Dear God. It’s already too late.
It was too late to run. She might scale every column in London, flee from one rooftop to the next as if the devil were chasing her, and it wouldn’t do the least bit of good. She didn’t know when or how it had happened, but somehow, Tristan had become as much a part of her asher own flesh.
Unnecessary risk, Sophia.
As many times as Lady Clifford had uttered those words, Sophia had never really taken them to heart until now. Perhaps because this time it wasn’t Lady Clifford’s voice in her head, but her own.
Yet her heart was already destined to shatter, wasn’t it? A few more hours, a few more kisses, a few more stolen moments with him…surely, it wouldn’t make any difference? Sophia swallowed the lump in her throat, and against her better judgment, she turned to face him and twined her arms around his neck. “I suppose I can send her a note.”
Some powerful emotion flared in his gray eyes, but before she could decipher it, it was gone. “Yes, I suppose you can,” was all he said. Then he gathered his dressing gown more securely around her, and went to ring the bellfor a servant.
They dined in his bedchamber—another novelty for Sophia. Afterwards she wrote out a quick note to Lady Clifford, asking her ladyship to meet them at St. Clement Dane’s that night, and to bring Daniel, who was meant to return to Londonthis afternoon.
Peter Sharpe was a coward, but he was cunning, and then there was a fourth man to consider. There was no telling what such a brutal fiend would do once he was cornered. Sophia didn’t choose to leave anything up to chance. She scrawled a line at the bottom of the note for her friends, telling them she’d see them soon, then folded and sealed it and laid it on the table, ready for a servantto deliver it.
Tristan was writing his own note to Sampson Willis, the magistrate at Bow Street, directing him to come to St. Clement Dane’s that night as well, promising it would all make sense once they apprehended Peter Sharpe and got him to confess his part in the crime.
Afterwards they sat together in front of the fire, neither of them speaking, but each stealing glances at the other. The silence between them grew heavier the longer they sat, heavy with all the unsaid words between them.
Sophia didn’t speak them, but instead sat quietly, her gaze moving over his face, memorizing every curve and angle. Tristan stared back at her, his own gaze tracing the bare skin of her neck, visible under the gaping neckline of hisdressing gown.
“You’re beautiful, Sophia,” he murmured at last, his gray eyes meeting hers. “Inside and out, from your face to the depths of your heart. All of you,so beautiful.”
It was at once the last thing Sophia expected him to say, and the one thing she wanted to hear more than any other. She tried not to melt for him, tried to keep her heart from softening, but it was no use. She rose to her feet and went to him, her heart leaping in her chest when he opened his arms for her. She would have crawled into them, and they would inevitably have spent the rest of the afternoon in bed, if a knock on the door hadn’t interrupted them.
“What is it?” Tristan barked, impatience inevery syllable.
Sophia bit her lip to smother a laugh, even as she pitied the servant who’d earned that irritable reply.
“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Tribble peered cautiously around the edge of the door. “Mr. Willis is here. I told him you weren’t at home to visitors, but he says he has urgent business with you.” Tribble paused. “I’m afraid he was quite insistent.”
“Sampson Willis has abominably bad timing,” Tristan snapped, his eyes never leavingSophia’s face.
“Yes, my lord.”
Tristan sighed. “Very well. I’ll be down in a moment, Tribble.”
“Yes, my lord.” Tribble bowed himself out, closing the door behind him.
Tristan rose to his feet, took Sophia’s hand, and pressed a lingering kiss on her palm. “It seems Willis doesn’t care to wait until tonight for his explanation.”
“It seems not.” Sophia shrugged, but a smile tipped her lips as she looked up at Tristan. “Perhaps it’s just as well if you speakwith him now.”
“Yes, I suppose I’d better.” Despite his words, Tristan didn’t move. He stood staring down at her, letting moment after moment slip away until at last, he reached out to trace the heavy silk neckline of the dressing gown, his finger brushing her skin. “I’ll be quick.”
“See that you are, my lord. I’ll be waiting.”
Muttered curses fell from Tristan’s lips as he made his way out the door, leaving Sophia alone in the quiet bedchamber.
But despite his promise, Tristanwasn’tquick. He was gone so long Sophia—who’d stretched out on the bed to wait for him—fell asleep. When she woke, it was near dusk. She crawled from the bed, still drowsy, and wandered to the window. Deepening purple shadows fell over Great Marlborough Street. Another half hour passed, dusk fading into evening, and still Tristan didn’t come.
Finally, unable to stand the silence any longer, she threw off Tristan’s dressing gown, donned her breeches and tunic, and made her way downstairs. She turned toward the hallway that led to the library, intending to go into the music room beyond, which also had a clear view of Lord Everly’s front door, but as she passed the library, she stopped short, herbrow furrowing.
“…should know better than to trust Lady Clifford, Gray.”
The library door was open a crack, and Sampson Willis’s voice carried clearly into the hallway. Instinctively Sophia drew closer to the wall, her heart lurching unpleasantly in her chest at the mention ofLady Clifford.
It wasn’t at all unusual for powerful gentlemen in law enforcement to speak of Lady Clifford and the Clifford School in that contemptuous tone, but Sophia’s back still stiffened at Willis’s dismissive manner. She pressed closer to the door, curious to hear what Tristan would say in reply.
