The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match

by Stefanie Sloane

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, the pressure focusing him on the task—on his duty.

  “Now you become my mistress.”

  Mrs. Templeton squeaked with outrage, fairly quivering with offense. “Leave my lady’s home this instant, you, you …”

  She sputtered, clearly searching for an appropriate insult as she pointed to the door.

  Langdon took advantage of her loss for words and stood, raising his hands in a show of caution. “I must offer the Kingsmen something they cannot refuse. She would be my mistress in name alone. I give you my word.”

  Lady Grace showed neither disgust nor disinterest as she considered his proposal. “I am to be bait, then?”

  “You would be under my protection, my lady,” Langdon answered, hoping his reassurance was enough to lessen the insult of the proposal. “I would give my life before any of the Kingsmen came near enough to harm you or your friends.”

  Mrs. Templeton struggled to her feet, anger radiating from her stout frame. “My lady, surely you are not considering what he asks? This venture is certain to be dangerous, and no money is worth your life. And what of your good name? It has been sullied enough by the doctor, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I do not make promises lightly, Mrs. Templeton,” Langdon told the companion. “Lady Grace would be under my watch, or that of my men, every moment of the day and night. Five of them stand outside the building as we speak. She would never be without protection.”

  Lady Grace walked to Mrs. Templeton and took the woman’s hand in hers. Her finely cut features were pale, and when she spoke, her voice throbbed with emotion, a faint echo of raw pain audible beneath the determinedly practical words. “My name was ruined long ago—by my father’s heartless act, not the doctor’s.” She turned so that her face was hidden from Langdon’s view.

  “As for my life?” she continued in a hushed tone. “This man’s offer is no more dangerous than the Kingsmen’s presence in my husband’s life, and thus in mine, for the last ten years—only he is willing to pay for the privilege. It is a chance, Mrs. Templeton. One that will surely not come again. I must see you and Mr. Templeton safe, you know I must,” she pleaded. “If I am able to, our dearest Timothy will not have died in vain.”

  “And if we lose you, too?” the older woman asked anxiously. “I could not bear it, my lady.”

  Langdon looked on as Lady Grace reassuringly patted the woman’s arm, such tender care serving to remind him of his own uncomfortable role in the situation.

  “Am I really in a position to refuse?”

  “My lady, surely there are other ways than this …” Mrs. Templeton countered weakly.

  Langdon bowed his head. Mrs. Templeton knew it was a lie, as did Lady Grace. But no one was more aware of it than he. He wanted to tell Lady Grace that she didn’t have to play the part—that he’d take her away from here and keep her safe. He and Carmichael were damn near blackmailing her. The knowledge that he had to use her grated on his already raw nerves. Still, it couldn’t be helped; he had no choice.

  “Now, who are you, Mr. Clark?” Lady Grace stepped away from her friend and turned to Langdon, stopping in front of him. Her direct gaze probed his as if testing for truth. “I will know who I am speaking to before I give you my answer.”

  Her eyes were rimmed in tears. Lady Grace was strong—fierce, even. Still, such a decision would cut clean through the heart of a woman who held strong moral principles and who had once dreamed of a much different life.

  Langdon wanted to tell her that he understood. That he, himself, had mourned the loss of the future he had been assured was his when he’d been forced to let the woman he loved marry another.

  He thought over the conversation with Carmichael. They had failed to take into account who Lady Grace was. She’d only been considered in terms of what she was able to provide.

  Standard protocol, you imbecile, Langdon told himself. Emotions had no place in the plan. They could not. Not if he wanted to find Lady Afton’s killer.

  “Langdon Clark,” Langdon answered, cursing himself for such softness. “Of the Hills Crossing gang, out of Liverpool.”

  “No gentleman, indeed,” Mrs. Templeton hissed, eyes narrowed in anger. “Come away, my lady. Please. You’ve just rid yourself of Dr. Crowther and this man is no better.”

