The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,34
Dane’s Church. Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”
Tristan didn’t believe in coincidences, but he kept that to himself. “Unusual, perhaps, but not utterly implausible. People all over London are victims of theft every day.”
She swept this argument aside with an impatient gesture. “Next you’ll tell me Mr. Sharpe is simply unlucky. I wonder, though, why he spends so much time wandering about London at night if he’s so often the target of thieves and murderers. St. Clement Dane’s Church appears to be a particularly unlucky location for him, yet I followed him there again just the other night. Strange, isn’t it?”
Tristan stroked his fingers over his jaw, considering it. “I’ll allow it’s a bit strange, yes, but it’s not proof of any wrongdoing. Tell me, Miss Monmouth. How did you find out about Patrick Dunn?”
She shrugged. “The same way everyone in London finds out about crimes. I read it in the Proceedings.”
“You went searching for Mr. Sharpe’s name in the Proceedings?” That had been clever of her. Tristan also made it a point to read the Proceedings, and might have come across Patrick Dunn’s name and made the connection himself, but he hadn’t seen any reason to doubt Jeremy Ives’s guilt—not with the evidence against him. In any case, he hadn’t been in London when Dunn was taken up. He’d been in Oxfordshire by then, grieving for his brother and attempting to soothe his mother’s hysterics.
“I did. I knew Sharpe to be a liar the moment he made the accusation against Jeremy. I knew he must have told similar lies before.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “I fail to see how you could know such a thing.”
“How many liars do you know, Lord Gray, who lie only once? In any case, I was right, wasn’t I?”
“You’re sure of yourself, Miss Monmouth. Forgive me, but it’s possible he didn’t lie either time. Mr. Sharpe could have been the victim of two similar crimes. As I said, crime isn’t uncommon in London.”
Tristan had the distinct impression she just managed to resist rolling her eyes.
“Mr. Dunn has never been accused of a crime before, my lord. He claims Sharpe accosted him while he was passing through St. Clement Dane’s churchyard on his way home from the Turk’s Head Coffeehouse in the Strand.”
Tristan blinked. How had she discovered that? “That information wouldn’t have been in the Proceedings.”
“No. I paid his wife a visit in Clare Court. She was more than happy to tell me about her husband’s unhappy fate.”
Tristan still wasn’t convinced. “It sounds as if it may have been a crime of opportunity. They’re much more common than you may think, Miss Monmouth.”
“So are false accusations, Lord Gray. It makes no sense a respectable, law-abiding man like Patrick Dunn would suddenly commit a violent crime simply because the opportunity presented itself.” Her face turned bleak. “Mrs. Dunn insists her husband is innocent—that he had no need to steal anything.”
“She’s his wife, Miss Monmouth. Naturally, she believes him innocent. This is why you’ve been following Mr. Sharpe, then? You think if you can catch him out in another lie it proves he’s also lying about Mr. Ives?”
“My dear Lord Gray, I don’t think it. I know he’s lying, and I will catch him out at it. Indeed, I might have caught him the other night if you hadn’t gotten in my way.”
Tristan’s jaw hardened at mention of the other night. “It’s a damn good thing I did get in your way. If Peter Sharpe is the blackguard you say he is, you might have gotten your own throat slit.” He’d never known anyone so careless of her own safety as she was.
Incredibly, she laughed at that. “I’m touched by your concern for me, my lord, but I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“You mistake the matter, Miss Monmouth, if you think my concern is for you.” Tristan’s voice was cold, but in truth, he was concerned for her—that is, merely in the sense that any decent man would be concerned for any young woman recklessly risking her neck. Nothing more.
He leaned back against the squabs, studying her. She wasn’t going to care for what he had to say next, but it must be said, nevertheless. “I’m going to have to insist you stop chasing after Peter Sharpe from now on, Miss Monmouth.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “You insist on it? You insist on it? I beg your pardon, Lord Gray. You may be an earl and the Ghost of Bow Street, but as terribly important as