The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,7

didn’t make a damn bit of difference to him whether she was a villain, or a villainess.

She’d been hiding on Everly’s roof, disguised as a boy, waiting for her victim to emerge so she could follow him here—a feat she’d accomplished with the practiced ease of a born thief.

The lady was up to no good. The only question was, what sort of no good?

She regarded him with one slim eyebrow arched, waiting to see what he’d do next. Tristan liked to think he was a gentleman of some presence of mind, but it took every bit of sangfroid he could muster to say calmly, “You didn’t answer my question, miss. Why are you sneaking about London in the dark, and what are you doing at St. Clement Dane’s Church?”

“Why, saying my confession, sir.” Her full lips curved in a mocking smile. “What else does one do at church?”

Much to Tristan’s disgust, he found he had to make an effort to tear his gaze away from her mouth. “Perhaps I could accept that explanation, if it weren’t midnight.”

She leaned closer and whispered confidingly, “I thought it best not to wait until morning. I’m quite wicked, you see.”

Her whisper hit Tristan right in his lower belly, but his only outward reaction was a quirked eyebrow. “I’ve no doubt of that, but there’s the trifling matter of your never having entered the church. I found you skulking in the churchyard, if you recall.”

“Skulking? Goodness, that does sound wicked. But you see, then, why I’d be so anxious to confess my sins.”

So many lies, falling from such sweet lips was…disconcerting. Tristan had never seen a lady lie with such cool impunity before. He traded only in truth, yet there was something striking about her audaciousness. “Perhaps you’d like to confess your sins to me?” He’d have the truth out of her one way or another.

The green eyes went wide. “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly do that, sir. Whatever will you think of me?”

“What, indeed? But that puts us at odds. I can’t release you until you’ve explained yourself.”

“No, I’m afraid not, sir. Unless, of course, you’re a vicar?” She swept an assessing gaze over him. “You don’t look like one. You’re far too…clean.”

“Clean?” That startled a laugh out of Tristan. “Are vicars commonly dirty? I would have thought it was just the opposite.”

“Not dirty, but neither are they so…polished and shiny as you are.” She cocked her head, studying him, then gave a careless shrug. “You look like an aristocrat. Rather high, I think, given your accent and the quality of your gloves. A viscount, perhaps, or an earl.”

It was on the tip of Tristan’s tongue to say he wasn’t anything of the sort, but that was no longer true. He was, in fact, an earl. Not just Tristan Stratford anymore, and not a Bow Street Runner, but Lord Gray. His lordship, despite having never aspired to the title, and being uniquely unsuited to it.

But this wasn’t a ballroom, and he wasn’t writing his name on her dance card. This was a deserted graveyard in the middle of the night, and she was…well, he didn’t have any bloody idea what she was, but certainly not a lady, and very likely a criminal.

Tristan didn’t explain himself to criminals. They explained themselves to him, and it was time she was made to understand that. “Perhaps you’d rather give your confession to the magistrate?”

“The magistrate!” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “On what charge, sir? There’s no crime in visiting St. Clement Dane’s Church, is there?”

“No, but I think the magistrate might be interested in knowing you’re desecrating rooftops on Great Marlborough Street. Scaling a townhouse is a rather singular skill, and not one common in innocent young ladies.”

That got her attention. Her gaze caught his before skittering away.

“Look at me if you please, miss. What you were doing on Lord Everly’s roof? No sense in denying it. I saw you from my window, and followed you here. I took you for a thief, and I imagine the magistrate will, as well.”

At mention of Lord Everly’s roof her face paled, but if Tristan expected a confession to cleanse the lies from those plump lips, he was disappointed. “That would be a damning charge indeed, sir, but there’s the small matter of my not having stolen anything. Insignificant, but there you are.”

He gave her a cool smile. “Not this time, no, but given the rash of recent thefts in London, I feel certain the magistrate would choose to question