The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match

by Stefanie Sloane

  Grace had known the power to be found in affecting someone with a glance or a smile. She’d practiced such naïve seduction as a debutante, giddy and filled with butterflies when the victim fell under her spell.

  This was altogether different. Butterflies did not flit back and forth in her belly. No, from the feel of it, a tiger prowled within her, inspiring fear—and need.

  He opened his eyes.

  Grace suddenly realized that she’d leaned in and was staring at him, much too close.

  “Grace.”

  His honesty touched her and urged her on. She swallowed hard, attempting to stifle her reply. It was no use.

  “Do not ever regret those parts of you that are good, Mr. Clark,” Grace whispered, lost in his eyes. “They’re what separate you from men like my husband.”

  At that very moment, Grace felt she’d never expressed anything more important in her life. She needed him to understand. She needed, desperately, to touch him more intimately.

  Grace continued to hold his gaze as she closed what little space existed between them and pressed her lips tentatively to his. For one brief moment, he went perfectly still. Then he responded to her touch with careful coaxing, returning her kiss while asking for more.

  The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Ballantine Books eBook Edition

  Copyright © 2014 by Stefanie Sloane

  Excerpt of The Saint Who Stole My Heart by Stefanie Sloane copyright © 2012 by Stefanie Sloane

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-345-53116-2

  eBook ISBN 978-0-345-53888-8

  Cover design: Lynn Andreozzi

  Cover illustration: Alan Ayers

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by This Author

  Excerpt from The Saint Who Stole My Heart

  Spring 1799

  HOME OF THE EARL OF STONECLIFFE

  MAYFAIR

  LONDON

  “It is not permitted,” Langdon patiently reminded his younger brother, Nicholas, and their friends Sophia and Dash.

  Nicholas rolled his eyes and grunted in disgust. “Well, of course champagne is not permitted. That is why we should most definitely try a glass. Each.”

  The festive sounds from his parents’ dinner party floated up the main staircase of the stately townhouse and down the hall to where the friends sat on the floor, illuminated by the glow from the beeswax candles in the wall sconces. Conversations intertwined, making it difficult to understand anything that was said beyond a few words here and there. The men’s deep voices rolled roughly through the oak floorboards. The women’s laughter tinkled like so many bells and occasionally made the children laugh themselves. And fourteen-year-old Langdon wondered if he was the only one of the four who pictured himself downstairs, among the adults, doing what adults do.

  He could not remember a time when his father had not been preparing him for his future as the Earl of Stonecliffe. Langdon would inherit the title and manage the family estate and fortune just as the current earl had taken on the responsibility from his father. He would marry Sophia, as their parents planned. She would give birth to an heir. And Langdon would find the person responsible for the death of Sophia’s mother. His future was meticulously planned out—and much too far away.

  “One person cannot possibly carry four glasses of champagne,” Langdon advised his brother. “Besides, you know as well as I that Greaves will be watching very carefully. Not one drop of the quality wine will be spilled on his watch. I heard him say so with my very own ears.”

  Dash and Sophia dutifully nodded in agreement, their overgrown shadows upon the wall doing the same.

  Nicholas did not. “Really, two servings could be carried in one glass, and one glass in each hand. As for Greaves, we’ve managed to get by the butler before. Who’s to say we can’t this time? He is getting on in years. Surely his hearing or vision will be going soon—maybe both. Tonight, if we’re lucky.”

  Sophia gave Nicholas an admonishing look. “Really, Nicholas. Rather mean of you to wish such a plight on a man—even someone as prune-faced as Greaves. Take it back.”

  “Oh, all right,” Nicholas grumbled, his face reddening with shame. He dug his fingers into the Persian runner and clawed at the carpet. “I take back either the blindness or being struck deaf. But not both. It’s champagne, Sophia.”

  It was well past their bedtime. And Langdon felt sure his parents would be most disappointed to know that the four were not asleep.

  “Be reasonable, Nicholas,” Langdon pleaded. “Mother is frightfully out of sorts because Lady Denham refused to come to the party. And Father is on edge because Mother will not stop discussing Lady Denham’s refusal—even though she knows the woman is angry with her for having ordered a dress in the same fabric.”

  Dash playfully punched Nicholas on the arm. “He is right, as usual. We’re young. There will be plenty of time for champagne. We needn’t be in such a hurry.”

  Nicholas hung his head as he was wont to do whenever he did not get his way. “And if we die in our sleep tonight? What then? There is no champagne in heaven. Only angels and endless singing.”

  “I believe he is right—about the champagne, that is,” Sophia chimed in sheepishly.

  “Et tu, Brute?” Langdon asked the girl. “And after agreeing with me about Greaves?”

  Sophia held up a finger in warning. “I agreed that four glasses could not be carried by one person. That was all.”

  “If it helps, I agreed with everything,” Dash offered amiably. “Greaves scares me. He’s all beetle-bug eyes and sloping forehead. But I would hate to die without having at least tried champagne.”

