The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match

by Stefanie Sloane

  Mr. Clark watched Marcus crack the knuckles on his left hand, then smiled. His low, sinister chuckle raised the hair on Grace’s nape and she froze.

  “You know my name, as do your men,” he said beside her. “Clearly, I am more than just any visitor.”

  Grace held her breath. Her heart beat furiously, pounding in her chest. She had a nearly overwhelming urge to run.

  Marcus tilted his head and pursed his lips. “That may be so. But the King operates on no one’s schedule but his own. You will receive word from him when he is ready. And not a moment before.”

  Mr. Clark lifted Grace’s hand to his lips, placing a soft, slow kiss on her palm. “I believe I crave more carnal delights than are offered here, my Wicked Widow.” He produced a paste card from an inner vest pocket and held it out to Marcus. “Do let the King know I stopped by. I will not wait forever.”

  Marcus took the card and examined it, then handed it to one of his men. “Of course.”

  “Come, my love,” Mr. Clark said, gently turning Grace away from the bar and toward the door.

  Grace glanced over her shoulder at Marcus. He mouthed “Be well,” concern evident in his eyes.

  She tilted her head in understanding and moved away, shaken by the full realization that there was no going back. The crowd cleared a path for them, none-too-subtle whispers ricocheting from one man to another, to prostitute, to barkeep.

  The sound and the stares, the garish hues of the women’s gowns and the frantic pace of the gambling hell melted into one, assaulting Grace’s senses as they pushed against her on each side. She gripped Mr. Clark’s hand and kept her eyes on the door, counting every step toward her escape.

  “Wicked Widow.” Grace could not be sure if she’d heard someone within the crowd say what Mr. Clark had only just called her a mere five minutes past, or if her brain was repeating the title in an attempt to come to terms with what she now was.

  Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Grace focused on her careful steps, but the clamoring in her head would not cease.

  A member of the Kingsmen held the door open just as Grace reached thirty.

  Mr. Clark led her out into the blessedly cool air, pausing to whistle for their carriage. A number of the Hills Crossing gang appeared and formed a protective circle around them. The coachman immediately moved the horses toward them from where they waited, half a block down the dark street.

  “Judging from your grip, Lady Grace, you are glad to be leaving.”

  “Take me home,” Grace whispered, gritting her teeth against the threatening tears. “Take me home now.”

  Langdon tapped the roof of the carriage to signal his driver, and the coach lurched into motion. He’d accomplished what he’d set out to do, he thought. The Kingsmen now knew he was not a man to be trifled with. The plan had been put into action exactly as Langdon wanted. He waited for the customary flush of satisfaction he always experienced in such situations.

  It did not come.

  Lady Grace sat next to him, her hand still tucked into his, her clasp just as strong, perhaps tighter, than moments before. Her eyes were downcast and he couldn’t read her expression, but she was clearly upset.

  Which was only to be expected, Langdon reminded himself. What woman would not be shaken after confronting and challenging one of England’s most powerful gangs?

  Her reaction was completely understandable and made perfect sense. Langdon’s practical mind struggled to understand why he was stealing worried glances at her.

  “Lady Grace?” he said rather more loudly than he’d intended.

  She looked up from her lap as if he had awoken her from an unpleasant dream. “I must apologize, Mr. Clark.” She pulled her hand from his and began to remove the pins from her bonnet. “I had rather hoped I would not be affected by interacting with the Kingsmen again.”

  Langdon’s hand felt oddly empty without her smaller, softer fingers and palm pressed closed within it. “Do not apologize, Lady Grace,” he said with an attempt at light reassurance. No, really. Please do not. It only makes me want to ease your unhappiness even more than I already do.

  Langdon cursed his seemingly unending need to play the protector. Was it a trait he’d been forced to own by the death of Lady Afton? Or had he been born with the bloody anchor about his neck?

  “I was not expecting to see Marcus,” Lady Grace continued.

