Grace watched Mrs. Templeton stoke the pitifully small fire. “I promise you, the moment we are able, we will leave this place.”
Mrs. Templeton attempted to hide her shivering with an exaggerated shrug of her shoulders. “We’ve a roof over our heads, my lady. That is all we need.”
The steady plunk-plunk of raindrops as they fell into the bucket from the leak in the dismal building’s roof tempted Grace to argue. Instead, she turned her attention to the delicate silk shift on her lap. “Thank heavens for Rosie,” she said, holding up the sewing project to inspect the tiny, perfectly set row of stitches. “Two more months of seamstress work and we will have saved sufficient funds to leave London.”
And disappear. Grace had dreamt of little else since her forced marriage to Rupert Crowther. And why wouldn’t she? Her lackluster upbringing had been eclipsed in sadness by her marriage to the doctor. With each year her life had become more difficult and dangerous.
At the time of her marriage, some whispered she’d deserved what she had received. Grace knew she’d been a foolish girl, taking for granted all that she had in comparison to so many others. When her father had gambled her away to the doctor, she’d felt anger, even rage.
And fear. No one, no matter how foolish they’d been, deserved to be wagered in a card game.
No one deserved to be lost.
The quick stab of pain from the prick of her needle roused Grace from her pointless contemplation. She squinted as the candle’s dim flame quivered in the night air that seeped through the ill-fitting window frame. Finding no blood, she continued her sewing, her stitches fine and detailed, creating delicate embroidered flowers on the white silk.
Ten years had passed. Grace no longer actively hated her father for what he’d done. Such an intense emotion required too much of her. And even worse, contemplation insisted that she accept her plight as something never-ending. Unchangeable. Doomed.
Grace would be damned to perdition before she ever again allowed another person to decide her fate. She’d bided her time, hiding household funds from the doctor, and planning for the moment she could escape from London for the countryside, the Templetons and young Timothy in tow.
Grace pricked her finger again and swore indelicately under her breath. She could not think about Timothy. Not now that the Kingsmen had changed the game. That they’d killed the doctor did not surprise her. It had been bound to happen. But what possible reason did they have for wanting to kill an innocent boy? And in pursuit of her? Why?
A low, soft knock sounded at the door.
The two women froze in alarm.
“Should I wake Mr. Templeton?” Mrs. Templeton asked, her voice tense.
Grace set aside the sewing and rose from her chair, giving her companion what she hoped was a look of reassurance. “I know he stays awake all night and keeps watch over us. Let him sleep now. It is only Rosie at the door, I am sure of it. She forgot to take the finished work with her when she dropped off the new batch earlier.”
“It is just the two of us, then.” Mrs. Templeton used the fireplace poker to help her stand.
“I’ll let Rosie in. You must rest,” Grace instructed gently, gesturing for the older woman to reclaim her seat.
Mrs. Templeton bent to lean the poker against the chipped stone fireplace before wrapping her woolen shawl more tightly about her shoulders. “I’ve already made the effort and am up now. Let me see if we’ve any tea for the dear girl.”
Grace stood aside and allowed Mrs. Templeton to leave the drawing room first, then followed, turning right toward the entry while the cook turned left and disappeared down the short hall. She picked up the completed sewing repairs from a scarred table and reached for the door handle, the brown-paper-wrapped parcel, neatly tied with a string, in her free hand.
“I am sorry you had to return, Rosie,” Grace began as she pulled the thin wooden door open. “I am sure I do not know what I was thinking when I forgot to—” She broke off, eyes widening in shock and surprise.
A large man, a stranger, stood on the threshold, his broad physique outlined by the poorly lit hallway that cast his face in shadow.
“Mrs. Grace Crowther?”
His deep voice was refined and polite, deferential, even. No one had spoken to her in such a manner, with just that touch of respect and inquiry, for a very long time. Grace nearly let herself ignore the peal of alarm bells sounding in her head.
“You must have the wrong residence, sir,” Grace replied, her senses returning. She moved to shut the door but the man placed his boot in the way and pushed solidly on the wood.
