“No, I suppose you wouldn’t, having never sat in the accused’s place. But there’s another thing I found strange about today’s proceedings.”
“Please do enlighten me,Miss Monmouth.”
Lord Gray didn’t look particularly eager to be enlightened, but it seemed today wasn’t his lucky day, any more than it was hers. “Does Peter Sharpe strike you as the sort of man who’dcarry a cane?”
He opened his mouth,then closed it.
“No, I didn’t think so, and what’s more, today was the first I’ve heard about a cane. No one other than Peter Sharpe has said a word about it. Surely if he’d had one on the night of Mr. Gerrard’s murder, it would have been found at St. Clement Dane’s?”
“You can’t be sure it wasn’t. The knife used to murder Mr. Gerrard is of far greater importance than the cane, and it was found next to Mr. Gerrard’s body, covered with his blood. Are you denying Ives regularly carried a knife?”
“Oh no, my lord. Hedidcarry one—a folding penny knife, gifted to him by Mr. Brixton, with a walnut handle and a three-inch blade. Three inches, Lord Gray. Quite a feat, to kill a man with a three-inch blade.”
He gave her a grim smile. “Not if you slit his throat,Miss Monmouth.”
“Sharpe wasn’t carrying a cane today, either,” Sophia muttered, her brow furrowed. “Indeed, I’ve never seen him with one, and I’ve been following him for weeks. It’s difficult to see how he could have subdued a man of Jeremy’s size and strength without it.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Miss Monmouth.Youmanaged to get the upper hand with Mr. Sharpe easily enough. Twice, in fact. Once the other night when you followed him to St. Clement Dane’s, and again today.” His gaze strayed to her bodice, then skittered away again.
Sophia’s fichu was firmly in place, but all the same she felt warmth creeping into her cheeks. She wasn’t a blushing virgin any more than she was a swooning one, but for a brief moment she thought she saw a flare of heat in those gray eyes.
She cleared her throat. “Let’s put the cane aside for the moment, shall we? What would you say, my lord, if I told you Peter Sharpe is a despicable liar?”
“I’d say I think it’s much more comfortable for you to believe Sharpe is lying than it is for you to believe your friend Ives is a murderer. Unfortunately, the truth doesn’t support that conclusion.”
“Indeed? Which truth are you referring to, my lord? Yours, or mine?”
“There is only one truth, Miss Monmouth.” The heat in his eyes cooled until they looked like sheets of gray ice. “The truth is Mr. Ives was found crouched over the lifeless body of Henry Gerrard, soaked in his blood. I regret that truth should be so disagreeable to you, but the facts arewhat they are.”
Sophia studied him, considering his words. One truth? How naïve he was, to think a truth so absolute one couldn’t find a dozen different ways to turn it sideways, to twist it until it became a lie. What must it be like, to have such faith?
Sophia supposed she’d never know. “Since you rely so heavily on facts, Lord Gray, I must assume you wish to have all of them before you draw any conclusion about a thing so crucial as a man’s guiltor innocence?”
His shoulders stiffened. “Despite what you may think of me, I have no wish to send an innocent manto the noose.”
“Of course not. May I conclude, then, you believe yourself to be in full possession of all the facts related to Peter Sharpe’s accusation against Mr. Ives?”
“I do, yes.”
“That’s a great relief to me, Lord Gray. Tell me, then, what do you make of this business withPatrick Dunn?”
Sophia could see at once he hadn’t the faintest idea who Patrick Dunn was. To his credit, he didn’t try and pretend he did. “I’m not familiar with that name. Who is he?”
“A weaver, formerly of Clare Court. Until recently he lived there with his wife and their two young children. Now he lives on the Thames, aboard the prison hulkWarrior, awaiting transportation to a penal colonyin Australia.”
“His crime?”
Sophia leaned toward him. “Why, theft, my lord. Three months ago, Patrick Dunn was convicted of stealing a watch fromPeter Sharpe.”
Chapter Seven
If he’d seen nothing but triumph in her eyes, Tristan would have found it easier to look away from her, but the more time he spent with Sophia Monmouth, the less able he was to make sense of her. There seemed to be a dozen different versions of her lurking under that enigmatic exterior, each one an echo of another, like layers of warped reflections in a crackedlooking glass.
Tristan muttered a curse. No, there was nothing simple about her. She wore boy’s clothing, but she wasn’t a boy. She climbed, ran, and hid as if she were fleeing a crime, but she wasn’t a thief. She was one of Lady Clifford’s creatures, but shewasn’t a liar.
At least, not inthis instance.
Even knowing what he did about her association with the Clifford School, Tristan was having a difficult time casting Miss Monmouth as a deceitful villainess. Her eyes, in particular, didn’t mark her as dishonest, and he’d looked enough villains in the eye to know one could see their darkness at a glance.
