The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,42
of him that wanted to believe it could be that simple, that justice could be that accurate, that absolute. That part of him wanted to take Miss Monmouth by the arm and see her out of his library, his house, and his life.
But the other part of him stood there and gave Sophia Monmouth a chance to persuade him to act against his better judgment. Not because of her soft lips, or her green eyes, but because he couldn’t forget the lost look on Ives’s face as he was led from the courtroom yesterday, a death sentence hanging over his head.
“Please, Lord Gray.” She wrung her hands, all pretense of nonchalance gone. “You saw Jeremy at his trial yesterday. He’s in desperate need of help.”
Tristan hesitated. He wasn’t sure he liked Sophia Monmouth. He certainly didn’t trust her, yet at the same time he found it difficult to refuse her. “If what you say is true, and someone has taken the trouble to keep him quiet, what makes you think I’ll be permitted to see him?”
She took a step toward him. “You will be. You’re the Ghost of Bow Street.”
“Not anymore.”
“You must know someone who can get us inside. A guard, perhaps?” She laid a hand on his arm. “Yesterday you claimed to care about justice. If that’s so, how can you condemn a man to the noose without hearing his account? If you have even a shred of doubt about Peter Sharpe’s testimony, I don’t see how you can refuse me.”
Neither did Tristan. That was the trouble.
He gazed down into Sophia Monmouth’s pleading eyes, and with a muttered curse, Tristan reconciled himself to a visit at Newgate.
* * * *
“To tell you the truth, Lord Gray, I didn’t think you’d agree to this scheme.”
For all Sophia’s careless confidence when she’d breezed into his library this morning, she hadn’t truly believed Lord Gray would take her to Newgate Prison.
He gave a short laugh. “I’ve no idea why I did.”
“Well, I-I’m grateful to you, my lord. I realize you would much rather have refused me.”
It cost Sophia a few pangs of wounded pride to say it, but he merely nodded as if he didn’t notice her discomfort, then cleared his throat with the sort of awful dignity only an earl could command. “Let me be plain, Miss Monmouth. I don’t trust you. I’m not convinced you’re not a thief, or worse.”
Sophia blinked. Well, that was plain enough.
“Be warned,” Lord Gray went on. “I don’t expect to hear anything this afternoon that will change my mind about Jeremy Ives. Peter Sharpe may be every bit the blackguard you claim he is, but that doesn’t make Ives any less of a murderer.”
“I understand, my lord.” Sophia’s voice was meeker than usual, but in truth she hadn’t expected Lord Gray would miraculously start believing in Jeremy’s innocence. Her best hope for today was to see Jeremy, listen to his account of that night at St. Clement Dane’s, and ease him in any way she could.
Sophia peeked at Lord Gray from the corner of her eye. He had a strong profile, with a proud, aristocratic nose, sharp cheekbones, and a jaw that looked as if it had been coaxed from a block of marble by a sculptor’s hands. It was the sternest face she’d ever seen.
Lady Clifford was right. If anyone could get access to Jeremy, it was this man.
She suppressed a sigh. Emma was right, too. With his broad shoulders and piercing gray eyes, Lord Gray was undeniably handsome. Certainly, he was the most aristocratic, the most ruthlessly elegant gentleman she’d ever seen. Every inch of him shrieked nobility. Looking at him now, it was difficult to recall he’d ever been a Bow Street Runner, but for…
“Where did you get that scar?”
He raised a self-conscious hand to his top lip. “It’s a dull story.”
It wasn’t a large scar, but one noticed it because it was in a curious place, just above the corner of his mouth, a narrow line of white bisecting the red of his lip.
All at once, she had an overwhelming urge to touch it. It was the sort of scar that told a story, and rendered a face more interesting. The sort of scar that begged to be touched. What would it feel like under the pad of her finger? Sophia traced a finger over her own top lip, trying to imagine it.
The next thought came out of nowhere, like a lightning strike from a cloudless sky.