There was no sign yet of Peter Sharpe at St. Clement Dane’s, so Sophia ducked into the deserted graveyard beside the church, taking care to keep to the deepest shadows at the back, where cracked stone angels and broken crosses kept vigil over the moldering crypt with the iron gate hanging by a single, broken hinge.
Sophia slipped through the gap, shivering at the breath of cold air inside the crypt that whispered over her skin. She didn’t venture deep inside, but lingered close to the gate, peering between the iron bars into the churchyard beyond.
The sky turned a dark midnight blue above her and the shadows grew longer and thicker around her as she waited. London had been rainy this summer, but tonight there was no rain—just the thin, icy air inside the crypt, so steeped in decay and death it was a struggle to drawa deep breath.
An hour passed. The moon tucked herself behind a bank of heavy clouds, plunging the graveyard into a murky darkness. Sophia’s limbs began to ache from standing too long in the same position, and still, no one came. Unease rose in her chest. Despite Tristan’s lies to her, she couldn’t believe he’d leave her to face Peter Sharpe and the fourth man alone.
And what of Daniel and Lady Clifford? Surely, they should be here by now. They were meant to follow Francis Thelwall from the Turk’s Head to St. Clement Dane’s, but there was no sign of any of them. Lady Clifford would have sent her a message if plans had changed, but it might have arrived at Tristan’s townhouse after Sophia left.
She wrapped her fingers around the iron bars, leaned her forehead against her hands, and did her best not to think about Tristan. Was he still arguing with Sampson Willis, or had he returned to his bedchamber and discovered she’d gone? He’d come after her once he did, if not for her sake, then for Henry Gerrard’s—
Sophia’s head snapped up, her body tensing as she peered into the darkness. She’d seen something, a flash ofmovement, like…
Yes, there it was again. A figure clothed in black, hardly discernible from the shadows surrounding the entrance to St. Clement Dane’s Church. Sophia strained to see into the gloom before her, waiting, until at last the shape broke free from the shadows, the dark silhouette of a man, creeping towardthe churchyard.
But which man? Peter Sharpe, Francis Thelwall, or the fourth man? It was too dark and the man still too far away for her to tell, but she knew it wasn’t Tristan. She’d recognize him instantly from the shape of his frame and the fluid, arrogant grace with which he walked, as if he assumed everyone in his path knew him to be Lord Gray and the Ghost of Bow Street, and would scurry out of his way accordingly.
Which, of course, they always did.
Sophia edged around the side of the iron gate, keeping her gaze fixed on the lone figure as she crept to the west side of the graveyard, closer to the church itself. The man was moving steadily away from the entrance to the church, his head down and his hands shoved into his coat pockets.
Closer, just a bit closer and she’d be able to see his face…
It wasn’t Francis Thelwall. The man approaching was rather tall, but he was slender and wiry, much too slight to be Thelwall. Sharpe, then. It had to be Sharpe, here on Lord Everly’s orders to accuse Francis Thelwall of theft.
Sophia paused, searching the front of the church, the churchyard behind her, and the rows of gravestones on either side of her. Where was Tristan, and Daniel and Lady Clifford? She bit her lip. It was possible they were hiding nearby—that they’d seen Peter Sharpe and were waiting for him to accost Francis Thelwall before revealing themselves, but if they were hidden in the graveyard or the churchyard, Sophia couldn’t see them.
She skirted the edge of the graveyard, careful to keep low to the ground, where she was hidden by the thick gloom surrounding the headstones. She peered down the Strand in the direction of the Turk’s Head, her breath catching when she saw it was still deserted. She could handle Peter Sharpe, but there was no telling where the fourth man was lurking—
“Oof!” Sophia let out a shocked gasp as her foot came up against something hard, half-hidden in the shadows. She stumbled and fell, but dragged herself up again on her hands and knees and scrabbled about, patting the ground around her, searching for whatever had tripped her.
It was as dark here as it had been inside the crypt, the moon not having reemerged from the clouds. She couldn’t see a thing, but she crawled blindly forward until her hand landed on what felt like…the sleeve of a woolen cloak? She reached out cautiously, patting at the object, until her forward movement brought her knee up against…
Sophia sucked in a breath.
A man’s legs.
She leaned closer, and her hand landed in something wet, a warm, thick puddle that clung to her fingertips before dripping off in slow, heavy drops, like…
Blood.
It was a man’s body, covered in blood. Unmoving,but still warm.
Sophia’s own blood froze in her veins. A cry rose in her throat but she bit it back and crawled closer, her hands moving over the still figure in front of her.
A man, yes. She felt her way down to his feet, running her palm over the rough heel of a pair of heavy boots, then upward, over a torso and arms clad in a thick, woolen coat, and then upward again until her fingers brushed over flesh. She felt a faint trace of warmth under her fingertips, but the man’s skin was rapidly cooling, and soon enough shefound out why.
His life’s blood was gushing from a long, jagged slit in his throat. Sophia gagged as a heavy, metallic smell filled her nostrils and more of the thick, sticky warmth flowed over her fingers. For one endless, dreadful moment she froze, her mind reeling, but then she jerked her fingers to the pulse point behind his ear. The blood was flowing so quickly from the gash in his throat she despaired of finding any flutter there, but she pressed her fingers hard against his flesh.
No, not a twitch. She hovered her damp fingers over his nose and mouth, but he was no longer breathing.
Dead.
Another man murdered in St. Clement Dane’s churchyard. Sophia fell back against her heels, her heart squeezing with shock in her chest. Another man, nameless and faceless, lying lifeless in his own blood, his throat glutted with it, breathing his last alone in a deserted graveyard.
Who was he? Not Thelwall.
Who, then?
