The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,65

a coward. He was utterly incapable of devising a complex scheme like the one that had trapped Ives, and just as incapable of carrying it out.

For all his viciousness, Sharpe was a pawn, not a king.

Sophia could manage a man like Sharpe easily enough, but the fourth man Jeremy Ives had spoken of, the one who’d murdered Henry…

He was another sort of man entirely.

A villain such as that, one who’d slit an innocent man’s throat and stand by while his life’s blood seeped into the dirt—that sort of man was capable of anything, and Tristan didn’t doubt he knew all about Sophia.

He shot to his feet, unable to sit still a moment longer.

“I see you understand me, Gray.” Lyndon finished off the rest of his port.

Tristan recalled what he’d told Sophia this morning, and a dry laugh rose to his lips. “I told Miss Monmouth her part in this thing was over, and warned her to stay away from me.”

“A bit hasty, that, but I shouldn’t worry too much, Gray. I doubt she’ll listen. Miss Monmouth isn’t the sort to take orders from you. Well then, this has been a tidy night’s work, if I do say so myself.” Lyndon rose to his feet. “I’ll take my leave now. You will send word if you find yourself in need of assistance?”

“Yes, yes.” Tristan stopped his pacing and lifted his head. “Lyndon?”

“Yes?” Lyndon paused by the door.

“Thank you.”

Lyndon grinned. “We’ll see if you’re still thanking me tomorrow. Good night, Gray.”

He strolled from the library into the hallway. A few minutes later Tristan heard him scold Tribble for being a lying sot, before he cheerfully bid the butler a good evening.

The front door opened, then closed again.

Tristan remained in front of the fire for a bit after Lyndon left, staring down at the flames, but it wasn’t long before he found himself drawn to his library window.

He couldn’t have said what drew him there. Had he gone to make certain Lyndon made it safely to his carriage? Or had there been something else, some whisper from deep inside him that told him what he’d find? Whatever the reason, what he saw when he glanced outside his window froze him where he stood.

His first thought was he’d imagined her.

But no. He wasn’t foxed, and he wasn’t seeing things. That small, black-clad figure was no ghost, and no delusion. Not figment, but flesh. Not shadow, but substance.

There was a woman, lying on the roof of Lord Everly’s pediment.

Chapter Thirteen

Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.

Sophia lay on her back, still as a corpse, and gazed up at Tristan’s library window above her, blinking against the dampness that clung to her eyelashes. The mist was so heavy it felt suffocating, like fistfuls of damp soil were pressing her into the cold slate roof beneath her.

Her own little grave.

The only thing darker than the sky was Tristan’s townhouse. It was as silent as a tomb, every window shrouded in heavy silk draperies. It didn’t look as if he were home, but it didn’t matter much whether he was or not. Even if he was looking out his window at her at this very moment, she doubted it would make any difference.

Sophia wasn’t one to doubt Lady Clifford—she’d never known her ladyship to be wrong before—but in this particular instance, she wondered if her mentor had missed the mark. Lady Clifford hadn’t seen Tristan’s face this morning, or heard his tone of cold dismissal when he’d told Sophia there was no need for them ever to meet again.

This ends here…

Sophia didn’t imagine another sojourn on Lord Everly’s roof would change his mind.

It had been a simple enough thing to climb his lordship’s columns again, but it wasn’t nearly as much fun as it had been the first time. Tonight, the patter of raindrops on the slate roof didn’t sound like a symphony, or like bells chiming. It sounded, and felt, like a depressing drizzle, and chillier than it should be for August in London.

Worse, it was all to no purpose. She was dallying on a roof, wasting her precious time. There were only two reasons for her to linger on Great Marlborough Street. One was a man she’d sworn not to follow, and the other a man who’d never come.

She given her word to Lord Gray she wouldn’t follow Peter Sharpe again, and she intended to keep it, but just in case that wasn’t reason enough to curb her reckless tendencies, Lady Clifford had also made her