The Virgin Widow

by Jen YatesNZ

  ‘Her Dark Lord’

  Book 4 in ‘Lords of the Matrix Club’ series.

  Fate has a lot to answer for.

  And only Fate would play a dark, jaded, emotional cripple like Knight against a feisty, determined, independent woman like Penny, a new-minted widow whom someone wants dead.

  Knight by nature as well as by name, he’ll not rest until Lady Grantwood is safe and he’s cleared his name.

  Fate understands only a woman like Penny can shatter the rigid armor of control Knight wears round his heart and only a man of Knight’s sensual experience and expertise can break through Penny’s deeply entrenched defenses against all men.

  Perhaps Fate has the answers after all.

  Read on…

  Chapter 1.

  London 1817

  Ajax Beresford, Earl of Knightsborough, usually known as Knight, dumped another string-tied dossier on the desk among those already obliterating the scarred oak surface and began unpicking the knot. Goddammit that information had to be here somewhere.

  An abrupt knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Who would dare seek him out in his office deep in the bowels of the Horse Guards? It couldn’t be Hawke yet. He’d sent word only last night that while he was getting closer to Grantwood, the nancy-boy was either too astute, or innocent, to reveal anything. Reeling across the room, he ripped the door open.

  ‘Can’t you fucking read?’

  One of only three people in the world would have the temerity to ignore his ‘Don’t Disturb’ sign. Wolverton or Windermere, since they’d been part of the mess when it occurred, or the Great Bax—and if they were here the rumor was spreading faster than he’d realized. He’d avoided calling his cousins in. He’d always been the one handing out advice; calm, reasonable, in control. He was none of those things now.

  The Duke of Wolverton and the Earl of Windermere.

  ‘Goddammit, can’t a man go to hell in his own damned wheelbarrow?’ he roared, staggering as they herded him back into the room, the bloody Earl of Baxendene ducking through the door at their heels.

  Not only could they read, they could read him. Bloody hell!

  ‘You never accorded any of us that privilege. Time to return the favor.’

  Rogue Wyldefell, Lord Windermere, guided him back into the large leather chair behind the desk.

  As the familiar shape of it accepted his body Knight realized he couldn’t have resisted if he’d wanted. His legs were shaky, his body screaming with exhaustion.

  ‘Word is, you haven’t been out of this room in a week,’ Wolf growled.

  ‘Patently a lie or I’d be dead of starvation.’

  ‘You look close enough to dead from something,’ Bax opined cheerfully, leaning against the closed door. ‘So you’d best be opening the budget, old man, because we go nowhere until you do.’

  Knight let his bleary gaze roam over his three cousins, all standing with their arms folded and glaring down their aristocratic noses. As if he wasn’t the oldest of the lot of them and hadn’t wiped those same sniveling noses times without number in years gone by!

  ‘It’s Agency business, top secret and you don’t have clearance, Bax.’

  ‘It’s top secret the double agent, Hermes, last active in 1808, was never apprehended or brought to justice—and it’s now being rumored you’re Hermes and continued operating until the end of the war?’ Bax drawled.

  Fuck! Knight closed his eyes. For a panicked moment he thought he might actually give into tears. He was that tired.

  ‘Bax is right,’ Rogue said, dumping a bundle of files off the only other chair in the room and sitting down. Wolf cleared a perch for himself on a corner of the desk. Bax continued to lean his huge frame against the door as if he thought Knight might try to bolt.

  Which he might if he thought he had a prayer of reaching the door before his legs gave out.

  Wolf said reasonably, ‘It’s no secret, so tell us what you’ve done so far—and why this room looks as if a tornado’s been through it.’

  Knight knew he hadn’t a hope of deflecting these three from their mission, and God knows, he could use the help even if he’d have given much not to found in this vulnerable position.

  ‘I’ve got a mark on Grantwood. He’s the only link I have. Someone framed him or used his identity. His name was on the books and he was supposed to have infiltrated the household of the French Minister of Foreign Affairs as a footman, going under the name of Hermes. He vanished without trace at the same time we lost Carver and Langley. We eventually traced them to dungeons under the Tuileries. But it was well verified Grantwood himself never left London. There were numerous people to say they’d seen him, myself included for he frequented the Matrix Club. Extensive questioning at the time proved he knew nothing and had never had anything to do with the Agency.

  ‘We’d put a lot of resources into building our lines of intelligence from Paris to monitor Bonaparte’s activities on the Peninsula. Hermes single-handedly sabotaged the operation and jeopardized lives. Amos sent me and Hadleigh in to get you two out while he went underground to try and find Hermes. Amos was never heard of again and all hint of Hermes disappeared as if he’d never been.

  ‘Some suggested Amos was Hermes, but that didn’t wash because he was in London at least part of the time Hermes was in Paris. The investigation was eventually dropped. I certainly wasn’t going to try and prove him guilty. There’s enough bad blood between my brothers and me without trying to prove him a traitor.’

  ‘Amos was no more capable of treason than you are,’ Dom said quietly. ‘Jermyn on the other hand—’

  ‘Of course he wasn’t—and let’s leave Jermyn out of it,’ Knight growled. ‘Nothing good ever comes out of thinking about my oldest brother.’

  Dragging a hand across his face, he breathed deep in an effort to clear his mind of the ugly situation between him and Jermyn. That would never change. Their mother, Columbine de Lange, had been a high class French courtesan and his father sired three children with her before deciding to marry her—for he’d never wanted any other. As the only child born after their marriage, Knight grew up with the hatred of his older, illegitimate siblings, Jermyn, Amos and Arlene.

  Jermyn should’ve inherited the title and the estates. Deeply embittered, he constantly sought ways to avenge himself on Ajax.