Instantly, fear raced through her and Grace kicked him in the knee and threw her weight against the door, widening her stance to push with all her strength.
He bit off a curse at the solid contact with his knee and pushed back, inexorably gaining ground.
Grace slid across the scarred wood floor, staggering backward, off balance.
“I apologize, Lady Grace.” The stranger stepped fully into the entryway, closing the door behind him. “That was not how I wished for us to meet.”
Grace batted his large hand away and opened her mouth to scream.
He hauled her up by her shoulders and clamped his fingers over her mouth, muffling her shriek. “You are making it quite difficult for me to remain a gentleman, my lady.”
Grace needed for him to stop calling her a lady. Her heart pounded frantically, her breath catching as she struggled to pull in air. She planted her palms against his chest and shoved, desperate to gain some distance from his imposing build. The expensive wool superfine of his coat and the rough silk of his waistcoat were barely remembered textures under her fingertips. The heavy male muscles beneath the elegant gentleman’s clothing went rock hard and he froze. The air surrounding Grace was suddenly fraught with tension, heated and dangerous. She focused her attention on his expertly tied cravat, wondering frantically if it would be suitable for choking.
Unable to free herself, she bit down on his middle finger until she tasted the faint copper flavor of blood.
The man grunted with surprise, but his hand remained. “I have no interest in harming you, but you must promise me you will not scream if I remove my hand,” he ordered implacably, adding, “and never bite me again.”
Grace’s cheeks flushed at his words. In her world, biting a man was nothing more than one of many weapons in a woman’s arsenal. Even a doctor’s wife could not rely on the decency of the male sex—in fact, assuming every last man had dishonorable intentions made for a far less surprising life.
This man, though … This man … Grace’s gaze moved higher, until her eyes met his. They were beautiful eyes. Fringed with thick lashes, they were a warm, deep umber that soothed her frantic nerves. His gaze was intent, focused on hers with an alert awareness that reflected sharp intelligence. But she sensed no corruption of character there and she abruptly realized that while his hold was immovable, it was also careful, as if he didn’t want to hurt her.
This man was not with the Kingsmen. The sudden conviction flooded Grace.
He did not have to be a Kingsmen to be dangerous, her head replied, flattening any hope that might have been building in her chest.
Nevertheless, Grace nodded in reply to his earlier statement, signaling her agreement to not scream.
The man studied her face, his dark brows lowering as he did so. “I hope you are not lying to me. I cannot abide lying.”
He slowly lifted his hand from her mouth and released her, stepping back until there was a respectable distance between them.
“Your name, sir?” Grace pressed her fingertips to her lips in an attempt to erase the feel of his hand against her mouth. She could still taste him, a not unpleasant combination of soap and a hint of salt.
He took a handkerchief from an interior pocket of his unbuttoned, caped greatcoat and offered it to Grace. “Clark.”
No one within St. Giles was stupid enough to answer such a question honestly. “And now, your true
name?” Grace accepted the pristine white cloth and blotted her lips. The cloth held the scent of his cologne and she breathed in the faint odor of citrus and sandalwood.
“That is my real name.”
Mrs. Templeton appeared at the end of the hall, hidden from the stranger’s view, a heavy pan clutched in her hands. Grace waved the hanky, her gaze fastened on the man before her even as she signaled the older woman to stay where she was.
“I do not believe you, but I’ll not allow you to waste one minute more of my time than is absolutely necessary,” Grace answered, frowning at him. “Now, tell me what you have come for, Mr. Clark. ”
He conceded their uncomfortable situation with a lifting of his chin. “Sadly, most of what I propose will not be to your liking. Still, in return I offer you your freedom—and your companions’ as well,” he said, turning to look down the hall, his gaze fixed unerringly at the place where Mrs. Templeton hid. “Do come out of the dark, woman. I have business with your mistress, but it concerns you, too.”
Mrs. Templeton captured the man with a cold stare as she walked toward him. “Is that right? Perhaps I will wake my husband. You can tell the three of us why we should listen to what you have to say rather than braining you with this pan,” she replied, raising the heavy cast-iron weapon with obvious intent.
