Helpless? Tristan nearly laughed aloud at this description of his wily little rooftop thief, who was about as far from helpless as a rabid dog. He hadn’t the faintest doubt the men even now turning out Sharpe’s pockets would find the locket. She’d been so stealthy about it even Tristan hadn’t seen her do it, but there was no question she’d contrived to drop her locket somewhere on Sharpe’s person.
Good Lord, she was clever. With one twist of her wrist and flutter of her eyelashes she had Sharpe at her mercy. Tristan couldn’t prevent another reluctant twinge of admiration. He couldn’t let her get away with it, of course, but it was a neat trick, and an effective one. The two men who had hold of Sharpe were moments away from throwing him onto the ground and stomping him under their boot heels.
Tristan had spent enough time on the London streets to know when a drunken rabble was about to take justice into their own hands. Once they found the locket—and theywould—they’d pound the life out of Sharpe. Tristan didn’t care for the man, but he also knew him to be innocent of the theft. He couldn’t stand by and watch while an innocentman was beaten.
“Wait! Take your hands off him.” He strode forward and wrapped his fingers around the slender arm of the real guilty party. “Pardon me, madam, but I saw you slip your locket into this man’s coat pocket.”
Miss Monmouth turned on him with a squeak of outrage. “Ye dare accuse me of—” she began, but as soon as she saw his face the words died on her lips, and her mouth dropped open in shock. “You!”
“Me, indeed. I’d be obliged if you two gentlemen would be so kind as to unhand that man. He’s no thief.” He may well have been worse than a thief, but Tristan didn’t have any proof of that, and one didn’t accuse a man on supposition alone.
Sharpe and his two drunken counterparts turned to gape at him. One of them let go of Sharpe at once, but the other had found the locket, and now he thrust it in Tristan’s face. “I don’t ’spose this belongs to ’im. If ’e’s not a thief, then why does he ’ave the lady’slocket on ’im?”
“Because she planted it there. I was walking right behind her, and I saw her slip it into his pocket.” Tristan held out his hand for the locket, then added with a wink, “I believe we’ve stumbled upon a bit of a lover’s quarrel, gentlemen.”
“Lover’s quarrel!” Miss Monmouth swept an appalled gaze over Sharpe, her mouth twisting with disgust. “You’re either jesting,or you’re mad.”
“He’s not mad. That’s Lord Gray, that is, Stratford as was, afore his brother keeled over.” Sharpe regarded Tristan for a moment in awe, then pointed a finger at his accuser. “If the Ghost of Bow Street says she planted it, then ye can be sure she bloody well planted it!”
As soon as they heard ‘Ghost of Bow Street,’ the two men on either side of Sharpe stepped back, their hands held out in front of them. “Beg pardon, Ghost—that is, beg pardon, sir. That is, yer lordship, sir. Didn’t mean no ’arm. Just trying to help out this lady ’ere.”
“Very chivalrous of you, and no harm’s been done.” Tristan took the locket the second man offered him and tucked it safely into his breast pocket. “You needn’t worry about the lady. I’ll take very good care of her. Go on backto your pints.”
The two men were happy to abandon their heroics for their drink, and ambled off toward the pub. Sharpe, however, wasn’t as agreeable. He stared at Miss Monmouth for a long, silent moment, as if memorizing her features, then turned to Tristan with a sullen look on his face. “I might ’a gotten my head kicked in just now. I want ’er taken up for lying, or making a false charge, or whatever itis ye call it.”
“Yes, I think I must.” Tristan turned to find Miss Monmouth assessing him with narrowed eyes, as if she were searching for all the soft places on his body where she might land a kick. “We can’t have dangerous criminals roaming the streets, assaulting innocent gentlemen, can we? Come along, madam. You can explain yourself to the magistrate.”
Chapter Six
“The magistrate,again?” Sophia tugged at her arm to free it from Lord Gray’s grip. “My goodness, my lord. You have a troubling fondness for turning innocent citizens over to the law.”
He gave a derisive snort at thewordinnocent.
Oh, very well, then. Perhaps in this case she wasn’tquiteinnocent, but then questions of guilt and innocence were tricky, plaguing things, weren’t they? She was far less guilty than Peter Sharpe. If the scales of justice were properly balanced,he’dbe the one being marched down Hatton Street by a tight-lipped Lord Gray.
Sophia gave another fruitless tug on her arm. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about. You said yourself noharm was done.”
He didn’t deign to reply. He didn’t release her, either, but neither did he take her to the magistrate. Sophia was relieved by this at first, since she didn’t care to explain her interest in Peter Sharpe to anyone, but when Lord Gray hustled her back to Newgate Street and stuffed her into a carriage waiting there for him, her relief faded.
Lord Gray had been intimidating enough when he was chasing her through a dark graveyard, but he was even more so when one was a smallish lady crowded into a carriage with him, especially with that ominous look on his face. “If I didn’t know better, my lord, I’d say you werecross with me.”
A slight pinching of his lips was her only answer.
He has rather nice lips.
Sophia hadn’t gotten a proper look at him the night he’d accosted her at St. Clement Dane’s. It had been too dark and she’d been too flustered to pay much attention to his features, but now she took a moment tostudy his face.
Emma thought him very handsome, and Sophia couldn’t deny there was something pleasing about him—that is, pleasing in a severe, rigid, humorless, unforgiving sort of way. His features were almosttooaristocratic, too harshly elegant, but the forbidding symmetry was offset by surprisingly wide, darkly lashed gray eyes, and a slightly crooked mouth with a small white scar carved into the left corner ofhis upper lip.
Sophia was perversely fond of scars, but of course there were scars, and then there werescars. Lord Gray’s was of the latter variety. One couldn’t help but wonder how it might bend and twistwhen he smiled.
If he ever did. Sophia hadn’t seen any evidence he knew how. He’d likely be vastly improved if he did, but there was little enough chance she’dever find out.
Certainly, there was no fetching smile hovering on those stern lipsnow. He was scrutinizing her with the sort of narrow-eyed suspicion usually reserved for ferocious dogs and poisonous vipers. Which was fair enough, really, since shehadbitten him the lasttime they met.
At last he raised an imperious eyebrow, and crossed one long leg over the other. “If you’ve quite finished assessing me, Miss Monmouth, perhaps you’d be kind enough to answer afew questions.”
Ah, so he’d discovered who she was, had he? Not surprising, and again, only fair, since she’d made it her business to learn as much as she could about him. “What if I’mnotfinished assessingyou, my lord?”