  He’d seen the male interest that lay beneath the concern on Marcus Mitchell’s face. Mitchell wanted more from Grace than friendship. Langdon wasn’t prepared to hear her talk about him. His control was already dangerously close to the breaking point. He needed her to stop talking. Now. Before he said—or did—something he should not. Like kiss her.

  “I was surprised, to say the least. I would have told you everything I know about Marcus if I’d thought for a moment he would be at the Four Horsemen.”

  Langdon’s arm itched to encircle Lady Grace’s slim shoulders and pull her close. He swallowed hard. “There is no need to apologize,” he ground out, regretting every last syllable as soon as they left his mouth.

  “Are you angry with me?” Lady Grace asked, worry and, if Langdon was correct, hurt lacing her tone.

  “Lord, no—you couldn’t be more wrong,” Langdon muttered, balling his hands into fists.

  Lady Grace flinched as if he had hit her, the curve of her mouth trembling with vulnerability before she turned her face away and looked out the window.

  Langdon did not need to see her to know that he had made her cry. Which only made matters worse.

  “I am the one who should be apologizing.” Langdon took a linen handkerchief from his coat pocket. “I work with men, not with women. Talk is limited to the job at hand, whereas with women …” He offered the pristine white square of fabric to Lady Grace. “Things are different. It will take some getting used to.”

  She accepted the handkerchief and blotted her eyes. “Yes, we ladies do tend to talk more than your sex.”

  Langdon smiled at her wryness. “And about far more complicated topics than brandy and guns.”

  He could not pretend that he did not care for her, he realized. For better or worse, and despite how much he would prefer to have no feelings about her whatsoever, he needed to protect Grace. “Now, tell me about Marcus. Who is he to you?”

  “A friend,” she answered, twisting the linen handkerchief between her fingers, her hands resting in her lap. “He was forced into the Kingsmen because of a debt. And now they refuse to let him go. He is a good man, but a Kingsmen nonetheless.”

  Langdon was thankful Grace had been able to count more than the Templetons as friends while married to the doctor. Still, Marcus Mitchell’s reaction to her presence troubled him beyond his personal reasons. He needed to know if Mitchell’s friendship with Grace could create problems for the Corinthians’ plan. “He did not appear to be pleased with you.”

  “I am sure when he learned of my disappearance, Marcus assumed I’d finally escaped,” Grace answered, turning her head to look at Langdon. “To see me willingly return to Kingsmen territory would be both a shock and a disappointment for him.”

  “Was he—is he more than a friend to you?” It was an indelicate question, but a necessary one.

  Grace raised one slim brow. “Straying from the topic of ‘brandy and guns,’ are we?”

  Langdon chuckled at her jab. “Your relationship with Mr. Mitchell could be a problem. I simply need to know how big of a problem.”

  “When I said he was a friend, that is exactly what I meant. Nothing more and nothing less.”

  “Such questions should not be put to a lady,” Langdon said, painfully aware of the ambivalence Grace caused in him.

  “Well, as I mentioned when we met, I am no longer a lady, Mr. Clark,” she replied, her brow smoothing.

  She was a puzzle, flashes of insight into who she was—what she was—appearing and just as quickly disappearing. Langdon knew it would be best to ignore his interest in her. The question was, could he?
>
  The carriage slowed to a stop and Langdon broke eye contact with Grace in order to part the curtains and look out the window. The Corinthian agent posing as a footman stepped over the Aylworth House threshold and walked toward the coach. “Safely at home,” Langdon said. “You did well this evening, Lady Grace. Midge will see you inside.”

  “Thank you,” she said, tucking the handkerchief into her reticule and gathering up her skirts in preparation for exiting. “Your support this evening”—she hesitated as her eyes searched his— “made all the difference.”

  Midge opened the carriage door and waited. Langdon moved to the bench opposite so Lady Grace would not have to climb over him in order to disembark. “There is no need to thank me. I promised you protection, and I am a man who keeps his word.”

  “I see that now, Mr. Clark,” she replied, allowing Midge to take her hand as she stepped down.

