world for her to slit his throat. It doesn’t take strength so much as cunning. One swipe when Sharpe least expects it, and the thing is done.”
Tristan waited, his muscles tensed to pounce the moment Poole made a move, but the villain still hadn’t released Sophia.
“We’ll both claim to have witnessed Sharpe’s murder, of course. I doubt anyone will question the word of two Bow Street Runners, one of them an earl, particularly since Miss Monmouth has been seen following Sharpe all over London. But do as you will, Poole.” Tristan shrugged, as if he didn’t care one way or the other what Poole decided. “Though if you think you have trouble with Lady Clifford now, imagine what she’ll do when she finds one of her precious girls has been murdered in St. Clement Dane’s churchyard. Ah, well. I’m sure you’ll come up with some explanation that will satisfy Daniel Brixton.”
Poole went pale at the veiled threat, and while he retained his hold on Sophia’s arm, he dropped the one he’d wrapped around her neck. “All right, Gray. What do we do now?”
“Take her up for murder. What else?” Tristan was ready to snatch the dagger from Poole’s hand, but he held back, playing for an even greater advantage. “Wipe off your dagger in the dirt first. I’d rather not drag Miss Monmouth off to the magistrate for murdering Peter Sharpe while the man’s blood is still dripping from your blade.”
He’d hoped Poole would crouch down to clean the dagger in the dirt so he could pounce on him and smash his face into the ground, but Poole only shrugged, and wiped the blade across his pant leg.
“Come here, Miss Monmouth.” Tristan beckoned Sophia forward, his gaze holding hers. He didn’t dare do more than that until she was out of Poole’s reach, but he prayed she’d read his intent in his eyes. “I do apologize our time together had to come to such an unpleasant end. Speaking as a man who’s sampled your charms, I daresay I’m more upset about it than you are. You see, I wasn’t nearly done with you.”
Poole snorted.
Sophia took a shaky step forward, toward Tristan. His fingers twitched subtly, urging her another step closer to him, away from Poole. “Come along, Miss Monmouth. No sense in delaying the inevitable.”
She took another step toward him, her green eyes dazed. Another step, another…
“We haven’t got all night, Miss Monmouth.” Tristan stretched his hand out to her, his gaze steady on hers, but just as she stepped out of Poole’s reach, sudden doubt filled the man’s face. His eyes narrowed on Tristan, and whatever he saw there made him snatch at Sophia.
But Tristan was quicker. He grabbed her hand and jerked her forward with a wrench so powerful her feet left the ground, and he caught her in his arms and shoved her behind him. He heard her stumble, but there was no time for him to help her, or even to look back and reassure himself she was all right.
Poole was already on him, fury in his face and his dagger raised to strike. It came toward Tristan in a blur, the blade turned outward, aimed right at his throat.
Chapter Twenty-two
A burning pain shot up Sophia’s leg as she crashed onto her side on the ground behind Tristan. She lay there stunned, gagging and coughing, her hand flying up to clutch at her throat. It felt as if Poole’s punishing grip had crushed her windpipe, and a thin trickle of blood from his blade wetted her fingertips. She dragged in a desperate breath, then another, struggling to fight back the sharp edge of panic.
“Yer a bloody fool. I thought ye were smarter than to think with yer cock, Gray.” Poole’s menacing voice jerked her back to awareness, and