The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,114

as I thought.” Daniel glanced at Sophia, an odd look on his face. “The blade didn’t touch his heart.”

Sophia stared dumbly at him. She’d seen Poole plunge the dagger directly into Tristan’s chest. How could it not have pierced his heart?

She didn’t have time to ask, because Lady Clifford was talking quickly, issuing instructions. “Do what you can to stop the bleeding, if you’d be so good, Daniel—just enough so we can get him into the carriage and back to Maddox Street.”

Daniel unwound his cravat, folded it neatly, and pressed it to Tristan’s chest. “Hold that there, Miss Sophia, and don’t be afraid to press down hard. That’s it, lass.”

Sophia did as she was told, stifling her gasp as Daniel lifted Tristan into his arms as if he weighed no more than a child, and carried him to Lady Clifford’s carriage. Sophia scrambled in, and Daniel laid Tristan across the seat, his head in Sophia’s lap.

“Thank you, Daniel.” Lady Clifford dropped into her own seat on the opposite side. “I believe I saw Lord Gray’s horse wandering nearby. Take it, and call on Giles Wakeford. Tell him we need him at No. 26 Maddox at once, and that it’s urgent.”

Daniel’s lips thinned.

Giles Wakeford was the doctor, surgeon, and all things medical for the Clifford School. Wakeford was handsome, amusing, and discreet. All of them loved him—everyone, that is, but Daniel Brixton. No one knew what Wakeford had done to offend Daniel, but over the years Daniel’s distaste for the man had remained implacable.

“Once you’ve fetched Wakeford, call on Kit Benjamin. Explain the circumstances, and ask him to see to it that unpleasant gentleman with the cracked skull is dealt with.”

“Peter Sharpe, too.” Sophia met Lady Clifford’s eyes. “He’s in the graveyard. Mr. Poole slit his throat.”

Daniel nodded and closed the carriage door, and then Sophia and Lady Clifford were on their way to No. 26 Maddox Street with Tristan. Sophia said nothing as they rattled through the dark streets of London toward the Clifford School, but sat silently on her side of the carriage, pressing the cravat firmly against the wound in Tristan’s chest.

Lady Clifford watched her for a moment, then retrieved her reticule, rummaged around inside it, and leaned across the seat to dab at Sophia’s nose with a dainty linen handkerchief. “Your nose is bleeding, dearest.”

Sophia looked down at herself. Her hands and gown were covered with Tristan’s blood. “I think it’s too late for that, my lady.”

Lady Clifford gave her a cryptic smile. “My dear child, it’s never too late for anything.”

Chapter Twenty-three

It was a short drive from St. Clement Dane’s Church to No. 26 Maddox Street, but tonight London felt as vast as an ocean to Sophia as they made their way through an infinity of dark, endless streets.

She cradled Tristan’s head in her lap and murmured soothingly to him, but his eyes never flickered. He hadn’t regained consciousness by the time they arrived, and a dark red pool of his blood was spreading across the pale gray velvet carriage seats.

Sophia was able to draw a few calming breaths into her lungs when they arrived at the school at last, but then another lifetime seemed to pass as they waited in the carriage for Daniel and Giles Wakeford to arrive. It wasn’t more than ten minutes before a hackney coach skidded up behind Lady Clifford’s carriage and disgorged the two men at the curb outside the Clifford School, but by then Sophia was shaking with stark panic.

Lady Clifford ordered Tristan be taken to a downstairs bedchamber, and she, Daniel, and Giles Wakeford remained closeted inside it with him for the better part of the night. Sophia had been left to hover outside the door, her eyes burning with unshed tears and her every breath choked with dread. One hour dragged after the next until finally Lady Clifford emerged to tell Sophia Tristan’s condition remained uncertain, and ordered her to her bedchamber to rest.

Rest. Sophia did as she was told, but there would be no rest for her today. She thought of Tristan’s wan face, his pale lips, the dark red blood soaking his shirt, and wondered if she’d ever sleep again. She didn’t even attempt to lie down in her bed, but stood by her bedchamber window, the drapes fisted in her white-knuckled grip. “Why doesn’t someone come?”

“Someone would have, if the worst had happened.” Cecilia had joined Sophia in their bedchamber, her usually rosy cheeks as pale as Tristan’s had been. “Until then, we won’t