The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match

by Stefanie Sloane

  Niles sighed again. “Then you really are a bloody saint and there is no hope for the rest of us.”

  “I have waited over half my life to catch Lady Afton’s killer,” Langdon ground out.

  “The same amount of time you spent thinking Sophia would be your wife. Plans change. Priorities shift. And people disappoint you. You asked me what was next for you. I think the sooner you accept life for the impressive wreck of contradictions it is, the sooner you will have your answer. Don’t let anyone keep you down, Langdon. Not Sophia and Nicholas, nor Carmichael or even me. And for the love of all that is holy, do not use this fork in the road as an excuse. You are too brave a man to let life go.”

  Langdon pushed off from the wall and turned to face Niles, unsure of what to say. “Did all of that … insightfulness really just come out of your mouth?”

  “Well, it didn’t come from the prostitute down the hall, if that’s what you are wondering,” Niles replied sarcastically, uncrossing his ankles. “I’m off to check in with Jones downstairs. You stay here and think, why don’t you?”

  Langdon watched as his friend took the stairs two at a time.

  Impressive wreck of contradictions. At least Langdon could agree with that.

  “I told you so,” Mrs. Templeton whispered vehemently to Grace as they were quickly ushered through the servants’ entrance of Mr. Clark’s elegant London home. “And why would we not enter through the front door? Being treated like you are inferior and you’ve only just arrived. And disguised in such a costume, no less!”

  Grace looked down at the voluminous folds of her black silk mourning gown through the thick netting of her bonnet. The ensemble had arrived with the carriage that very morning along with a letter from Mr. Clark, who had been relieved by another of his men by the time Grace awoke. In it, he had explained his desire to keep her true identity a secret from any outside the Kingsmen and those associated with the gang. The Widow Crowther would be known to the King. Lady Grace Audley did not need to be revealed to anyone within the ton or those connected to the peerage, such as servants, deliverymen, or—God help them—an actual lord or lady.

  “We must trust that Mr. Clark knows what he is doing,” Grace urged Mrs. Templeton as a portly man appeared in the entryway.

  “Welcome to Aylworth House. I am the butler, Yates,” the man said, his round spectacles matching his frame.

  Mr. Templeton cleared his throat and took a step forward. “Mr. Templeton, Yates. If you would show the ladies to their rooms, I will have a look about the facilities, if you do not mind?”

  If Yates wondered at Mr. Templeton’s unusual request, one could not tell from his placid demeanor. The butler simply nodded in understanding, then turned to the women. “Of course. Shall we?”

  Mr. Templeton pointed his forefinger at a footman who sat at the servants’ table polishing a silver candlestick. “You there, you are meant to stand when the lady of the house is in your presence, are you not?”

  Startled, the young man shoved back his chair with alacrity and stood, the silver candleholder and cloth still in his hands.

  Mrs. Templeton rolled her eyes and sniffed at the footman’s impertinence.

  Mr. Templeton grunted his approval of the lad’s change of attitude and patted his wife’s arm. “Leave them to me. You go on up now and rest.”

  “Yes, Yates, please show us to our rooms.” Grace smiled briefly at the butler, anxious for a few quiet moments to herself. She and Mrs. Templeton followed him up the stairs and onto the ground floor, where Grace involuntarily gaped at her surroundings.

  She knew very little about a mistress’s life, having only overheard whispered gossip between her mother and friends concerning Lord So-and-so’s piece of muslin. A kept woman could expect jewels and dresses, even a cozy, well-afforded townhome, in exchange for her services.

  But this was no cozy townhome. The carriage windows had been covered by curtains, so Grace could not say where, precisely, they were within the city. Still, from the interior she had to assume it was one of the best, if not the best, of locations.

  The large entry hall boasted white and black tiling laid out in a chessboard fashion, every last square sparkling in the sunlight peeking through the mullioned windows that graced each side of the front door. A gilded mirror hung on the wall, accompanied by a handful of landscape paintings, artfully arranged. All, much to Grace’s surprise, to her liking.