  Langdon looked at the three and sighed, knowing he was outnumbered yet again. “One glass and no more.”

  “Huzzah!” the three cheered, belatedly clamping their hands over their mouths when Langdon shushed them.

  “One glass, no more, and then to bed,” Langdon instructed sternly. “Otherwise, I won’t do it, I swear.”

  All three nodded this time, but Langdon wasn’t going to fall for their tricks. “Say it. Out loud.”

  “I have heard champagne can have strange effects on some, including sleeplessness,” Nicholas offered. “It would be impossible to make any promises before even setting our lips to the glass.”

  “Out. Loud.”

&nb
sp; “One glass, no more, and then to bed,” the three children recited in near perfect unison, Nicholas’s voice lagging just a touch behind the others.

  “Very well,” Langdon said, picking himself up off the floor and walking toward his room.

  “But the stairs are that way, Langdon,” Nicholas said, pointing in the opposite direction.

  “Yes,” Langdon acknowledged patiently. “But the stairs would lead me straight to the heart of our parents’ party. Which is why I’m going to climb out the window to the tree, down the tree to Mother’s cutting garden, and around to the library window.”

  Nicholas whistled in obvious appreciation. “I’m glad you are on my side, brother.”

  “But how will you climb back up the tree with a glass of champagne in your hand?” Sophia asked skeptically.

  “Very carefully,” Dash answered on his behalf. “If you break your arm, Lady Stonecliffe will have our heads. Come to think of it, Lord Stonecliffe will, too.”

  Nicholas bravely waved the warning off on his brother’s behalf. “The whole point is to not be careful. See what it is like to stray from the path of perfection, Langdon. You might even come to enjoy being bad.”

  Yes, Langdon realized, he was more than likely the only one of the four who’d given any thought to the future. And that was fine by him.

  June 1813

  HOME OF DR. RUPERT CROWTHER

  BEDFORD SQUARE

  LONDON

  “You blackguard, I do not have to entertain your vile, hollow threats. I will go directly to the King and tell him of your actions. Entering my home by force and making demands of me? He will not look kindly on such behavior, I can tell you that much.”

  Dr. Rupert Crowther’s furious words were clearly audible behind the false drawing room wall where Grace Crowther huddled with Mrs. Templeton, the Crowther household cook. The sheet of foolscap with the menu and market notes they’d been discussing only moments before was now crumpled, forgotten in Grace’s clenched fist. The two women had hastily ducked into the hiding place when they’d heard Rupert responding to a pounding on the front door, not wanting to be found using his plume pen and ink.

  But now it appeared they had much more important reasons to be hidden. Any mention of the King, the notorious leader of London’s most feared gang, the Kingsmen, was truly cause for concern.

  “Oh, will you?” The rough male voice that replied to Rupert held amusement and an unearthly, grating tone, as if the speaker were forcing the words out over gravel or broken glass. “And just who do you think ordered me to pay you a visit, eh?”

  “I do not believe you.” Panic leached through Rupert’s words. “He would never hurt me or my wife. We have an agreement, the King and I. You are lying.”

  “Ah, now ain’t this a shame.” A labored sigh followed the words. “I am right disappointed, Doc. There you go, making assumptions. And you an educated man what’s connected to the gentry, and all.”

  “What do you mean, assumptions?” Rupert’s voice now held less terror and more hope.

  “I am here for the woman, not you.” Contempt laced the man’s unnerving voice.

  “As I said before,” Rupert countered in a high, shrill tone, “the King and I have an agreement. My wife is not to be harmed.”

  “Should I kill you instead, hmm?” the man asked sarcastically.

  “No,” Rupert pathetically begged. “Not me.”

  Inside the hidey-hole, Grace covered her mouth to stifle a quick, disbelieving gasp, her palm faintly salty against her lips. A gift for cruelty came to Rupert with ease. Belittling and badgering counted amongst his favorite sports. And control … Grace gritted her teeth against the wash of scalding hate that instantly heated her cheeks. He had wanted to control her every move, every emotion—her very life. And when Grace had failed to bend to his ways? The doctor’s desire had only turned to deep-rooted loathing and contempt. Although she would never have planned to murder Rupert, she certainly wouldn’t grieve his passing.

  Beside her, Mrs. Templeton slid one arm around Grace’s waist and pulled her protectively against her plump side.

  Beyond the wall, the thud of heavy footfalls was accompanied by a string of filthy curse words. “The wife ain’t here.”

  “She has to be. Everyone knows Mrs. Crowther never leaves this house,” the first man replied, irritation making his rough voice even more of a growl. “Where is she, Doc? There’s talk you tie the woman up for safekeeping.”

  “That is absurd and utterly false,” Rupert replied with anger. “The minx has a gift for disappearing, is all.”

  Grace heard the meaty crack of a fist hitting flesh and Rupert cried out, groaning loudly.

