“Thank you.”
Lyndon grinned. “We’ll see if you’re still thanking me tomorrow. Good night, Gray.”
He strolled from the library into the hallway. A few minutes later Tristan heard him scold Tribble for being a lying sot, before he cheerfully bid the butlera good evening.
The front door opened, then closed again.
Tristan remained in front of the fire for a bit after Lyndon left, staring down at the flames, but it wasn’t long before he found himself drawn to hislibrary window.
He couldn’t have said what drew him there. Had he gone to make certain Lyndon made it safely to his carriage? Or had there been something else, some whisper from deep inside him that told him what he’d find? Whatever the reason, what he saw when he glanced outside his window froze himwhere he stood.
His first thought was he’d imagined her.
But no. He wasn’t foxed, and he wasn’t seeing things. That small, black-clad figure was no ghost, and no delusion. Not figment, but flesh. Not shadow,but substance.
There was a woman, lying on the roof of Lord Everly’s pediment.
Chapter Thirteen
Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.
Sophia lay on her back, still as a corpse, and gazed up at Tristan’s library window above her, blinking against the dampness that clung to her eyelashes. The mist was so heavy it felt suffocating, like fistfuls of damp soil were pressing her into the cold slate roof beneath her.
Her own little grave.
The only thing darker than the sky was Tristan’s townhouse. It was as silent as a tomb, every window shrouded in heavy silk draperies. It didn’t look as if he were home, but it didn’t matter much whether he was or not. Even if he was looking out his window at her at this very moment, she doubted it would makeany difference.
Sophia wasn’t one to doubt Lady Clifford—she’d never known her ladyship to be wrong before—but in this particular instance, she wondered if her mentor had missed the mark. Lady Clifford hadn’t seen Tristan’s face this morning, or heard his tone of cold dismissal when he’d told Sophia there was no need for them everto meet again.
This ends here…
Sophia didn’t imagine another sojourn on Lord Everly’s roof would change his mind.
It had been a simple enough thing to climb his lordship’s columns again, but it wasn’t nearly as much fun as it had been the first time. Tonight, the patter of raindrops on the slate roof didn’t sound like a symphony, or like bells chiming. It sounded, and felt, like a depressing drizzle, and chillier than it should be for August in London.
Worse, it was all to no purpose. She was dallying on a roof, wasting her precious time. There were only two reasons for her to linger on Great Marlborough Street. One was a man she’d sworn not to follow, and the other a man who’d never come.
She given her word to Lord Gray she wouldn’t follow Peter Sharpe again, and she intended to keep it, but just in case that wasn’t reason enough to curb her reckless tendencies, Lady Clifford had also made her promise she’d come directly back to No. 26 Maddox Street if Lord Graydidn’t appear.
Hehadn’tappeared, for all that Sophia been lying here for what felt like an eternity. If shehadbeen in her grave, the worms would have devoured her by now. Her spine ached from lying for so long on the hard slate, and she even caught herself wishing for a few layers of petticoats. She detested them, but even they’d be preferable to a chilled backside.
Peter Sharpe hadn’t turned up, either, but Sophia guessed he’d be back on the prowl soon enough. No doubt he had dozens of nefarious deeds to see to tonight, and because of her promise, he’d be free to indulge in his choice of petty crimes withoutany witnesses.
Bitter frustration flooded Sophia at the thought of him creeping about St. Clement Dane’s Church, the scene of the worst of his crimes, lying in wait for some unsuspecting victim to stumble upon him. It was too maddening to contemplate, but this was what came of making promises, wasn’t it? She’d know better than to give herword next time.
Still, she’d given itthistime, and she wouldn’t goback on it now.
Sophia cast one last despairing look at Tristan’s dark windows before sliding to the edge of the pediment, shimmying down the columns to the top railing of the wrought iron fence, and dropping silently onto the pavement.
Just as she had the first night, she kept to the shadows as she crept through the streets toward No. 26 Maddox Street. The night was a black one, the moon shrouded by a layer of clouds. It was easy enough to sneak along without anyone takingnotice of her.
She headed down Great Marlborough Street, weaving between the townhouses where she could lose herself in the gloom. She stole toward Mill Street, but she hadn’t gotten further than half a block when she caught a faint whiff of smoke. Sophia wrinkled her nose with distaste as the acrid stench drifted toward her. Sharpe would do well to give up those pipes if he wanted to skulk about the streets unnoticed. It was the easiest thing in the world to track him with that stream of smoke trailing behind him—
Sophia froze, pressing her back against the wall.
But shewasn’ttracking him, was she? Yet there was no mistaking that hint of smoke. Either Great Marlborough Street was crowded with pipe-lovingcriminals, or…
Or Peter Sharpe was trackingher.
