Sophia Monmouth didn’t appear any more satisfied with the verdict than Tristan was. She followed the prisoner’s progress from the courtroom, her gaze lingering on the doorway through which he’d been taken long after he disappeared. Tristan caught a glimpse of her face when her head was turned, and his chest tightened ather expression.
She couldn’t have expected Ives’s fate to be anything other than what it was, yet for all the grim resignation on that exquisite face, she looked…devastated.
Tristan moved away from the edge of the balcony and further into the shadows, poised to follow her from the courtroom now Ives’s trial was over, but to his surprise, she didn’t move. She remained where she was throughout the next trial, then the next. The day wore on into the late afternoon, and still she stayed in her place at the edge of the column, her slender form unnaturally still, as if she’d been frozen there.
She didn’t move until the last trial concluded, then she left in such haste Tristan found himself having to chase her once again as she exited the courtroom and made her way into the yard. Most of the crowd had dispersed after Ives’s trial, but there were still a few stragglers hanging about. She stationed herself to one side of the door where a small knot of people had gathered and lingered there, as if she were waiting for someone to emerge.
A few moments later, someonedidemerge.
Peter Sharpe.
Tristan saw him before she did, and so he was able to witness Miss Monmouth’s reaction when Sharpe paused on the courthouse steps, a satisfied smirk on his lips. As soon as she saw him, she tensed. Her expression darkened, and her green eyes narrowed to slits, but she didn’t move toward him, or call attention to herself in any way. She simply stood there, her gaze never wavering, and waited.
She didn’t have to wait long. Sharpe trotted down the courthouse steps and ambled off down the street as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Miss Monmouth stayed where she was until he was a good block or two down Newgate Street before she darted after him.
Tristan went after her, a grudging sort of admiration in his chest. Sharpe hadn’t any more idea he was being followed now than he had the other night. She didn’t rush after him, or follow too closely. She was careful, but quick. Miss Monmouth knew how to keep her head, but as skilled as she was, she wasn’t flawless.
After all, she didn’t knowshewas being followed, either.
Just as he had the other night, Tristan found himself wondering what she intended to do once she caught up to Sharpe. Any sort of physical confrontation was out of the question. Sharpe was a pitiful enough specimen of masculinity, but he was bigger and heavier than Miss Monmouth was. At this point, Tristan couldn’t have said which of the two of them was themore ruthless.
Hesoon found out.
Her hat was the first thing to go. She swept it from her head, and with a quick, furtive flick of her wrist tossed it down a narrow alleyway without a second glance. Then she went to work on the white fichu tucked into the neckline of her gray dress. It was the sort of plain, bland dress a shop girl might wear, but with one sharp tug of her fichu the prim little garment went from dully respectable to downright scandalous, the low-cut bodice revealing a generous expanse of smooth, olive skin even the most principled of gentlemen couldn’tfail to notice.
She pulled some pins from her hair, letting a few long, dark locks fall loose, and just like that, she’d gone from a governess to atempting siren.
Tristan came to a halt in the middle of the road, suddenly breathless. That was…well, that was one way to manage Sharpe. A rather ingenious way, really, with her curls brushing against the soft skin of her neck, and her…that is, thecurves of her—
Damn it. She was a menace, a danger to society.
Tristan was torn between outrage and a very unwelcome surge of arousal, but this was no time to dawdle in the street with his mouth hanging open.
He went after her, biding his time as she drew closer and closer to Sharpe. She didn’t approach him until he’d turned right onto Hatton Street, toward Ely Court, where a small crowd of degenerates was gathered outside of YeOlde Mitre Inn.
That was when she struck. Tristan had been expecting it, but it happened so quickly he nearly missed it.
Just before Sharpe melted into the crowd, she reached under the gaping neckline of her gray gown and drew out something shiny. She darted forward with it clutched between her fingers, and with a subtle pass of her hand…
What the devil?
Tristan was behind her, so he couldn’t see precisely what she’d done, but it looked as if she’d—
“Thief! Thief!” A high-pitched feminine shriek rent the air. Tristan froze, still a few paces behind her, unable to believe what was unfolding in front of his eyes. She hadn’t…shecouldn’t have—
“Thief!” Miss Monmouth was pointing one trembling finger at Sharpe, her cheeks scarlet with outrage. “Why, that villain there took my dear, sainted grandmother’s silver locket right off my neck, ’e did!He’s a thief!”
Shehad.
Sharpe was gaping at her with bulging eyes. “Wot? Ye’re mad, ye are! I never did no such thing! I never even touched ’er, much less took anything off ’er!”
Miss Monmouth stared at him, her lower lip wobbling, then without warning she burst into a deafening flood of tears. “What sort ’o scoundrel snatches a lady’s dead grandmother’s locket right off ’er neck, I ask you? Oh, my poor, sainted grandmother is like to be turning over in ’er grave, she is! Why, ye’re a blackguard sir, and make no mistake.”
Tristan tensed as Sharpe took a threatening step toward her, but he needn’t have worried. Miss Monmouth was more than capable of taking care of herself. “Search ’is pockets if ye don’t believe me!” she shrieked, turning her big, tear-stained green eyes on the crowd of men gathered around the entrance to the pub.
“Oi, Harry! Git on over ’ere and check ’is pockets, will ye?” Two of the men, both of them mean with drink, broke from the crowd and descended on Sharpe, grabbing his arms. “Give ’im a good shake, like,” one said, with a menacing look at Sharpe. “We don’t take kindly round ’ere to thieves.”
“’Specially those what steal from a ’elpless lady.” The other man wiped an arm across his mouth, leering at Miss Monmouth. “Not the pretty ones, leastways. Don’t care much ’bout the harpies, eh?”
