The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,26

the crowd had dispersed after Ives’s trial, but there were still a few stragglers hanging about. She stationed herself to one side of the door where a small knot of people had gathered and lingered there, as if she were waiting for someone to emerge.

A few moments later, someone did emerge.

Peter Sharpe.

Tristan saw him before she did, and so he was able to witness Miss Monmouth’s reaction when Sharpe paused on the courthouse steps, a satisfied smirk on his lips. As soon as she saw him, she tensed. Her expression darkened, and her green eyes narrowed to slits, but she didn’t move toward him, or call attention to herself in any way. She simply stood there, her gaze never wavering, and waited.

She didn’t have to wait long. Sharpe trotted down the courthouse steps and ambled off down the street as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Miss Monmouth stayed where she was until he was a good block or two down Newgate Street before she darted after him.

Tristan went after her, a grudging sort of admiration in his chest. Sharpe hadn’t any more idea he was being followed now than he had the other night. She didn’t rush after him, or follow too closely. She was careful, but quick. Miss Monmouth knew how to keep her head, but as skilled as she was, she wasn’t flawless.

After all, she didn’t know she was being followed, either.

Just as he had the other night, Tristan found himself wondering what she intended to do once she caught up to Sharpe. Any sort of physical confrontation was out of the question. Sharpe was a pitiful enough specimen of masculinity, but he was bigger and heavier than Miss Monmouth was. At this point, Tristan couldn’t have said which of the two of them was the more ruthless.

He soon found out.

Her hat was the first thing to go. She swept it from her head, and with a quick, furtive flick of her wrist tossed it down a narrow alleyway without a second glance. Then she went to work on the white fichu tucked into the neckline of her gray dress. It was the sort of plain, bland dress a shop girl might wear, but with one sharp tug of her fichu the prim little garment went from dully respectable to downright scandalous, the low-cut bodice revealing a generous expanse of smooth, olive skin even the most principled of gentlemen couldn’t fail to notice.

She pulled some pins from her hair, letting a few long, dark locks fall loose, and just like that, she’d gone from a governess to a tempting siren.

Tristan came to a halt in the middle of the road, suddenly breathless. That was…well, that was one way to manage Sharpe. A rather ingenious way, really, with her curls brushing against the soft skin of her neck, and her…that is, the curves of her—

Damn it. She was a menace, a danger to society.

Tristan was torn between outrage and a very unwelcome surge of arousal, but this was no time to dawdle in the street with his mouth hanging open.

He went after her, biding his time as she drew closer and closer to Sharpe. She didn’t approach him until he’d turned right onto Hatton Street, toward Ely Court, where a small crowd of degenerates was gathered outside of Ye Olde Mitre Inn.

That was when she struck. Tristan had been expecting it, but it happened so quickly he nearly missed it.

Just before Sharpe melted into the crowd, she reached under the gaping neckline of her gray gown and drew out something shiny. She darted forward with it clutched between her fingers, and with a subtle pass of her hand…

What the devil?

Tristan was behind her, so he couldn’t see precisely what she’d done, but it looked as if she’d—

“Thief! Thief!” A high-pitched feminine shriek rent the air. Tristan froze, still a few paces behind her, unable to believe what was unfolding in front of his eyes. She hadn’t…she couldn’t have—

“Thief!” Miss Monmouth was pointing one trembling finger at Sharpe, her cheeks scarlet with outrage. “Why, that villain there took my dear, sainted grandmother’s silver locket right off my neck, ’e did! He’s a thief!”

She had.

Sharpe was gaping at her with bulging eyes. “Wot? Ye’re mad, ye are! I never did no such thing! I never even touched ’er, much less took anything off ’er!”

Miss Monmouth stared at him, her lower lip wobbling, then without warning she burst into a deafening flood of tears. “What sort ’o scoundrel snatches