  Langdon had an appointment with Carmichael at the club. First contact had been made with the Kingsmen, and the leader of the Corinthians would want to know the specifics. And Langdon was anxious to learn more about Mr. Marcus Mitchell. He could not recall the man’s name in any of the Kingsmen documents he’d reviewed, but that did not mean the Corinthians lacked information concerning the lawyer.

  All good reasons to leave.

  Then why did he want to stay?

  “I will see you tomorrow, then?” Langdon had meant to make a statement, not ask a question.

  “Of course,” Grace replied with surprise, frowning at Langdon in confusion.

  Langdon believed he’d succeeded in establishing the upper hand with the Kingsmen. He could not be so sure with Lady Grace. He gestured for Midge to close the door. “Good night.”

  Though it was dark, his gaze followed Midge as he accompanied Grace’s slender figure up the stairs, and inside the house. The large entry door closed and Langdon continued to stare, lost in thought.

  “Blast,” he muttered at length, realizing the carriage had yet to move. He pounded his fist on the ceiling, the noise frightening the horses. The carriage lurched as they surged into the traces and Langdon fell back against the cushions, thankful for the distraction.

  Langdon slipped down the hallway that led to the club kitchens, looking behind him to verify he was alone before he triggered the hidden entryway to the Corinthian offices. The door slid open and he passed through, reaching to reverse the action and waiting to hear the click of the hinges.

  Then he walked down the corridor toward the room where case information was stored.

  “You are late.”

  Langdon stopped and backed up three steps, pushing open the door of Carmichael’s office to step inside. “I am?”

  “You are never late,” his superior noted, straightening a sheaf of papers he’d been reviewing. “Trouble?”

  Langdon chafed at the very thought. He needed Carmichael to believe in his ability and commitment to the case.

  “Did we not agree on one o’clock?” he asked, looking at the large marble-based clock centered on a carved mahogany table against the far wall.

  The brass hands pointed to half past one.

  “Precisely,” Carmichael confirmed, frowning. “News?”

  Langdon nodded grimly. “We made contact,” he said succinctly, wanting to waste no more of his superior’s time.

  “Were they expecting you?”

  Langdon dropped into a chair facing Carmichael’s desk and slumped slightly. “Yes—though I do not know that I would say ‘expecting.’ Perhaps ‘prepared’ is a better description.”

  “Either way, a good sign,” Carmichael commented, resting his elbows on the broad oak desk. “Who received you?”

  “A Mr. Marcus Mitchell. Mid-rank, I believe. And an acquaintance of Lady Grace’s.”

  Carmichael tapped his fingers on the desktop in a rapid, absentminded tattoo. “An acquaintance, you say?”

  “A lawyer,” Langdon further explained. “Apparently, he got into a spot of trouble and found himself indebted to the Kingsmen. He has paid off the money, but proven himself too useful to be let go.”

  Carmichael continued to tap as he mulled over the information. “And his relationship with Lady Grace?”

  “She assures me it is of a purely platonic nature,” Langdon replied. “But from what I saw this evening, Mr. Mitchell would have preferred it to be otherwise.”

  “And continues to do so?”

  “If I had to guess, yes.”

  Carmichael stopped tapping the desk. “If? Stonecliffe, it is your job to assess and make a calculated guess. Is something wrong?”

  “Tell me, would we have so thoroughly manipulated Sophia, given the opportunity?” Langdon asked, barely sustaining a respectful tone. “The answer is, of course, no. How is Lady Grace any different from Sophia?”

  His superior pushed back his chair and rose. “Rather off course, but I will answer your question regardless. You are correct,” he began, walking around the desk to a side table. He unstopped a carafe of brandy and poured two glasses half-full. “Even if we had known of Sophia’s involvement in the search for her mother’s killer, we would not have used her in any capacity. We certainly would not have used her as bait to draw the guilty party out of hiding.”

  Carmichael handed Langdon a glass and reclaimed his seat. “Lady Grace, through no fault of her own, is not in the same position as Sophia. And she never will be again. The Corinthians cannot change the truth—you cannot alter the past. The most we can do for her is aid in her eventual escape from a life she never deserved.”

