Massive, but cautious. Quiet, and clever. Above all, deadly.
Lady Clifford chose her people well.
Even without Brixton’s sudden appearance, Tristan might not have gotten anything more out of the girl. She’d been afraid, yes. He’d felt her slender body trembling against his. Fear did tend to loosen most people’s tongues, but thenshe, like all of Lady Clifford’s disciples, wasn’t like most people.
Not that it mattered much by then. By then, Tristan knew enough.
He’d lingered in the darkness outside the school for some time after Brixton was gone, staring up at the dark windows, fury gathering like a storm in his chest. She’d told him she’d gone to St. Clement Dane’s Church tonight to sayher confession.
Perhaps she should have done so, while she stillhad the chance.
* * * *
“You look like death, Gray.” Caleb Reeve, Lord Lyndon, threw himself into the chair across from Tristan’s at the dining table and signaled the footman for coffee. “No use burying yourself behind that newspaper. I can see you’re abloody wreck.”
Tristan peered over the edge of theTimes. “What the devil are you doing here, Lyndon? It’s notcalling hours.”
Lyndon snorted. “Calling hours are for debutantes and their marriage-minded mamas. I’m not here to court you, for God’s sake.”
Tristan set his paper aside with a sigh. “Whyareyou here, then?”
“I came for Mrs. Tribble’s apricot pastries, of course.” Lyndon rubbed his hands together as the footman set a plate of steaming tartlets in front of him. “I could forgive your ghastly appearance this morning if I thought you’d gotten up to a proper debauch last night, but you left White’s before ten o’clock. No doubt you were in your bed by half ten. Now then, Gray. Why so feeblethis morning?”
Lyndon spoke with studied nonchalance, but Tristan heard the note of concern in his friend’s voice. He and Lyndon had been at Oxford together, and knew each other far too well to have secrets between them.
Henry’s murder, the circumstances surrounding his death, Tristan’s nightmares—Lyndon knew all of it, and though he’d scoff at any suggestion he was worried for Tristan, he’d appeared in Great Marlborough Street far more often these past weeks than he’d been in thehabit of doing.
“You’ll be pleased to know I wasn’t in bed by half ten. I went out again after Ileft White’s.”
“Well, that sounds promising. Where did you go?” Lyndon took an enormous bite of his tartlet, groaning with appreciation.
“Well, since you ask, Lyndon, I spied a young boy on the roof of Lord Everly’s pediment, chased him from Great Marlborough Street to St. Clement Dane’s Church, discovered he wasn’t in fact a boy at all, but a young woman, then I chasedherthrough a graveyard and every back alleyway in Westminster until I caught her onMaddox Street.”
Lyndon had been making happy noises as he devoured his tartlet, but by the time Tristan finished, he was choking onit. “Urg…Ack…”
Tristan waved over the footman. “James, if you’d be so kind as to thump Lord Lyndon before he expires in my breakfast room.”
“Yes, my lord.” James darted forward and whacked Lyndon on the back until soggy bits of apricot tartlet spewed from his mouth. “Beg your pardon, sir.”
“Not at all, James,” Lyndon gasped. “Good man.”
“Well done, James. Thank you.” Tristan took a calm sip of his coffee, and waited.
Lyndon coughed and spluttered a bit more, but finally he wiped his streaming eyes and turned an indignant look on Tristan. “Jesus, Gray. You might have warned me.”
“I might have, yes.” Tristan gave him a small smile. “I beg your pardon. I thought you’d appreciate a more dramatic telling.”
“Well, of course I do.” Lyndon, undaunted, took up the untouched tartlet on his plate and began to devour it. “Good Lord, Gray. That sounds far more entertaining than White’s. What did you do with this young woman once you caught her?”
“I let her go again.” Not by choice, but one didn’t tangle with Brixton unless one was prepared for a brawl.
Lyndon paused with the tartlet halfway to his mouth. “What, just like that? After allthat trouble?”
“She had more…resources than I anticipated. A protector, that is.” The smile faded from Tristan’s lips as he met his friend’s gaze. “Daniel Brixton.”
Lyndon’s eyes went wide. “Brixton? You mean that large, terribly frightening fellow who works for Lady…” Lyndon trailed off, his eyes going even wider.
“Lady Clifford, yes. The young woman on the roof was one of Lady Clifford’s, er…” What did one call them? Demons? Felons, perhaps? “Oneof her pupils.”
