The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,41
it might have been, my lord. I was planning to come through your window if your manservant turned me away.” She gave him a—damn it, there was no other word for it—a sunny smile. “I daresay I’d have managed it easily enough. Your pediment is very much like Lord Everly’s.”
There was a moment of stunned silence, then Lyndon gave a shout of laughter. “It’s a great pity you didn’t. I would have liked to see that.”
Miss Monmouth dipped into a polite curtsy. “I may yet be able to accommodate you, ah…ah…”
She turned to Tristan, who only stared at her like a fool until Lyndon cleared his throat. “Lyndon. I mean, the Earl of Lyndon. That is…Miss Monmouth, may I present Lord Lyndon?”
By the time Tristan finished this fumbling introduction his face was hot with embarrassment, and Lyndon was shaking with silent laughter. Miss Monmouth, however, only swept a cool gaze over Lyndon, then drawled, “How do you do, Lord Lyndon. I never realized Great Marlborough Street had such an overabundance of earls.”
Lyndon bowed. “Wherever you find columns and pediments, Miss Monmouth, you’ll find earls and marquesses and the like. Perhaps even a stray duke or two.”
Miss Monmouth laughed. “Which of the lovely townhouses on this street belongs to you, my lord?”
“None of them, I’m afraid. I live in Berkeley Square. No one ever climbs onto our roofs there, a circumstance I never regretted until now.”
Tristan’s gaze bounced back and forth between them with a frown. Lyndon was flirting with Miss Monmouth. Rather pathetically, yes, but flirting nonetheless, and Miss Monmouth seemed to be enjoying it immensely, her green eyes twinkling.
Tristan glared at Lyndon, more irritated with his friend than he had any reason to be. “What can I do for you, Miss Monmouth? I confess I can’t think of a single reason for your presence here.”
She waved a hand, dismissing this. “Yes, yes, this is all very irregular, but we haven’t time to ponder it now, Lord Gray.”
“I beg your pardon?” Tristan’s gaze narrowed on her, and for the first time he noticed the hectic flush on her cheeks, and the nervous way she fiddled with the fingers of her gloves.
Miss Monmouth wanted something from him.
Well, whatever it was, he’d already made up his mind to refuse her. “Are we going somewhere?”
She glanced at him, biting her lip, then drew in a breath and ceased fidgeting, dropping her hands to her sides. “Yes. We’re going to Newgate Prison.”
The silence that fell after this announcement was once again broken by Lyndon, who took up the coat he’d tossed aside with a low whistle. “On that note, I’ll just take my leave, shall I? Miss Monmouth, it was a great pleasure meeting you.” He gave her an elegant bow, then turned to Tristan, his lips twitching. “I wish you luck, Gray.”
“What a pleasant gentleman,” Miss Monmouth remarked, once the library door had closed behind Lyndon.
Tristan ignored this. “Whatever mischief you’re up to this time, Miss Monmouth, I don’t want any part of it.”
“How do you know? I haven’t told you what it is yet.” She glanced up at Tristan from under her lashes. “It may be a perfectly charming mischief. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
Tristan swallowed. Damn it, anything could happen if she kept looking at him with that hint of bright green iris peeking through the thick, dark fringe of her eyelashes. “All right, Miss Monmouth. Let’s have it out, shall we? What’s your business at Newgate?”
She met his gaze. “I must speak to Jeremy.”
Tristan stilled. Of course, he’d known what she wanted as soon as she mentioned Newgate, yet even so it was, quite literally, the last request he ever would have imagined she’d make of him. “Your business with Ives has nothing to do with me.”
“Neither did my business with Peter Sharpe, but you didn’t let that stop you.”
He raised an eyebrow at her waspish tone. “Is this how you persuade me to grant you a favor, Miss Monmouth?”
She took a breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer. “We’ve all been forbidden to see him, likely to prevent him from having a chance to give us his side of the story. If he dies in Newgate, which he most certainly will, we’ll never know the truth about that night.”
“I already know the truth. Jeremy Ives slit Henry Gerrard’s throat, and he’s been sentenced to hang for his crime.” Tristan heard the words leave his mouth, and wondered if they were true. There was a part