The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,6

anywhere until I’ve questioned you, but I won’t hurt you. Now cease writhing, if you please, and I’ll put you down.”

Tristan expected his advice to go unheeded, but to his surprise the boy ceased struggling and went as limp as a sack of flour.

“There’s a good lad.” Tristan set him on his feet, but he was careful to back him up against the wrought iron fence surrounding the graveyard. “Now, if you agree to keep quiet, I’ll remove my hand from your mouth. Not a single sound until I give you leave, understand?”

Tristan waited, one hand on the boy’s shoulder to prevent him from bolting until at last the boy gave the briefest of nods. “Well then, lad.” He eased his hand away from the boy’s mouth. “What have you to say for yourself?”

Not a damn thing, it seemed.

Tristan studied the narrow shoulders and bent head, and a reluctant chuckle escaped his lips. “You’re a proper little thief, aren’t you? Quick-witted, agile, and you know when to keep your mouth shut. I’ve seen grown men with less self-possession.”

The boy was, in fact, just the sort of clever, tight-lipped little miscreant who’d prove invaluable to older, more sophisticated criminals—criminals like those responsible for a recent rash of robberies plaguing London. The thieves had evaded the law for months, but five weeks ago a botched attempt at a theft had led to a grisly murder, and one of the gang of culprits had been taken up for the crime.

Strangely enough, he’d been taken up right here, in St. Clement Dane’s churchyard. A curious coincidence, really—or it would have been if Tristan believed in coincidences.

He didn’t, nor did he believe in innocent explanations. Those who engaged in suspicious activity invariably proved to be guilty, and this boy, in his dark clothes with his cap pulled low over his eyes, was the very picture of a pocket-sized villain. “Come now, sir. Surely you have something to offer in your own defense.”

No reaction from the boy. He kept his head down, his face carefully concealed behind the brim of his cap.

“I’m happy to keep you here all night.” Tristan’s tone was pleasant, but he tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulder.

That earned him a shrug. Delicate bones shifted under Tristan’s fingers, but not a single word crossed the boy’s stubborn lips. Irritated, Tristan reached out and snatched the cap from his head. “You’ll look me in the eye when I speak to you, lad—”

He broke off, and the cap slipped through his fingers and dropped to the ground. A few hairpins went with it, and the long, silky hair that had been stuffed underneath fell down in a dark cascade of waves.

Tristan stared at her, flabbergasted. “Hell and—”

“Damnation,” the girl finished, with a toss of her gleaming head.

Some flowery scent wafted over Tristan, something rather like…honeysuckle? What sort of girl smelled like honeysuckle after a rooftop escapade and a mad dash through London’s filthy streets? No sort of girl Tristan had ever seen.

He turned his attention to the face that had been hiding under the cap, but it was as distracting as her scent. She had smooth, olive-tinted skin, heavily lashed light green eyes, and a stubborn, dimpled chin. That face was enough to scatter any man’s wits, and that was before he noticed the plump lips that somehow contrived to look fetching, despite the fierce frown she wore.

“What, you’ve nothing to say now?” She waved a hand at him. “You were about to deliver a proper lecture, I believe. I beg you won’t let the fact I’m not a boy dissuade you from your scold.”

Tristan was rarely struck speechless, but it wasn’t every day one found the boy he’d been chasing—the boy who’d climbed to the roof of his neighbor’s townhouse and then back down again, as cool as you please—wasn’t a boy at all.

He…that is, she…was a woman.

A woman, not a girl, for all that she was a small, dainty thing, no higher than Tristan’s shoulder, and didn’t look to be above nineteen or twenty years old. Indeed, she was so resoundingly feminine, so delicate, his instinct to protect those weaker than himself might have rushed to the fore if he hadn’t caught the spark of a formidable temper in her green eyes.

The lady was far from weak, and even further from innocent.

It was the reminder he needed before he made an utter fool of himself by offering to escort her home, or some other gallant nonsense. She might be female, but it