The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,13
is no more a murderer than I’m a debutante.”
Jeremy had been locked behind the great stone walls of Newgate Prison six weeks ago, and they hadn’t heard a word about him since. Even Lady Clifford, with all her connections, had been denied access to him.
Panic threatened, and Sophia curled her hands into fists to stop their trembling.
For all they knew, Jeremy could be—
“No, of course he’s not a murderer.” Lady Clifford squeezed Sophia’s hands until her fingers loosened. “Tell me what you saw tonight. Did you go to Great Marlborough Street again?”
Sophia drew in a calming breath. “I did, yes. I waited on the roof of Lord Everly’s pediment for Sharpe to come out, and then I followed him.”
“The roof? My goodness, child. How did you manage that?” Lady Clifford handed Sophia her sherry, nodding with approval when she took a sip.
“It was easier than you’d think, what with all the fences and railings and columns everywhere.” Sophia’s lips curved in a sly smile. “All it took was a bit of climbing, and I had an excellent hiding place.”
“You know what else is an excellent hiding place? The shadow of a tree, or around a corner, or across the street.” Lady Clifford tutted. “Unnecessary risk, Sophia. Though I admit it was clever of you, especially since you don’t appear to have tumbled over the edge. So, there you were on Lord Everly’s roof. What then?”
Sophia sighed, but she didn’t bother defending her rooftop exploit. She wouldn’t be going back to Lord Everly’s roof, not with his lordship’s meddlesome neighbor lurking at his windows. “I waited until I heard the door open, and when I peeked out, there he was.”
“Just like that? How kind of Peter Sharpe to be so accommodating,” Lady Clifford murmured, a smug smile tugging at her lips.
“Oh, he was—even more accommodating than you think. I followed him, and where do you suppose he went, my lady?”
Lady Clifford’s smile faded. “St. Clement Dane’s Church.”
“Yes. Astonishing coincidence, isn’t it?”
“Quite.” Lady Clifford set her glass on the table with a sharp click. “Not suspicious in itself, perhaps, but it is a bit strange Mr. Sharpe would return to St. Clement Dane’s at night after he witnessed such a ghastly crime take place there.”
Six weeks ago, a Bow Street Runner named Henry Gerrard had been stabbed to death in front of St. Clement Dane’s Church. Peter Sharpe was the only witness to the crime, and he’d identified Jeremy—their Jeremy—as Gerrard’s killer.
Dear, sweet, blue-eyed Jeremy was now an accused murderer.
A murderer, and a thief. The Bow Street magistrate had come to the wise conclusion that Jeremy— a young man incapable of doing all but the simplest of tasks—was part of a vicious gang of thieves terrorizing London. Jeremy, in league with criminals so clever they’d been thumbing their noses at the law since the thefts began earlier this year.
Henry Gerrard was meant to have unraveled the mystery of Jeremy’s identity, and Jeremy to have slit Gerrard’s throat for his trouble. Sharpe, who’d been loitering in the doorway of St. Clement Dane’s Church at the time, claimed to have witnessed the gory scene unfold right before his eyes.
Now here was Sharpe, at St. Clement Dane’s again tonight.
“You’d think he’d stay away, wouldn’t you? But Mr. Sharpe didn’t appear to be at all concerned for his safety. He didn’t skulk about, or make any attempt to hide himself. He marched right to the front of the church, as bold as you please, and hung about there as if it were the most natural thing in the world.”
“Hmmm.” Lady Clifford tapped her lip, thinking. “How long did he stay?”
“Long enough for me to suspect he was waiting for someone. He had that look about him, too. He checked his pocket watch three times, as if impatient for someone to appear.”
“Did anyone appear? Did you see anyone else?”
“Well, yes.” Sophia huffed out a breath, furious all over again at the way the evening had unfolded. Peter Sharpe had gone to St. Clement Dane’s Church for some nefarious purpose. She was certain of it. She’d been close to finding out what when the cursed Lord of Great Marlborough Street, who should have been off being an earl instead of sneaking about after her, had snatched her away. “But he wasn’t there for Peter Sharpe.”
“Who, then?” Lady Clifford asked, her brow furrowing.
“He, ah…I’m afraid he was there for me. Lord Everly has dreadfully nosy neighbors, you see. It seems this gentleman spied me from a window that looks