  “Perhaps she’s in the kitchen below stairs. Spare me and I’ll help you find her.” Rupert’s voice was filled with desperation, his breathing loud, coming in audible gasps. “As you said, it’s Mrs. Crowther you want, not me. I’m no good to you dead.”

  Shock and outrage dragged a sharp breath from Grace and she closed her hand tighter over her lips to prevent any sound from escaping. Surely even a man as devoid of conscience as the doctor would recognize the need for atonement at such an hour. Would perhaps, even, welcome such a chance?

  “You’re no good to me alive, neither.”

  “No, no! You need me. I can find her, just give me some time. And you will be searching for the Queen’s neck—”

  Rupert’s terrified words halted suddenly, dissolving into wet, gurgling sounds. The thud of something heavy hitting the carpet carried plainly through the wall separating Grace and Mrs. Templeton from the drawing room.

  Grace bit her lip to keep from screaming, concentrating on the anger and hatred in her heart rather than the fear looming ever larger in her normally pragmatic mind.

  “You did not need to do that, did you?” the second male voice commented.

  “Useless, that one.” The odd, gravelly voice of the first man was offhand, casual. “Forget about the doctor. Come help me with this desk drawer. It won’t budge.”

  Both women jerked, startled by the loud screech of wood against wood. Grace’s gaze flew to meet Mrs. Templeton’s but the older woman appeared just as confused as she herself was.

  “Not here.” The man’s voice held irritation. “Tear the house apart. Then we will go find the missus.”

  “I got no idea where to look for ’er,” the second man complained. “You s’pose she got word we was comin’?”

  Quick footsteps sounded on the servants’ stairway.

  “Let’s ask whoever is coming up those stairs, shall we?”

  Grace lunged for the lever to release the hidden panel, desperate to stop the unseen men from hurting a member of her staff. Mrs. Templeton grabbed her. She wedged her body against the wood, holding Grace in a determined grip and blocking access to the entry.

  Grace twisted, savagely pushing against the woman in an attempt to free herself. “That might be Mr. Templeton, or Timothy!” Grace barely breathed the words, frantic to protect her butler and errand boy.

  Mrs. Templeton’s arms remained wrapped tightly around Grace, pinning her hands against her sides. Her voice, barely audible even to Grace, quivered with fear. “I cannot let you do this, my lady. I won’t willingly put you in the path of those jackals out there. I cannot. So stop your fighting. Mr. Templeton wouldn’t hear of it. Neither would Timothy.”

  “Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my mistress’s house?”

  Grace pushed Mrs. Templeton forward as she strained to reach the door.

  “You will only make things worse, my lady.” Mrs. Templeton’s hushed words had become as implacable as her grip.

  “I do not like your tone, boy.”

  Grace froze at the sound of the thug’s reply, jerking in silent protest when once again, the sound of a fist hitting a body reached her ears. Timothy cried out.

  “Tell me where your mistress is.”

  “I will not.” Timothy’s voice was defiant. “My lady always warned
me that bargaining with the Kingsmen is the work of a fool. And I’m no fool.”

  Again, the thud of a fist meeting soft flesh was followed by a loud grunt of pain that carried clearly through the wall.

  “We are not in the business of making bargains, boy,” the coarse voice rasped. “Tell me where she is or I’ll slit your throat just like I did the doctor’s.”

  “I already gave you my answer,” Timothy replied, still grimly defiant.

  “Is that right?” the thug asked, his words holding only mild indifference. “You ought not to have used up all my patience, boy.”

  Grace made to scream, her violent cry for mercy cut short by Mrs. Templeton’s plump fingers clamping across her mouth.

  “I am not afraid of …”

  Timothy’s sentence dissolved into a sickening gurgle.

  Grace gripped Mrs. Templeton’s arm, barely feeling the pinch of the older woman’s fingers as she did the same in reaction to the events outside their hiding place.

  “I gave you fair warning, boy. Not my fault if you were too stupid to oblige.”

  The thud of Timothy’s body as it fell to the carpet was loud in the otherwise silent passageway.

  Grace’s heart slammed, pounding in her ears as she strained to hear.

  “The King won’t like this at all—nor will the Queen, I am thinkin’.” The second man’s voice held unvarnished fear.

  “Couldn’t be helped. We’ll find the valuables, then the wife. She can’t have gone far.”

  Heavy footsteps sounded, the echo of the men leaving fading as they moved out of the room and down the hallway beyond.

  Within the hidden passage, the two women remained motionless. It was a good while later when they heard the solid slam of the back door that led to the gardens and the mews beyond that they each drew a deep, shaken breath. Even then, they stood immobile, waiting several cautious moments more before truly believing the thugs had gone.

  Then their grip on each other eased, and Mrs. Templeton removed her hand from Grace’s mouth.

  Without the support of Mrs. Templeton, Grace’s cramped fingers and stiff limbs gave out and she sank to the floor. The rough planks were cold beneath her palms and fingers, echoing the icy chill of the blood moving sluggishly through her veins and freezing her tears.