The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,54
on his own.” Sophia shuddered at the thought of the wreck her healthy, strapping boy had been reduced to. “He’ll need to be carried.”
Daniel grunted. “I expected as much. How’s the lad’s mind? Is he confused? Likely to resist me?”
Sophia thought of the heartbreaking gratitude on Jeremy’s face when he’d seen her today, the way he’d hung on her when she had to leave him. “He’s confused, yes, and scared witless, but there’s no question he’ll do as you say. He’ll be tremendously glad to see you, Daniel.”
The first time Sophia had laid eyes on Daniel Brixton, her entire body had gone numb with terror. She’d been a child, yes, but he was still the most forbidding man she’d ever seen, with his black hair, huge hands, and tight, unsmiling mouth. But Jeremy was a decided favorite with Daniel, and even his harsh face softened slightly at Sophia’s words. “And me him, lass.”
There wasn’t much more Sophia could tell them. Lady Clifford asked another question or two about Mr. Hogg, but she looked anxious as she studied Sophia’s face, and it wasn’t long before she sent her back to her bedchamber with strict orders to go directly to bed.
Sophia wasn’t in the habit of challenging Lady Clifford’s commands, but in this instance, she didn’t go to her bed, or even to her bedchamber. Instead she wandered into the dark library tucked into the back corner of the house. She remained there for a long time, staring out at the tiny terrace and handkerchief-sized garden.
She was still standing there much later when she heard the front door close behind Daniel. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the glass doors, her lips moving in a silent prayer that tonight would be the end of Jeremy’s nightmare.
Of all their nightmares.
Somehow, though, without Sophia being aware of it, her thoughts turned from Jeremy to Lord Gray. She couldn’t forget the anguish in his voice, his grief when he’d spoken of Henry Gerrard.
Jeremy might yet survive his ordeal, but there would be no rescue for Henry Gerrard. No triumph of good over evil for his son, Samuel, or his wife, Abigail.
Sophia didn’t doubt Lord Gray truly believed Jeremy was innocent. She’d seen the shock on his face when Jeremy had told them his story today. He’d been kind to Jeremy, compassionate toward him. She thought of Lord Gray’s coat resting on Jeremy’s shoulders, and her breath tangled in her throat.
Lord Gray didn’t wish to see Jeremy hang for another man’s crime any more than Sophia did, but there was little chance he’d approve of the way they’d chosen to right this wrong. Tomorrow, when he woke up and discovered Jeremy had been taken from Newgate, he’d be furious. Disappointed, even. So much so, he’d likely never wish to see her again.
Sophia rested her hands on the glass, pressing her fingertips against the cool, hard surface. Jeremy was the only important thing here—the only one who mattered. In the end, it should make no difference to her what Lord Gray thought.
It shouldn’t, but it did.
Chapter Eleven
There’d been no ghosts last night. No blood, no daggers, and no murder. Neither gravestones nor confessionals nor white marble crypts had haunted Tristan’s dreams. Even Henry, who died anew every time Tristan closed his eyes, hadn’t appeared in his nightmares last night.
No, last night he’d been haunted by shifting images of an emaciated boy with dull, frightened blue eyes. His thin wrists were locked in irons, but instead of Newgate he was imprisoned in a while marble crypt, and with him a lady wearing a silver locket, tears glittering on her lashes.
It wasn’t the grisliest of the nightmares he’d had, but it disturbed Tristan like no other nightmare before it. He was still in bed, propped up on a stack of pillows, and he might have remained there for most of the morning if Tribble hadn’t appeared with a note from Lord Lyndon.
Gray,
Jeremy Ives is dead. He died in Newgate Prison last night, or so we’re meant to believe. There’s some mischief afoot, Gray, and your pixie is involved in it.
Lyndon
Tristan stared down at the note, his lassitude giving way to shock and then anger as his gaze darted over the paper. Miss Monmouth, involved in some sort of mischief regarding Jeremy Ives? Of course, she was bloody involved in it.
He’d seen the despair on her face when she’d knelt beside Jeremy yesterday, chained to the floor of his cell as if he was some kind of