“I understand your trepidation. But before you do away with me, first hear what I have to say, please. Then decide.” The stranger gestured toward the drab sitting room. “Shall we sit?”
Mrs. Templeton lowered the pan as she moved to Grace’s side. “He seems polite enough,” she proclaimed, rolling her shoulders back with false confidence.
Grace knew they had no choice in the matter, but she grudgingly appreciated the intimidating man’s sensitivity in dealing with her companion. “I agree,” she said, taking Mrs. Templeton’s arm and leading her toward the warmth of the fire. “We will listen to your proposal, sir.”
Grace took the heavy pan from Mrs. Templeton and waited while the older woman carefully lowered herself to the chair.
“Now, Mr.…” Grace paused, eyeing the stranger as he surveyed the room. “Clark.”
The pan was heavy in Grace’s hand. Still, she held on to the makeshift weapon, though she suspected it would be of little use against Mr. Clark. He wore the clothes of a gentleman, but the muscles that flexed beneath his breeches and linen shirt must surely belong to a man who undertook some sort of physical labor.
He removed his greatcoat and crossed the room to Mrs. Templeton. “If I may?” he asked, and then proceeded to tuck the warm wool about her without waiting for her answer.
As he bent to his work, Grace cast a critical eye across his wide shoulders and lean back, looking lower to where his waist tapered then gave way to a finely formed backside.
Grace gripped the pan tighter, her knuckles aching from the effort. “Now, Mr. Clark,” she said firmly, watching as he stood upright and turned around. “If you will have a seat?”
“Once you are seated, my lady,” he replied, and waited.
“I am no longer a lady, Mr. Clark,” Grace told him. “And I will stand.”
Langdon fought the urge to pull her back into his arms. Ever since she’d planted her small hands against his chest and pushed him earlier, his already shaky hold on what was once legendary control had threatened to dissipate like smoke. Every muscle in his body had strained against releasing her. He had barely managed to remain still while he fought down a nearly overwhelming urge to haul her in tight. He’d never reacted to a woman with such gut-deep possessiveness before. He’d lusted after women, of course—with varying degrees of intensity. But this. Good God, this was not just lust. He’d actually heard the word “mine” roaring inside his head.
Carmichael would never let it go if he knew.
The image of his superior’s disappointment grounded Langdon and he drew a deep breath.
“As you wish,” he managed to say evenly, claiming a battered chair directly opposite Mrs. Templeton.
If he squinted at Lady Grace, Langdon could still see a remote glimmer of a lady of the ton, but only faintly. The woman’s hands bore the telltale signs of a seamstress. She was far too slender and slight for good health, and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes.
Still, her fragile bone structure, iridescent skin, and diminutive stature were deceptive outer trappings for the strength of her character and resolve, which shone like burnished gold through her intelligence and spirit. This was a woman who had suffered and miraculously not been broken by her torment, but instead grown stronger. She held herself with an innate dignity that humbled him.
And it occurred to Langdon with sudden insight that she’d come through the trials forced on her with far more grace than he had. He’d been betrayed by fiancée and brother, but Grace had been betrayed by father and husband. Yet he saw no lines of bitterness carved on her face or bracketing her soft, full mouth. Even beneath the sadness that clung to her like a voluminous cloak, she was strikingly, incandescently beautiful.
“Now, Mr. Clark, I will hear your proposition.”
Lady Grace’s directive was undercut by the weary note that lay beneath her refined tones. According to Topper, she’d been on the run for three days—holed up in rented rooms and abandoned buildings. Clearly, the dangerous game of hide-and-seek that she was playing with the Kingsmen was taking its toll on her physical strength. Langdon was tempted to insist she sit down and rest, but suspected the pan would be put to good use if he tried.
“What I propose will be mutually beneficial,” Langdon said, assuring Lady Grace, and himself, that what he offered her was of value. “I need your help to put an end to the Kingsmen once and for all. In return, I will pay you the amount needed to see you safely out of London and settled in a place of your choosing.”