  The highly polished oak staircase ascended to the first floor as if suspended, the intricate and expensive detailing on the rail consisting of scrollwork and Grecian-inspired motifs.

  And at every doorway, one of Mr. Clark’s men stood, staring straight ahead, his face devoid of emotion, his demeanor detached.

  Grace forced her mouth to close and mounted the second staircase. Clearly, Mr. Clark was a man of some importance in Liverpool—with the funds and men to make his London plans succeed. This should have soothed her. So why did her chest tighten with nervousness?

  “Mr. Clark informed me that he will be joining us for dinner,” the man told Grace in a quiet, kind tone.

  She chose to put the information far from her mind for the time being and instead focused on the man’s amiability. “Thank you, Yates.”

  “You are most welcome …” The man paused, his discomfort palpable.

  The trio reached the landing and walked to the first door on the right, Yates indicating they had arrived at their destination.

  “Grace, Yates,” Grace offered, giving the man her name. “Call me Grace.”

  The butler cringed at the suggestion to use her first name only. To his credit, he merely nodded in reply. “Here is your room, Grace,” he said, the effort turning his cheeks a soft red. “Mrs. Templeton, you and your husband are right across the hall. I will send Mr. Templeton up once he’s finished below stairs.”

  Mrs. Templeton made to wave the man off, obviously planning to join Grace in her room.

  “I am going to rest, Mrs. Templeton,” Grace said before her friend could refuse the butler. “Would you wake me when it is time to dress for dinner?”

  Mrs. Templeton eyed Grace with concern. “All right, my lady. Should I fetch your favorite tea?”

  Grace felt a rush of emotion clog her throat. When she’d first employed Mrs. Templeton, the dear woman had insisted on having Jasmine tea in the house despite its being one of the most expensive teas to purchase. At first, Grace enjoyed the very fact that her husband would disapprove of the costly tea. Eventually, when her flash and fury of anger and betrayal burned down to steady embers of bitterness and patience, Grace worried the money spent on the restorative tea should have gone to her stash of coins—the very money that would one day take her away from the doctor.

  But Mrs. Templeton would not hear of it. She knew without ever having to ask that Grace’s nerves were soothed by the tea. And that alone was worth the price.

  “Yes, Mrs. Templeton, that would be most welcome,” Grace answered, smiling at her friend. “But let us both rest first. Perhaps an hour from now?”

  Mrs. Templeton returned Grace’s smile, the sheer pleasure of being useful showing in her eyes. “An hour it is.”

  Then she turned to Yates. “Now, go on, Yates. My lady needs to rest,” she added with a firm nod before crossing the hall to her own room and disappearing within.

  Yates looked lost. Being required to address the woman of the house by her first name had more than likely been enough to drive the man to drink, Grace imagined. And now Mrs. Templeton was giving him orders. Poor man.

  “Will there be anything else, my lady?” he asked, a shaky recovery managed before Grace’s eyes.

  “It is Grace, Yates—I insist,” she gently reminded him. “And I believe I have everything I need. Thank you for your kindness.”

  The man cleared his throat. “I am only doing my job, Grace.”

  “No, that’s not true,” Grace replied, walking through the open door to her room. “Your job is to be a butler. Being kind and considerate
to a woman in such a situation? That is not a man doing a job. That is a man being a decent human being. And men like you are hard to find, Yates.”

  The butler cleared his throat again, though Grace caught a quick glimpse of a smile as it curved his lips. “Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places, my la—Grace.”

  “Perhaps I have been, Yates,” Grace agreed, the knot in her stomach loosening a touch.

  He bowed, then turned and walked down the hall.

  Grace slowly closed the door before leaning against it, exhausted. She wouldn’t let herself cry. She could not. She turned her attention to the heavy black bonnet atop her head, carefully unwinding the seemingly yards of netting that hid her face from the world.

  Next, she saw to the hat pins, yanking them from her smooth chignon and poking them carefully through the bonnet’s brim for safekeeping. And finally, she bowed her head and let the frothy, overdone accessory drop to the floor. She buried her face in her hands, blocking out the natural light pouring in from the mullioned windows. There was no other way to move forward than this.

