He couldn’t make any sense of time as he floated in this nebulous state. Once or twice he woke and couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Sophia’s voice. He’d fallen into a panic each time, and flailed and thrashed in the bed to get to her, but he was too exhausted to struggle for long, and inevitably unconsciousness would wrap him in silken threads and draw him down intodarkness again.
Then, late one afternoon his surroundings came intofocus at last.
Sophia’s was the first face he searched for.
“Well, good afternoon, Lord Gray. How pleased I am you’ve woken at last. We were growing rather concerned.”
That voice…cultured, but with a faint hint of amusement underlying every syllable. He recognized it at once.
Lady Clifford.
Tristan blinked up at her in confusion. Where was he, and whywasn’t Sophia—
“You’re in a bedchamber at the Clifford School, my lord. I daresay you would have been more comfortable in your own home, but given a good deal of your blood had already vacated your body before we got you into the carriage, time was of the essence.” Lady Clifford leaned over him, her brow furrowing as she studied his face. “Not quite yourself still, I see. Do you rememberwhat happened?”
Tristan squeezed his eyes closed. The light from the fire made his head ache, but he tried to think. He’d been at St. Clement Dane’s Church, hadn’t he? Yes, he remembered riding there, but everything after that was fuzzy, as if it had happened long ago, or to someone else.
But…something awful had happened, hadn’t it? Uneasiness stole through him as a memory began to unfold in his head. He recalled hearing someone cry out, and a lantern tipped over onto the ground. It had been dark, but the lantern had given off just enough lightfor him to see…
Tristan gasped, and hiseyes flew open.
Peter Sharpe lying in a puddle of blood. Richard Poole, knife in hand, and Sophia—
“Sophia!”
Tristan shot upright, ignoring the searing pain in his chest, but before he could throw off the coverlet and scramble to his feet Lady Clifford caught hold of his shoulders and eased him back down against the bed. “No, no. That won’t do. Listen to me, Lord Gray, and cease that thrashing about at once, or I’ll be forced to summon Daniel Brixton.”
He continued to struggle, hardly able to hear her beyond the panicked roaring inside his head, but either Lady Clifford was surprisingly strong for such a slender, elegant lady, or else he was as weak as a kitten. She held him fast until he subsided against the bed at last, exhausted by his efforts, his entire body clammy with sweat.
“My goodness, my lord. Sophia warned me you’re stubborn, but I confess I didn’t expect quite so much resistance from a gentleman who’s been stabbed in the chest.” Lady Clifford was panting to regain her breath.
“Tell me where Sophia is,” Tristan begged, his voice breaking. The last time he could remember seeing her, Poole’s knife wasat her throat—
“Calm down, if you please, Lord Gray. Now, Sophia is perfectly well, though I couldn’t say precisely where she is at the moment. I ordered her to her bedchamber to rest, but I’ve just been to check on her, and she isn’t there. Ah, well. She’ll turn up when she’s ready. Until then…” Lady Clifford shrugged. “You know for yourself our Sophia’s rather good at keeping herself hidden.”
“You’re certain she’s well? She’s all right?” Lady Clifford had said so, but Tristan needed tohear it again.
“Yes, my lord. I promise it. She has a few scratches and scrapes and some bruising on her neck, but otherwise she’s quite well.” Lady Clifford cocked her head, studying him. “I believe I’ve misjudged you, Lord Gray. I’ve always thought you a stern, cold sort of man, but you’re truly fond of Sophia, aren’t you?”
Fondof her? No. What he felt for Sophia went far beyond fondness.
He was deeply, madly in love with her, but Sophia would be the first to hear those words from his lips, not Lady Clifford. So, he simply nodded. “I—yes, of course I’m…fondof her.”
A slight smile drifted across Lady Clifford’s lips. “You may well be stern and cold, but I’m inclined to overlook these flaws, given your extraordinary discernment in regards to Sophia. Now, my lord, if you’re willing to lie quietly and listen to me, I’ll tell youwhat happened.”
Tristan didn’t want to lie quietly. He wanted to tear through the house and peek behind every curtain and under every bed until he found Sophia, but that was out of the question. He’d collapse before he made it to his bedchamber door. So, he rested his head obediently against his pillows, but kept his eyes stubbornly open.
“Peter Sharpe is dead. Richard Poole slit his throat in St. Clement Dane’s churchyard five nights ago, on Lord Everly’s orders. May I assume, my lord, that you know allthis already?”
Tristan nodded grimly. “I saw Sharpe’s body myself.” If he’d been a better man, Tristan would have felt some compassion for Sharpe having come to such a grisly end, but he’d felt nothing but satisfaction when he’d looked on Sharpe’s bloody, mangled body. “What about Poole?”
“Ah, Mr. Poole. Such a distasteful gentleman, Poole. He did his best to send you the way of poor Peter Sharpe. He succeeded in plunging a blade in your chest, and he might have finished the job if Sophia hadn’t crushed his skull witha single blow.”
Tristan stared at Lady Clifford, his body going cold. “How? Sophia is halfPoole’s size.”
“Yes, she’s always been a tiny little thing, but presence of mind is far more valuable in these matters than size, and I don’t think I need to tellyou, Lord Gray, how wily Sophia is.”
“How?” Tristan croaked again, pushing the word through numb lips. Had Poole gotten hold of her a second time, while Tristan was unable to defend her? “Did he hurt her?”