  “But that is just it, Mrs. Templeton,” Lady Grace answered the woman, continuing to stare at Langdon. “As long as I stay in London, I will be a wanted woman. Would I prefer Mr. Clark to be a reputable, honest businessman? Of course. But if it takes a more powerful gang to free me of the Kingsmen, then so be it.”

  She held out her hand and waited for Langdon to take it. “I agree to your terms, Mr. Clark. I will help you destroy the Kingsmen. And in return, you will provide me with funds, a home in the country, safe passage, and a guarantee that I will never again have to set eyes on this cursed city.”

  Langdon should have been relieved. Instead, there was a sense of loss, as if he was about to bargain away a piece of his decency. He took Lady Grace’s hand in his, her delicate fingers fitting perfectly in his as they shook to seal the agreement. “We have a deal.”

  “Who is he, this Mr. Clark?”

  Adolphus Beaufort looked toward the carriage window and was able to make out a sliver of sky between the gap in the dark curtains. He preferred to meet the Queen after dark near the Serpentine rather than within the confines of her coach. He did not need to know what she looked like in order to understand it was dangerous to be in a confined space with the woman.

  She’d been unnerving since their first meeting. And once the Bishop, her second in command, had been captured and the entire organization compromised? The Queen was unraveling right before Beaufort’s eyes.

  “Word has it he is up from Liverpool, my Queen,” Beaufort replied, focusing on brief glimpses of the billowy blue wisps. “He’s diversified—has his hands in smuggling, burglary, prostitution, guns for hire.”

  A letter had arrived only yesterday, passed from one grubby gang member’s hand to the next, addressed to the King. In it, Langdon Clark explained he was coming to London for pleasure, purportedly. He had requested an audience with the King and cited their shared interest in enterprise. No mention was made of specific issues to be addressed, but the message was there, hidden between the lines of the man’s precise handwriting.

  Beaufort found the threat a welcome one. Years of playing the puppet King to the Queen’s iron fist had worn him down. He wanted out—away from the Kingsmen. Away from her, before she went completely mad.

  “Do you consider him a credible threat?” she asked, her throaty voice faintly muffled by the veil she wore.

  Beaufort weighed his words. The Queen only came out of hiding to meet with him in person when she was nervous. She was unpredictable at the best of times, unstable at the worst.

  Did she want him to say that, yes, the Kingsmen were susceptible to a rival gang’s threat? Or did she want him to lie?

  Beaufort rued the day he’d agreed to her terms to act as the leader of the Kingsmen. Yes, he was now a very wealthy man with an entire criminal organization devoted to him—or to the idea of him, as it were. No one save the recently deceased Dr. Crowther knew of the Queen’s real role within the Kingsmen. She, and she alone, controlled the gang from a distance. Not once had she told Beaufort why her identity must be kept secret, and he’d never asked. The more he learned of her, the less he liked her. She had a head for business, but she also had a ruthless dark side that outmatched any criminal he’d ever encountered.

  Crowther’s death had been carried out on direct order from the Queen.

  Beaufort was far more valuable than the doctor had been, of course—at least for now. But one could never be too careful when it came to the Queen. She was as coldly calculating as any man he’d worked for in his checkered past and twice as driven.

  “Well, I do not know that I would call him a ‘threat,’ my Queen,” Beaufort answered, attempting to lighten the
discussion. “He’ll be in town for the Pimfield auction and thought it wise to introduce himself.”

  The Queen huffed lightly. “Some sort of criminals’ code, I suppose he wants us to believe?”

  “More likely an attempt on his part to make himself seem more important than he is,” Beaufort replied, relieved by her lack of tyrannical response. “Everyone knows the Kingsmen run London. Seems only fitting the underlings would come to pledge their fealty. At least to my way of thinking.”

  Beaufort hazarded a glance at the woman, the scant light in the coach illuminating a thin-lipped smile of satisfaction behind her veil.

  “You know I loathe false flattery, Beaufort,” the Queen warned, her distaste for his attempt lacing her tone. “But I see no reason to deny the man his request. It will give us the opportunity to see what we are dealing with in the south. One can never have enough information when it comes to an opponent.”

