Her head snapped back toward the man coming down the Strand. He was moving steadily toward the front of the church, still whistling cheerfully, unaware of the mischief that awaited him.
It was pure foolishness for her to try and stop it now. She’d only expose herself, and put her mission at needless risk. Even so, Sophia’s mouth was opening, a cry of warning risingin her throat.
She never got the chance to voice it.
Just as it was about to burst from her lips, a gloved hand came down hard over her mouth. Sophia gasped in shock, but even when a long, muscular arm snaked around her waist, she kept her wits about her. This wasn’t the first time she’d been grabbed, and she wasn’t the sort of lady who succumbed to hysterics.
No, she was more the sort of lady who bit anyone foolish enough to put their hand over her mouth, and that was what she did now. Without any hesitation, she sank her teeth into the closest finger. She got a mouthful of an exceptionally fine kid glove for her trouble, but she clamped down onto the knuckle like a hunting dog with a bird locked between its jaws.
Her attacker didn’t think his glove fine enough to be worth saving, because he tore it off and let it drop into the dirt between them.
When the bite failed to secure her release, Sophia landed a practiced kick to his shin, her lips curling in a savage grin when her heel hit bone with a satisfying crunch. The arm around her waist went slack for an instant, but he seemed to have a good deal of experience attacking people, because he didn’t release her. Anyone else would have, but he held her fast, a muttered curse escaping his lips.
So she kicked him again.
He let out a pained grunt. “You’ll regret that soon enough.”
Before she could land a third kick, he jerked her off her feet and dragged her backwards into the shadowy graveyard behind St.Clement Dane’s.
Someonehadbeen following her, and now he’d caught her.
Chapter Two
The kick found its mark as surely as if Tristan had a bullseye painted on his shin. It was a swift, vicious blow, and unexpected enough it might have secured the boy’s release if Tristan had been anyone other than who he was.
As it happened, the lad was out of luck. Tristan had been kicked by every blackguard in London, most of whom were stronger and burlier than this meager slip of a boy. Still, for all his flimsiness, he was fierce enough to have spoiled a rather nice glove with those sharp teeth of his.
Tristan left the glove in the dirt where it had dropped and grabbed the scuff of the boy’s neck with his bare hand. “Struggle all you like. I have you now.” He pinned the boy’s arms to his sides, wrenched him off his feet, and dragged him into the gloom behind St. Clement Dane’s churchyard. “Ah, here we are, lad. We’ll transact our business in the dark, shall we? We won’t be disturbed here, and I can question you for as long as I choose.”
A sound burst from the boy’s lips. Given his current predicament a cry of fear was to be expected, but this wasn’t fear. It was a cry of wrath. In an instant he was struggling again, his slight body thrashing and twisting like an enraged fish on theend of a hook.
An exceptionally sneaky fish.
If he managed to squirm free, Tristan had no doubt he’d scramble up the nearest column and vanish in an instant. “Enough!” He tightened his arms around the boy. Not so tight he’d hurt him, but tight enough to hold him still. “You’re wasting your strength, lad, and trying my patience. You’re not going anywhere until I’ve questioned you, but I won’t hurt you. Now cease writhing, if you please, and I’llput you down.”
Tristan expected his advice to go unheeded, but to his surprise the boy ceased struggling and went as limp as asack of flour.
“There’s a good lad.” Tristan set him on his feet, but he was careful to back him up against the wrought iron fence surrounding the graveyard. “Now, if you agree to keep quiet, I’ll remove my hand from your mouth. Not a single sound until I give you leave, understand?”
Tristan waited, one hand on the boy’s shoulder to prevent him from bolting until at last the boy gave the briefest of nods. “Well then, lad.” He eased his hand away from the boy’s mouth. “What have you to sayfor yourself?”
Not a damn thing, it seemed.
Tristan studied the narrow shoulders and bent head, and a reluctant chuckle escaped his lips. “You’re a proper little thief, aren’t you? Quick-witted, agile, and you know when to keep your mouth shut. I’ve seen grown men with less self-possession.”
The boy was, in fact, just the sort of clever, tight-lipped little miscreant who’d prove invaluable to older, more sophisticated criminals—criminals like those responsible for a recent rash of robberies plaguing London. The thieves had evaded the law for months, but five weeks ago a botched attempt at a theft had led to a grisly murder, and one of the gang of culprits had been taken upfor the crime.
Strangely enough, he’d been taken up righthere, in St. Clement Dane’s churchyard. A curious coincidence, really—or it would have been if Tristan believed in coincidences.
He didn’t, nor did he believe in innocent explanations. Those who engaged in suspicious activity invariably proved to be guilty, and this boy, in his dark clothes with his cap pulled low over his eyes, was the very picture of a pocket-sized villain. “Come now, sir. Surely you have something to offer in your own defense.”
No reaction from the boy. He kept his head down, his face carefully concealed behind the brim of his cap.
“I’m happy to keep you here all night.” Tristan’s tone was pleasant, but he tightened his grip on theboy’s shoulder.
That earned him a shrug. Delicate bones shifted under Tristan’s fingers, but not a single word crossed the boy’s stubborn lips. Irritated, Tristan reached out and snatched the cap from his head. “You’ll look me in the eye when I speak to you, lad—”
He broke off, and the cap slipped through his fingers and dropped to the ground. A few hairpins went with it, and the long, silky hair that had been stuffed underneath fell down in a dark cascade of waves.