“What makes you think I am able to offer such a service?” Lady Grace asked, frowning as she began to pace slowly back and forth across the cheap, faded rug.
Langdon watched her walk. He could not look away. Everything about her fascinated him, drew his attention, and demanded his complete focus. He knew fighting the compulsion was the right thing to do. But for the moment, he gave in to the lure and enchantment of eyeing her slender figure as she moved. Despite her obvious exhaustion, her carriage remained strong, even regal, as she awaited his answer. It took a moment for him to realize she’d asked a question and was awaiting a reply.
“The Kingsmen believe you can, and that is good enough for me.”
“I rarely left my home over the last ten years, Mr. Clark. How would I have managed to collect any information that would be useful to you?”
Langdon knew of the secret rooms in the home she shared with the doctor. Used by Catholic priests during the Reformation, many lambs of God had been saved from slaughter within the walls of the Bedford Square residence. He’d also done enough digging to learn Lady Grace had friends in the Dials. “Come, Lady Grace, do not lie to me. I know of your hiding places, the friendships you secretly constructed—Rosie, for one. You have not spent the last ten years locked away, of that I am sure.”
Lady Grace did not so much as flinch at Langdon’s words. She merely continued to pace with the ridiculous pan clutched in her hands. “That may be true. But I promise you, I am not lying. I am unaware of any specific information or connection that would lead to the Kingsmen’s destruction. Trust me, Mr. Clark. If I knew of such a weapon I would have employed it long ago.”
“It is entirely possible that you do hold the key but are not consciously aware of its existence,” Langdon replied, satisfied that she was indeed telling the truth. “An overheard conversation, perhaps, or an intercepted letter concerning the gang—something you were not meant to hear or see. The most important of clues can go undetected if you are not looking for them.”
Lady Grace eyed Langdon with consideration. “As you so astutely pointed out, I have not been biding my time the last ten years. How could I have missed something so important? It seems n
onsensical.”
“You were searching for the obvious—proof that tied the Kingsmen to illegal activities, yes?” Langdon asked, though he already knew the answer. “Perhaps there was a piece of information, or a person out of place, that may have given you pause for a moment—but only just.”
Lady Grace grimaced as she thought on his words. “I have been over and over the conversation between my husband and his murderer—and I cannot think of what this information might be.”
“Conversation?” Langdon said, sitting forward in his chair.
Lady Grace fidgeted for a moment with the handle of the pan. “I could not see him. Mrs. Templeton and I were tucked away in the hidden room. But I heard him—heard everything that transpired.”
“Your husband’s death, you mean?” Langdon asked, such poking about in her privacy leaving him cold.
“And Timothy’s,” she answered, then looked at Mrs. Templeton. “Our errand boy. The man killed our Timothy.”
The stark pain reflected in her eyes cut at Langdon. “The name of the killer?” he asked.
“No name was revealed. Only the fact that it was me they were after, not my husband.”
“Are you certain?” Langdon asked as he thought back on Topper’s words. The man had implied it was the doctor who was of importance. Not Lady Grace.
She tucked a piece of stray hair behind her ear and addressed Langdon with businesslike indifference, the emotions disturbed by the talk of Timothy apparently stacked and put away. “Absolutely. The man told Rupert as much. So there you have it, Mr. Clark. Now, if I agree to help you, how would we proceed?”
The answer to Lady Grace’s question was of his and Carmichael’s careful making. The Corinthians could no longer expect to bring down the Kingsmen without a bargaining chip.
Lady Grace was in need of money. The Corinthians were in need of information. An exchange of goods, nothing more.
As he and Carmichael had discussed it, the plan had seemed sound and well conceived. Relatively simple, even.
But that was before he had met Lady Grace. Now he wished he had an alternative to offer her. Any option would be preferable to what he had to say next. She didn’t deserve this. But he had no choice. He knew it. Acknowledged it. Yet it did not help the guilt that ate at him.
The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match Page 4