  Opponent. So the Queen was concerned. Beaufort would need to tread lightly.

  “Agreed,” he said, returning his gaze to the curtained window. “I’ll ask Rufus to make the arrangements.”

  “I’ll not allow an imbecile such as Rufus to handle the matter,” she ordered, reaching out to grip the cushion as the carriage swung wide. “The Kingsmen are the most powerful organization in London—in all of England, according to those who have knowledge of such things. It will not do to give this Mr. Clark the impression that we are anything less. Send Mitchell.”

  Marcus Mitchell was a tall, handsome man with a keen mind and an even keener eye when it came to shooting a pistol. He had been a promising young lawyer when the Kingsmen had come across him. He’d run up a gambling debt at the Four Horsemen, operated by the Kingsmen. He’d pledged his gun to the gang in exchange for the money to pay off his debt—intent, Beaufort had heard tell, on leaving as soon as he could.

  But the Queen had found him too valuable to set free.

  There was never a way to win with her. In favor, you were doomed to a life of service. Out of favor, you were demoted to death.

  Mitchell was smart, a skilled speaker, and a killer. The Queen wanted to impress Clark, that much was clear.

  “And do you want me to meet with Clark?” Beaufort asked, hopeful she’d find him too imbecilic for the errand as well.

  The coach rolled to a slow stop and the Queen released the cushion, gesturing imperiously for Beaufort to get out. “I do not think it will be necessary, no. We would not want him to believe you’d stoop so low as to accept his last-minute request.”

  Beaufort did not wait for the driver to open the carriage door. He lowered the carriage window, reached out, and depressed the latch, his weight against the lacquered wood opening it easily. “Very well,” he replied, keeping his tone even.

  He stepped out and onto a deserted lane, pausing to bow. “I’ll await further instruction, my lady.”

  “That goes without saying,” the Queen answered haughtily. “Close the door.”

  Beaufort obliged then watched the carriage roll away. “Bitch.”

  A prostitute trudged up the narrow stairway of Lady Grace’s apartment building and started down the dingy, dark hallway, catching sight of Langdon and Niles Spencer as they leaned against the wall. “Evenin’, gentlemen,” she drawled, winking garishly as she hiked up the hem of her bright blue gown.

  Niles pushed off from the wall as if to address the woman.

  “No,” Langdon instructed sternly.

  The prostitute offered the men a disappointed frown, then opened her apartment door and disappeared inside.

  “You really are becoming a bore, Stonecliffe.”

  Langdon elbowed Niles in the rib cage. “We are here to see to the safety of Lady Grace and the Templetons. That is all.”

  “I’ll see to their safety if you will stop staring at that knife of yours,” Niles answered, looking at Lady Grace’s closed door. “Honestly, if you are going to kill yourself, just do it already. I am quite sure I could manage your part in this assignment.”

  Langdon returned the knife to its hiding place within his boot. “Are you not going to play the sympathetic friend to my jilted fiancé?”

  “Please,” Niles said, rolling his eyes at Langdon’s question. “What have I always told you? Hmm? Marriage is for penniless lords and love-struck fools. Neither of which category you fall into, by the way.”

  Langdon chuckled at his friend and fellow agent’s words, though one phrase in particular grated against his ears. “Is that right?”

  “You tell me,” Niles replied, casting a longing look toward the prostitute’s door. “As far as I know you have managed to hold on to your family’s money, correct?”

  Langdon nodded in agreement.

  “Then that leaves love-struck fool. You certainly possessed affection for Sophia, but you were not in love with her. In order to qualify as a fool one must pine, need—nay, require—the woman in a wholly irrational and idiotic manner.”

  “Do you know, Carmichael told me the same thing,” Langdon said, frustrated by the coincidence.

  “Is that so? Even the bit about pining? Does not sound like Carmichael.”

  “No, not the bit about pining, Niles,” Langdon admitted reluctantly. “But the rest? Verbatim, if I am remembering the conversation correctly.”

  “Well, there is a first time for everything, I suppose.”