  ‘Can’t fathom his problem myself,’ Bax rumbled. ‘Your father bought him that prime estate in Bedfordshire and left it to him goddamn debt free, while you were saddled with a tarnished title and a crippling mortgage.’ His narrowed gaze roved the chaotic room and settled back on Knight. ‘Either you’re looking for something—or some desperate cove has broken in and burgled the place.’

  Knight surveyed the chaos he’d created in his manic search for the Hermes dossier or any mention of the affair among the signed off files. Two walls of the room were lined with cupboards, their doors cunningly concealed in the carved paneling, and filled with string-tied bundles of yellowing parchment, each representing an incident, mission or agent employed since the beginning of the Twenty Years War with France. The files dated back through the tenure of Knight’s predecessor and Wolf’s step-father-in-law, Lord Hadleigh, who was retiring as Chief, to Amos Beresford and beyond. The documents he sought had probably been concealed under a code name or some other innocuous file-heading known only to his brother—or removed by someone.

  ‘Amos would’ve had copies of every order made, every message sent, every agent deployed and every snippet of information received before he finally deployed himself. Hadleigh recalls signing it off after the investigation was discontinued. I’ve barely searched half the files and the early years aren’t in sequence. It’s like hunting a mouse in a cornfield.’

  ‘Where’s Hadleigh?’ Rogue asked.

  ‘On his damned honeymoon! I thought it’d be easy to disprove the rumor and told him I’d handle it.’

  ‘Should’ve sent for us,’ Dom said quietly. ‘We’d have found it by now—and we’d have
tidied up as we went—’

  ‘You don’t think Grantwood really was involved?’ Windermere asked. ‘He’s as open and innocent as a new babe! He’d never have survived! Or are you thinking all that pansy-boy stuff is a front?’

  Knight snorted softly.

  ‘They don’t come any more pansy-boy than Gilded Grantwood!’

  ‘You’d have to admit he’s not a bad shot and he does know how to wield a sword,’ Bax rumbled from his stance against the door.

  ‘No strength in his arm though,’ Wolf muttered. ‘Relies on agility to keep him out of trouble. But he can’t be a total Miss Molly. He has a wife. What do we know of her? Never seen her in town.’

  ‘According to Hawke she’s something of an antidote. The blackest brows he’s ever seen on a woman, the devil’s eyes and a propensity for wearing male attire. Mind you, Hawke prefers elegant and blonde, be it man or woman. Makes him the perfect mark to court Grantwood. His last communication indicated they were getting closer—’

  A thump and a scuffle in the corridor drew their attention.

  ‘Enter ahead of me. I’ve had enough of your questioning and stalling and telling me nothing!’

  The words were snapped out in husky feminine tones.

  A male voice hissed, ‘How did you get that damned gun?’

  Watching Knight for guidance, three sets of eyebrows rose as a rich feminine chuckle sounded through the door.

  ‘You didn’t think me fool enough to carry only one, did you? Open the damned door.’

  At Knight’s nod the others stood to either side, then he called out, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Hawke.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Lady Grantwood. She—um—is a little wary. Let us in so we can allay her fears.’

  ‘It’s unlocked.’

  Knight found himself on his feet, every exhausted nerve in his body quivering to attention in anticipation of seeing the woman who owned that voice.

  Bax pulled the door open and Hawke stumbled into the room, backwards. A young gentleman held a small silver derringer aimed at his—bollocks!

  Even if he’d not been told, at some visceral level Knight knew it was a woman. In polished riding boots and closefitting buckskins beneath a long, dark cloak, she wouldn’t stand out in a crowd of gentlemen. Unkempt, short, blue-black curls peeped from under a curly beaver and beneath the brim beetled the most perfect black brows he’d ever seen. Eyes so blue they were almost purple, scanned the room then narrowed.

  The gun never wavered.

  ‘Lady Grantwood,’ Hawke soothed, ‘as I’ve said, this is government business and I can’t reveal any of it to you. This is—my chief’s office—and he will decide what you may be told and what—will happen next.’

  The deadly little pistol swept round the cluttered room and came to rest on Knight.

  ‘Since you appear to be in the seat of power,’ she growled, ‘you must be the chief.’

  ‘Correct, my Lady. Lord Knightsborough at your service. Perhaps you’d do us the honor of putting that toy away so we can relax and discuss the reason for your presence?’

  Bruised blue eyes met his and slowly the fire faded to be replaced with something more like fear. The gun slowly lowered until it pointed at the floor.

  ‘I’d appreciate knowing why I’m here and wh—what this is all about! I was informed only last night of the death of my husband and this morning I was abducted as I set out for Grantwood Manor from Newmarket. T’is not surprising I’m a little wary, as Lord Albion—whose name now appears to be Hawke—so charmingly puts it.’

  Her cheeks were dusty, streaked here and there as if a tear had fallen and been swiped away. Feisty. Feminine. Fierce. Knight couldn’t believe the effect she was having on his body. It had been dormant for the last year and more, was utterly exhausted now to the point of collapse—and words starting with ‘f’, or one in particular, kept scrolling through his mind. His body was on high alert.

  Why? Like Hawke, he preferred blondes. Of the submissive variety. He doubted there was a submissive bone in this woman’s body and yet he had the sensation of his knightly armor falling with a metallic clank to lie shattered and irretrievable at her feet.

  Her husband was dead. Her husband was dead?

  He was lusting after a woman whose husband had just died?

  ‘Grantwood is dead, Hawke?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the man muttered, a grimace of pain twisting his handsome features.

  His only lead was dead. Knight felt his chest swell and his nostrils flare. He was too tired to exert the iron control he prided himself on.

  ‘God dammit, Hawke! How? Why?’ he barked.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To the ‘Power of Three’

  Thank you.

  * * *

  [JY1]

  [JY2]