“Ofcourse, I am.”
Lady Clifford chuckled. “Don’t be so certain, because you may not like it. It occurs to me Lord Gray could prove quiteuseful to us.”
Sophia’s spine went rigid. “Useful? How? He’s meddlesome and high-handed, not to mention rigid and condescending. Worst of all, he lacks imagination.”
“That remains to be seen, but what matters here is he’s an earl, not to mention the Ghost of Bow Street. If anyone can get into Newgate to see Jeremy, it’s Lord Gray.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” At one point or other they’d each tried to gain access to Jeremy, but no amount of begging, pleading, threats, or bribes had done any good. Even Lady Clifford had been turned away.
But the Ghost of Bow Street? No one would dare turnhimaway. He likely had a dozen different ways to get inside the prison. If she could see Jeremy, even for a short time, he could tell her in his own words what had happened that night at St. Clement Dane’s. He’d give her something she could turn to account—sheknew he would.
“But how can it be done, my lady?” Lord Gray believed Jeremy was guilty, and he despised the very sight ofher. “Why should Lord Gray choose to help us?”
“Well, my dear, I can’t say for sure he will. He may refuse, but I think it might be worth asking him, just the same.” Lady Clifford chucked Gussie under the chin, then turned to Sophia, an odd little smile on her lips. “After all, there’s no crime in asking, is there?”
Chapter Eight
“Manipulative, at best. At worst, she’s devious.” Tristan slid one of his pawns across the chessboard without giving much thought to where it would land. “She gave me her word she’d stay away from Sharpe, but I’d be a fool to rely on her keeping it.”
God knew he’d been fool enough already. He should have taken her straight to Sampson Willis while he had her in his carriage yesterday. Perhaps then he wouldn’t have dreamt of a dark-haired phantom with a scandalously bare bosom.
“Yes, I believe you’ve said so once already.” Lyndon was toying with his knight and didn’t look up. “Check.”
“She’s shrewd, too. Lady Clifford has chosen her pupils well. Miss Monmouth is a perfect, pocket-sized pixie in boy’s breeches.” Except she hadn’t been wearing breeches yesterday, had she? It was no wonder he’d acted such a fool. That gray gown with its plunging bodice had addled his wits.
Tristan plucked his defeated king from the board. He set it aside and rose to his feet, abandoning any further attempts at concentration. “I tell you, Lyndon. She’s the most exasperating woman I’ve ever encountered.”
“Vexing. That was the word you used. Vexing, and tenacious.” Lyndon gave a delicate shudder. “Dreadful combination, especially in an attractive woman.”
Tristan abruptly ceased his pacing in front of the fireplace and turned to give his friend a wary look. “I never said she was attractive.”
Notaloud, that is.
Lyndon abandoned his study of the game and blinked up at Tristan. “Didn’t you? I thought I just heard you sayshe’s perfect.”
“I said she was a perfectpixie, Lyndon. It’s nota compliment.”
“No?” Lyndon frowned. “Well, what the devil is a pixie?”
“They’re…aren’t they demons, or elves, or some other sort of devious, manipulative mythical creature?”
“Are they, indeed? I thought they were meant to be like fairies. I’ve always thought fairies sounded rather nice.” Lyndon thought about it, then turned his attention back to the chessboard with a shrug. “You didn’t need to say she was attractive, in any case. I already know she is.”
“You don’t know any such thing.” Lyndon’s only answer was a knowing smirk, and Tristan muttered a curse. “Howdo you know?”
The smirk widened, and Lyndon waved a hand at the chessboard. “I know because I’m beating you at chess. Ineverbeat you at chess unless you’re agitated, and you’re never agitated over a woman unless you find her attractive.” He swept a critical gaze over Tristan’s mussed hair and crooked cravat. “I’ve never seen you quitethisagitated, though. Miss Monmouth must be lovely, indeed.”
Tristan turned his back on Lyndon and stalked overto the window.
Lovely? Certainly, if one found Machiavellian tendencies lovely. That is, she was clever—he couldn’t deny that—but she had abarbed tongue.
A barbed tongue and soft,full pink lips.
Damn it. Her lips were of no consequence. She was an outrage, chaos in boy’s breeches and a black cap, roaming London’s rooftops and stalking innocent citizensin the streets.
Silky dark hair, bewitching green eyes…
An irritated growl rose in Tristan’s throat. Very well, Miss Monmouth was lovely, but she was also sly, and with the way she scaled townhouses and wriggled through fences, distressingly agile.
