The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,56

not dead, for all that. I’ve got a man or two at Newgate, just as you have. Damn clever bit of work, how she got Ives out, but then Lady Clifford and her collection of sorceresses know how to execute a crime.”

Tristan didn’t argue that point. Sophia Monmouth had all the behaviors of an accomplished criminal. He’d known that since he’d spied her on Everly’s roof. He should have listened to his instincts from the first.

“Seems Ives was taken out in a coffin well before sunrise this morning, but curiously enough, not a single soul saw his corpse aside from one guard, and what do you suppose has happened to him?”

“Disappeared,” Tristan muttered through clenched teeth. “Who was it?”

“Hogg.”

Tristan had been pacing in front of the fireplace, but now he stilled. Of course, it was Hogg. Who else would it be? He may as well have handed Hogg to Miss Monmouth on a silver platter.

“Hogg’s fond of a gold coin, from what I understand,” Lyndon said. “Newgate Prison’s secure enough, until you bribe a guard.”

Tristan muttered a curse. He’d shown Miss Monmouth precisely which guard to approach with that bribe. “Jeremy Ives is proclaimed dead. Someone shows up at Newgate with a coffin and takes his corpse away, but no one aside from Hogg sees either the dead body or who took it, and now Hogg is gone. Do I have that right?”

“Yes. I’d hazard a guess Hogg isn’t returning anytime soon, either. Lady Clifford has the means to make it worth his while to stay far away from London.”

Tristan had heard enough. He snatched up his coat and threw it on over his shirt, not pausing to bother with a cravat or waistcoat. This wasn’t a social call.

“Off to the Clifford School?” Lyndon asked, following Tristan from his bedchamber. “I’ll go with you, if you like.”

Tristan shook his head. “No, thank you, Lyndon.”

He had quite a lot to say to Miss Monmouth, and all of it for her ears alone.

* * * *

Tristan’s lips twisted as he gazed up at No. 26 Maddox Street. The utterly unremarkable stone steps led to the utterly unremarkable front door of an utterly unremarkable house.

But inside? A half-dozen or more criminals, hiding in plain sight.

He marched up the steps, pausing on the landing. It wasn’t calling hours, but his fist met the door with the sort of vehemence that made it clear he wouldn’t be denied entrance, no matter what time it was.

After a short wait, a lady with tight gray curls opened the door. Tristan stared down at her, some of his righteous anger fading. A part of him wanted to rage at anyone associated with the Clifford School, but it was difficult to shout at a lady so tiny he could see the top of her head.

“Good morning, Lord Gray.” She stepped back from the door and ushered him into the hallway. “Please do come inside.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow. He’d never laid eyes on her before, but she knew who he was, and she didn’t look at all surprised to see him on the doorstep, despite the early hour.

There was no sign of Lady Clifford, or, thankfully, Daniel Brixton.

He stepped into the entryway. “I’ve come to see Miss Monmouth. Indeed, I insist upon it.” Saying her name made anger surge through him again, but he could hardly give vent to it while he was looming over this small lady like the hulking monster from every child’s nightmare.

Why were all the ladies at the Clifford School so tiny?

She answered him with a serene smile. “Of course, my lord. Miss Monmouth has been expecting you.”

Yes. No doubt she has.

“This way, if you would, my lord. Ladies,” she added. “If you’d be so good as to return to your work, I’d be grateful, indeed.”

Tristan heard a shuffle of feet above his head, and looked up to find three pairs of eyes gazing down at him from the third-floor landing. The three young ladies he recalled from his previous visit were measuring his progress down the hallway as if calculating how quickly they could drop down onto his back from their places on the landing if he dared to threaten their friend.

Miss Monmouth wasn’t the only one who was expecting him.

He followed the little gray-haired lady down the hallway and into the elegant drawing room he’d been shown into at his last visit. A tray of refreshments waited on a table, a cheerful fire was roaring in the grate, and Lady Clifford’s stout little pug