  Langdon took a long swallow of the mellow brandy, letting it slide down his throat as he considered Carmichael’s words. “Cruel and heartless, but practical, I’ll give you that.”

  “Practicality has always been your bread and butter, Stonecliffe,” his superior replied.

  “True enough,” Langdon agreed, taking a second sip. “Perhaps it is Lady Grace’s background? Paying prostitutes and washerwomen for their help seemed far more palatable compared to what I am asked to do now.”

  “So you find fault with our methods because she is of the nobility.”

  “Of course not,” Langdon said automatically.

  “Then it is because you find her faultless. Whereas, prostitutes and washerwomen are not?” Carmichael asked, setting his glass down with the contents barely tasted. “You opened Pandora’s box, not me, Stonecliffe.”

  Langdon considered downing his own brandy and then claiming Carmichael’s. “They are blameless as well—in many cases.”

  “I am afraid I do not understand.”

  Langdon emptied his glass with no time spent slowly savoring the excellent liquor, something he normally would not do, and stared into the cut crystal. “I will be honest with you, Carmichael. I do not know that I understand, either.”

  This was all new to him. If Langdon met Carmichael’s gaze, he would see doubt. Not that he knew so firsthand, but because he had borne witness to such conversations, purposely been present to echo what Carmichael always told the agents who wavered.

  Was that it, then? Was he questioning the methods used by the Young Corinthians? Even more, having doubts about his place within the organization? He knew that Carmichael was considering the same at that very moment.

  What was happening to him?

  “I trust you, Stonecliffe,” Carmichael said. “I want to believe you are more than prepared to handle this case. But the man I see before me is not the same man—”

  Langdon could not listen to any more. “I’ve never failed you before and I am not about to start now,” he ground out, setting his glass down and standing. He forced himself to slow his breathing. Flexed his fingers on each hand, balled them into fists, then spread them open, laying them flat. “I will alert you when I hear from the Kingsmen.”

  “You are not yourself, Stonecliffe.”

  “Tell me something I do not already know,” Langdon muttered under his breath.

  As superiors went, Adolphus Beaufort could h
ave been worse. Marcus Mitchell eyed the man through the doorway that presently separated them. The King looked to be threatening his guest, the telltale bulging veins at his temples almost glowing hot with anger. He did not yell, but spoke in a quiet, controlled tone that seemed to be tightening the guest’s already tense frame.

  Marcus was not afraid of the King. He probably should be—and most certainly had been back when the gang had seen to his debt and made him their own. But somewhere along the way Marcus had lost the ability to care what happened to him, or when. Until he had met Grace.

  And then everything had changed.

  The man with the King hastily pushed his chair back, the screech of wood grating over wood rousing Marcus from his thoughts.

  “You’ll have it by midnight tomorrow,” he heard the man say to the King.

  Marcus watched the man scuttle from the King’s office into the room where he waited. He was careful to avoid eye contact with the poor bastard. The last thing Marcus needed was to feel pity for him. The first rule of the Kingsmen: feel nothing.

  “Mitchell,” the King called.

  Marcus stood and brushed a speck of lint from his dark blue coat. Then he adjusted his cuffs until they lay just as they should.

  “Do not keep the boss waitin’.”

  Marcus looked at Four Fingers, the man who’d addressed him so rudely, and offered him a charming smile. “Wouldn’t want to go before the King with my suit out of sorts, now, would I?”

  “I’ll show you out of sorts if you do not haul your educated ass in there right now,” Four Fingers growled, the severely deep wrinkles on his forehead extending back to his bald pate.

  Marcus adjusted his cuffs once more then strolled toward the King’s office. “It is true what they say, then; losing a digit has made you quite cross.”

  The squat thug lunged, a string of curses spilling from his thick lips as he narrowly missed wringing the life from Marcus’s neck.

  Marcus slammed the office door shut and crossed to the King’s desk.