Tristan stared at her, flabbergasted. “Hell and—”
“Damnation,” the girl finished, with a toss of hergleaming head.
Some flowery scent wafted over Tristan, something rather like…honeysuckle? What sort of girl smelled like honeysuckle after a rooftop escapade and a mad dash through London’s filthy streets? No sort of girl Tristanhad ever seen.
He turned his attention to the face that had been hiding under the cap, but it was as distracting as her scent. She had smooth, olive-tinted skin, heavily lashed light green eyes, and a stubborn, dimpled chin. That face was enough to scatter any man’s wits, and that wasbeforehe noticed the plump lips that somehow contrived to look fetching, despite the fiercefrown she wore.
“What, you’ve nothing to say now?” She waved a hand at him. “You were about to deliver a proper lecture, I believe. I beg you won’t let the fact I’m not a boy dissuade you from your scold.”
Tristan was rarely struck speechless, but it wasn’t every day one found the boy he’d been chasing—the boy who’d climbed to the roof of his neighbor’s townhouse and then back down again, as cool as you please—wasn’t a boy at all.
He…that is,she…was a woman.
A woman, not a girl, for all that she was a small, dainty thing, no higher than Tristan’s shoulder, and didn’t look to be above nineteen or twenty years old. Indeed, she was so resoundingly feminine, so delicate, his instinct to protect those weaker than himself might have rushed to the fore if he hadn’t caught the spark of a formidable temper inher green eyes.
The lady was far from weak, and even furtherfrom innocent.
It was the reminder he needed before he made an utter fool of himself by offering to escort her home, or some other gallant nonsense. She might be female, but it didn’t make a damn bit of difference to him whether she was a villain, or a villainess.
She’d been hiding on Everly’s roof, disguised as a boy, waiting for her victim to emerge so she could follow him here—a feat she’d accomplished with the practiced ease of a born thief.
The lady was up to no good. The only question was, what sort of no good?
She regarded him with one slim eyebrow arched, waiting to see what he’d do next. Tristan liked to think he was a gentleman of some presence of mind, but it took every bit of sangfroid he could muster to say calmly, “You didn’t answer my question, miss. Why are you sneaking about London in the dark, and what are you doing at St. ClementDane’s Church?”
“Why, saying my confession, sir.” Her full lips curved in a mocking smile. “What else does onedo at church?”
Much to Tristan’s disgust, he found he had to make an effort to tear his gaze away from her mouth. “Perhaps I could accept that explanation, if it weren’t midnight.”
She leaned closer and whispered confidingly, “I thought it best not to wait until morning. I’m quitewicked, you see.”
Her whisper hit Tristan right in his lower belly, but his only outward reaction was a quirked eyebrow. “I’ve no doubt of that, but there’s the trifling matter of your never having entered the church. I found you skulking in the churchyard,if you recall.”
“Skulking? Goodness, thatdoessound wicked. But you see, then, why I’d be so anxious to confess my sins.”
So many lies, falling from such sweet lips was…disconcerting. Tristan had never seen a lady lie with such cool impunity before. He traded only in truth, yet there was something striking about her audaciousness. “Perhaps you’d like to confess your sins to me?” He’d have the truth out of her oneway or another.
The green eyes went wide. “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly do that, sir. Whatever will you think of me?”
“What, indeed? But that puts us at odds. I can’t release you until you’ve explained yourself.”
“No, I’m afraid not, sir. Unless, of course, you’re a vicar?” She swept an assessing gaze over him. “You don’t look like one. You’refar too…clean.”
“Clean?” That startled a laugh out of Tristan. “Are vicars commonly dirty? I would have thought it was justthe opposite.”
“Notdirty, but neither are they so…polished and shiny as you are.” She cocked her head, studying him, then gave a careless shrug. “You look like an aristocrat. Rather high, I think, given your accent and the quality of your gloves. A viscount, perhaps, or an earl.”
It was on the tip of Tristan’s tongue to say he wasn’t anything of the sort, but that was no longer true. Hewas, in fact, an earl. Not just Tristan Stratford anymore, and not a Bow Street Runner, but Lord Gray. His lordship, despite having never aspired to the title, and being uniquelyunsuited to it.
But this wasn’t a ballroom, and he wasn’t writing his name on her dance card. This was a deserted graveyard in the middle of the night, and she was…well, he didn’t have any bloody ideawhatshe was, but certainly not a lady, and very likely a criminal.
Tristan didn’t explain himself to criminals. They explained themselves tohim, and it was time she was made to understand that. “Perhaps you’d rather give your confession to the magistrate?”
“The magistrate!” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “On what charge, sir? There’s no crime in visiting St. Clement Dane’s Church, is there?”
“No, but I think the magistrate might be interested in knowing you’re desecrating rooftops on Great Marlborough Street. Scaling a townhouse is a rather singular skill, and not one common in innocentyoung ladies.”
Thatgot her attention. Her gaze caught his before skittering away.