  Langdon looked up at the ceiling where a spider was busily constructing its web. “If I am not meant for marriage, then what?”

  “How the bloody hell am I supposed to know?” Niles replied. “This is where a woman would suggest self-reflection—”

  “Stop right there,” Langdon commanded his friend. He could not take any more thinking on his feelings. It had become a frustrating habit of late.

  “Lucky for you, I am not a woman,” Niles continued despite the directive. “I say forget everything that happened in the last three months—no, make it six, just to be safe. And if you cannot manage that on your own, drink until you can.”

  Lady Grace’s door suddenly flew open and an ancient man appeared before them, the pan from earlier that evening gripped in his gnarled fingers.

  “Mr. Clark, I presume,” the man said as he stood on the threshold.

  “Best wait on the drinking,” Niles said quietly to Langdon. “At least until tomorrow.”

  “I never was a drinking man,” Langdon answered his friend, then bowed to Mr. Templeton. “I am. And you must be Mr. Templeton. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I wanted to personally ensure Lady Grace’s safety until the morning, when all three of you will be escorted to my home.”

  Mr. Templeton narrowed his eyes and screwed up his mouth as he considered Langdon.

  “Mr. Templeton, do step away from the door.”

  Lady Grace joined the man, Mrs. Templeton close behind. “Here now, give me the pan. You should be in bed.”

  “I will be watching you, Mr. Clark,” Mr. Templeton warned Langdon as Lady Grace pried the pan from his fingers. “One wrong move and you will be sorry for it.”

  Mrs. Templeton took her husband’s arm in hers and steered him back inside, leaving Lady Grace. And the pan.

  “As you can see, Mr. Templeton is brave beyond his capabilities,” she explained, wearily glancing down the hallway of the derelict building.

  “I rather hope I am just like him when I reach such an advanced age,” Langdon answered, genuinely impressed by the man’s actions.

  “As do I,” Lady Grace agreed, offering Langdon a small but sincere smile. She stared at the pan for a moment as if words failed her, then looked up again. “Good night, Mr. Clark.”

  “Lady Grace.”

  “I do not believe we have been—”

  Niles’s words were lost under the squeak of the warped wooden door meeting the frame.

  “—introduced.”

  “Next time,” Langdon assured his friend, then leaned back against the wall once more.

  Niles looked at the door, then at La
ngdon. “Well, if you are not a drinking man, might I suggest Lady Grace? I suspect the woman could make a man forget a lifetime of regrets.”

  “What are you talking about?” Langdon asked, considering the spider’s progress.

  Niles sighed loudly. “I believe your exact words were, ‘If I am not meant for marriage, then what?’ Perhaps Lady Grace has some inkling as to how you might make it through these trying times.”

  “The woman’s future was lost in a card game by her father,” Langdon countered, offended by the suggestion. “She endured ten years of marriage to a degenerate member of the Kingsmen. I will not be the next man in line to use Lady Grace.”

  Niles playfully punched Langdon’s arm. “I am a bloody bastard, true enough. But you must know I did not mean for you to ‘use’ Lady Grace. You are a good man. She is a woman who deserves thoughtful, considered attention. The distraction may be mutually beneficial. That is all.”

  “She is key to this investigation,” Langdon argued, Niles’s explanation repeating in his head.

  “Still playing by the rules, are we?” Niles asked, referring to the strict Corinthian code that forbade agents from involving themselves with any individual involved in a case.

  Langdon grit his teeth. “Carmichael threatened to take the Afton case from me. He is concerned the situation with Sophia will inhibit my ability to focus. So, yes, I will be playing by the rules. Every last one.”

  “Pity, that,” Niles replied, crossing one ankle over the other.

  Langdon knew he should not ask Niles to explain himself, but he could not resist. “Why?”

  “You’ve done so all your life and look where it has gotten you,” Niles answered simply. “Just once, wouldn’t you like to do what you want to do, rather than what you should? Aren’t you the least bit curious to see where such thinking might take you?”

  “And what if they are one and the same?” Langdon asked, irritated by his friend’s question.