“You realize what this means, Tristan.” Sophia’s voice was quiet. “At the least we’re accusing Everly—a member of the House of Lords—of sending innocent men to prison to put an end to the London Corresponding Society, which is a perfectly lawful reform group. At worst, we’re accusing him of being an accessory to murder.”
“We are, and that’s to say nothing of Pitt himself. There’s no denying he’s the primary beneficiary of the scheme, and Everly doesn’t stir a step without Pitt’s approval. I find it difficult to believe he’d go as far as this without Pittknowing of it.”
Tristan had known all along this business went much deeper than a few thefts—a Bow Street Runner doesn’t get murdered over a stolen pocket watch—but he’d never imagined it might reach such staggeringly high levels. At the very least, Everly was involved.
As for Pitt, they’d likely never know whether or not he’d set the whole plot in motion. If he had, they’d never be able to prove it. But Sharpe, Everly, and the fourth man—the murderer who’d killed Henry and tried to kill Sophia? Tristan’s jaw hardened. They’d be held accountable for their crimes.
He rose, and held his hand out to Sophia.“Come with me.”
She took his hand without hesitation, and hope shot through him. Perhaps she did trust him, after all. “The library. I’ve got copies of the Proceedings there. We may find this business didn’t start with Patrick Dunn, after all. Peter Sharpe may have accused a number of men of theft over the past year, all of them members of the London Corresponding Society.”
Sophia had only gone back as far as May in the Proceedings, but it turned out Tristan was right. It took hours of pouring over the published accounts, but they found Peter Sharpe had been the unfortunate victim of two additional thefts since the start of the year, both of which had taken place at St. Clement Dane’s Church. He’d been careful to leave months between each incident to prevent anyone becoming suspicious, but the dates of the thefts corresponded with LCS meeting dates at the Turk’s Head.
“I need to let Lady Clifford know about Francis Thelwall.” Sophia set aside the Proceedings from the last session she’d been reading and rubbed her hand over her eyes. “Peter Sharpe will have a great deal more company at St. Clement Dane’s Church tomorrow night than he anticipates, but we need to warn Francis Thelwall first.”
“Tomorrow, pixie,” Tristan murmured. “It’s late. Come upstairs, and I’ll put you to bed.”
He half-expected her to demand to be taken back to No. 26 Maddox Street, but she didn’t. Instead she gave him a sweet smile, took the hand he offered, and let him help her to her feet. Tristan led her upstairs to his bedchamber and tucked her into his bed. He unclasped her locket from her neck and set it carefully aside on the table, but he didn’t dare strip her of her clothing. He left her safely covered by her tunic and breeches, so he wouldn’t be tempted by her soft skin orsupple curves.
It didn’t make any difference, of course. Sophia didn’t even need to be in the same room for him to be hard and aching for her, but it had been a shocking evening, and Tristan had already made up his mind not to trouble her with his amorous attentions.
So, he was still clothed when he slid into bed beside her and gathered her into his arms. “Go to sleep, pixie,” he murmured, dropping a chaste kiss on her forehead.
He eased her head down onto his chest and settled back against the pillows, determined not to lay a finger on her. He might have succeeded, too, if Sophia hadn’t had other plans.
It started subtly enough—just her fingers stroking lightly over his chest. Even such an innocent caress as that was enough to challenge Tristan’s better intentions, but he gritted his teeth, ignored his cock’s hopeful twitching against his falls, andremained still.
That is, he did until Sophia’s hand moved a tiny bit, sliding lower until she was stroking his ribs, then lower still, her fingertips gliding over his stomach. It was so gradual Tristan could almost persuade himself he was imagining it until her fingers brushed over the straining head of his cock.
“Sophia!” Tristan groaned, his body arching. “Whatare you doing?”
She shot a teasing glance at him from under those thick, dark eyelashes. “My goodness, Tristan. If you have to ask, I must not be doing it right.”
Tristan let out a strained chuckle. “Oh, you’re doing it right, pixie, but it’s late, and you need to rest.” It took every bit of his will to do it, but he captured her wrist and tugged it gently awayfrom his body.
Sophia put it right back on him again. “I’m not tired.” She stroked his aching length through his breeches, her warm hand squeezing gently, and Tristan jerked again, letting out a gasp. “You don’t appear to be all that sleepy either, my lord.”
The gentle pressure of her hand on his hard cock made Tristan’s eyes roll back in his head, and he couldn’t hold back his hungry groan. “Ah, Sophia.”
“See? Wide awake.” She leaned over him and dropped a kiss to his chest before wriggling her way down the bed, her warm body sliding against his. “Though if you really insist, I’ll stop, and we’ll go to sleep.”
Tristan tried to insist. A half-hearted protest gathered in his throat, but as he was groping for the words, she tugged his shirt from his breeches and pressed her open mouth to the heated skin of his lower belly, scraping her teeth lightly over his flesh. His hips shot up from the bed and he squeezed his eyes closed, an inarticulate groan on his lips as she loosened his falls, tugged them down his hips and took the head of his cock into her warm, welcoming mouth.
There were no more arguments then, and no more objections. Tristan sank his hands into her hair, tipped his head back against the pillow and let the woman he loved drivehim to madness.
Chapter Nineteen
Tristan wasn’t Sophia’s first lover. She’d been betrothed once, to a kind, quiet man who’d slipped out of her life without a trace when he realized he was too kind andquiet forher.
It seemed likea lifetime ago.
This time it was different. Hadn’t she known it would be, from the first moment Tristan’s lips touched hers? Just as she’d known, one way or another, she’d find herself in his bed.
It wasn’t different between them because he was an earl, or because he’d been a Bow Street Runner. It wasn’t because the bed was draped with sumptuous blue silk hangings, or his bedchamber was the most luxurious she’d ever seen.
It was becausehe wasTristan.
Sophia lay beside him, trembling as his warm fingers slid under the edge of the boy’s tunic she wore. His lips parted, his breath coming faster when he saw she wore nothing underneath. “Soft,” he murmured, brushing his fingertips across the bare skin of her belly. “So perfect, every inch of you.”