  “Leave the fretting to Mrs. Templeton,” Grace whispered, removing her hands and willing her limbs to move. She walked the perimeter of the large, beautiful room, taking inventory of its contents while steeling her will. The walls were covered in a subtle silk fabric that matched the bed linens, the soothing violet shade quite to her liking. There was a lovely mahogany bed, a delicate writing desk in the far corner, and two inviting chairs positioned before the fireplace.

  And there were flowers. Many, many flowers. Crystal vases held bouquets of spring flowers on every available surface. A large arrangement occupied the space between the two chairs near the fireplace. Even the writing desk sported a gathering of white and pale pink roses.

  Grace attempted to focus her attention on Mr. Clark’s thoughtfulness rather than the knot in her stomach as it tightened yet again, her breathing constricted by the weight of her conscience. She turned toward the bed and quickly walked to it, sitting down on the silk counterpane and bending to untie her kidskin boots.

  She was a pawn yet again. First, she had been carelessly played away to her ruination by her father, every last hope and desire for her life forcibly taken from her. And now Mr. Clark held her reimagined future precariously in his hands. There would be no turning back from here.

  Grace finished untying her left boot and dropped it on the thick Aubusson carpet, the thud as leather hit the floor underscoring the weight of the situation. The first tear trailed a damp path down her cheek, cutting across to her chin, where it hesitated before falling to land on the toe of her remaining boot.

  Grace pulled it off and gently set it down next to its twin.

  When yet another tear made its way down her cheek, Grace understood that a full-blown crying jag was unavoidable and lay back on the bed, turning her face into a pillow and quietly letting go. She had been such a fool. Her time spent married to the doctor had been an education, but had she learned enough to face the Kingsmen and walk away with her life? And if not, could Mr. Clark be relied upon to provide whatever it was Grace lacked? Was he a man she ought to trust? The threadbare scrap of softness in her soul that had survived the past wanted to believe in Mr. Clark’s honor. While the rest of Grace feared she had only played directly into his hand.

  She needed more than a stiff upper lip and the ability to willingly ignore the desperate hole growing in her heart. She needed a suit of armor to see her through. And a strong one at that.

  “You cannot go into her room.”

  Langdon stared down his nose at Mrs. Templeton, attempting to intimidate the woman with his steely gaze. “Actually, I can.”

  Mrs. Templeton pursed her lips, the wrinkles around her prim mouth tightening, underscoring her frustration. “Well, that may be. Still, surely you wouldn’t, would you? My lady is resting.”

  Langdon narrowed his eyes. He was unaccustomed to having his actions questioned by servants. “I would—I will.” He took the silver tea tray from her sturdy, work-worn hands.

  “Midge,” he addressed the Corinthian standing guard outside Lady Grace’s room. “Open the door.”

  God, but this was more work than it should be, he thought grimly. He could have postponed his meeting with Grace for a few hours, but knowing she was at Aylworth House was an irresistible draw. He’d left the Corinthian Club early, unable to ignore the lure of her presence. He only wanted to be sure that she was comfortable. Nothing more. And yet, here he stood, outside her door, arguing with a servant and holding her tea.

  Thankfully, the steeliness seemed to work. Mrs. Templeton attempted one last pursing of her lips.

  “Would you have me serve Lady Grace cold tea?” Langdon asked flatly.

  “Very well,” she said, grasping the doorknob and slowly turning it, adding, “But my lady won’t like it.”

  “I come bearing tea, Mrs. Templeton. No woman of my acquaintance would be displeased with such service,” Langdon answered, feeling satisfied with his win.

  Midge opened the door, eyeing Mrs. Templeton as though at any moment she might throw herself over the threshold.

  Mrs. Templeton stood back. “We shall see,” she muttered just loud enough for Langdon to hear.

  “Yes we will,” he answered, irritated with the slight. And oddly irritated by his irritation. “Midge, close the door behind me.”

  He stepped into the room and waited until the agent did as he’d asked, then looked for Lady Grace. She was lying on the bed, knees pulled to her chest and her face hidden by a pillow.

  “Lady Grace,” Langdon called out before taking a step toward her. “I have brought your tea.”

  With an abrupt, jerky movement, she shifted and sat up, her feet on the floor, her face turned to the wall. Her shoulders rose as she inhaled through her nose, the telltale catch of restorative oxygen as she exhaled pricking at Langdon’s ears. “Mr. Clark, please do call me Grace.”

  She had been crying.

  Langdon looked down at the tea service in his hands and fought the urge to care. All of his energy was needed for the case. Nothing could be spared, not for Carmichael’s doubts, nor Niles’s blasted insights. Not even for Lady Grace’s tears.

  He strode across the room and stopped before her, intent on ignoring anything to do with what troubled her.

  Lady Grace stood, her back rigid with propriety. “In front of the fire, please.”

  He could not help but admire her strength. Even though her stunning violet eyes bore unshed tears, Lady Grace had instantly composed herself.

  She did not wait for a response, but instead led the way, covertly brushing her fingertips over her damp cheeks and smoothing her blond hair into place.

  He set the tray down upon a low table and waited for Lady Grace to take her seat.

  “Will you join me?” she asked, gesturing at the two teacups laid upon the silver tray.

  Langdon sat and inspected the tray, noting it held a plate of his favorite jam-filled biscuits. “No, thank you,” he answered, as if depriving himself proved something.

  “Very well,” Lady Grace replied, reaching for the teapot. “But I must tell you, this is Jasmine tea—one of the most beautiful in the world.”

  Despite himself, Langdon leaned forward and watched as she poured the steaming water into the cup. Suddenly, what appeared to have been a small, dried flower lying at the bottom of the cup came to life, growing two, nearly three times its size into a magnificent, delicate bloom. “Good God,” he breathed, ensnared by the beauty.

  “Isn’t it lovely?” Lady Grace asked, returning the pot to the tray. “Jasmine is as comforting to the nerves as it is stimulating to the eyes. It is terribly frivolous, but Mrs. Templeton insists we keep a supply on hand.”

  Her shoulders relaxed and she too leaned forward, until their foreheads nearly touched as they bent over the cup. “It reminds me to look for the miracles that surround us. Even in the most unexpected of places. They might be minute and short-lived,
but they are there, waiting for us to find them.”

  The blossom grew heavy with liquid and slowly, almost tentatively, eased lower until it rested upon the cup’s porcelain bottom.

  Langdon sat back in his chair, purposely inserting distance between himself and Lady Grace. “Can something ‘minute’ really be a miracle?”

  She picked up her cup and saucer in one dainty hand. “Very much so, Mr. Clark. A kind word from a stranger may take no more than ten seconds, but the sentiment stays with you for some time—is even capable of changing your life, some would say.”

  “Sounds a bit unnerving, if you ask me,” Langdon replied, gazing at Lady Grace.

  She lifted her fingers to her cheek and discreetly brushed the tips over the faintly reddened skin. “Why is that?”

  Langdon abruptly realized he was staring. He swallowed hard and focused on the conversation. “What if you preferred your life the way it was? Change can be difficult, especially if you did not ask for it.”

  “You sound as if you believe we have control over these things.” Lady Grace took a sip of her tea, clearly savoring the fragrant blend.

  “Do I?” Langdon asked, pondering the notion. “Well, I suppose I do wonder if we have a certain measure of control. Through the choices we make and such.”

  Lady Grace considered his words carefully as she enjoyed another sip of tea. “By that way of thinking, I must have done something terribly wrong in my youth, then, correct? Otherwise, how would one explain me being married off to the doctor, then hunted down by the Kingsmen and having to pretend to be your mistress?”

  “You did nothing to deserve such treatment,” Langdon countered, cursing his insensitivity. “There are forces beyond our …”

  “Control?” Lady Grace finished simply, her gentle tone demonstrating she took no pleasure in having proven her point. “Let me be clear, Mr. Clark. I believe striving to be an honorable person is one of the most estimable goals an individual may possess. But each of us must be realistic about these things. There is good in life. And there is bad. It is what you do, especially with the bad, that makes you who you are.”