The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match

by Stefanie Sloane

  “He’ll catch you one of these days,” the man warned Marcus.

  “I like my chances,” he replied, waiting to sit until the King told him to.

  There were times when the man instructed you to take your seat before beginning the conversation. And there were others when he made you stand for nearly the entire meeting.

  Marcus noted, not for the first time, how appearing before Henry Tudor or William the Confessor must have been quite similar to what he endured each week. Only this king did not wear a ring, nor require his subjects to kiss it.

  At least, not yet.

  “Take your seat, Mitchell.”

  Ah, the sire speaks.

  Marcus obeyed, sketching a half bow before sitting.

  “Your talent is, at times, the only reason I keep you alive,” the King said, frowning at the comical move. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “That and my natural charm, of course,” Marcus replied, amused by the man’s displeasure.

  Marcus had considered cutting off one of his hands. The Kingsmen valued him for his skill and accuracy with a gun. And if he could no longer shoot?

  “Careful,” the King told him, his temples beginning to throb.

  Marcus had ultimately decided not to maim himself. The gang had taken everything from him. Why give them his hand as well?

  Marcus bowed in surrender. “Say no more.”

  “Well, get on with it,” the King said impatiently. “Tell me about this Mr. Clark. Moth said he had the nerve to bring Crowther’s widow with him?”

  Marcus casually rested his elbows on the chair arms. “Ah, yes, Mr. Clark from Liverpool. Well, to begin with, the man has superior taste in clothing.”

  “The important bits, Mitchell.”

  The prominent veins in the King’s temples visibly throbbed. Good, Marcus thought. Perhaps he’d erupt in a rage and throw Marcus out before the subject of Grace came up again.

  “He came unarmed—rather daring, don’t you think?”

  “And his men?” the King asked impatiently.

  Marcus shook his head. “Several inside the Four Horsemen. And several more on the street. Nothing showy, though.”

  “Ballsy bastard,” the King swore.

  “My sentiments exactly,” Marcus agreed.

  The King leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Moth said he gave you a card of some sort.”

  Dammit, Marcus thought. He was not ready to share the address. Grace’s predicament had him pondering the situation, considering possible alternative actions, and Marcus preferred to move forward only after deciding on the exact path he would take. Giving the King Mr. Clark’s address might hinder his plan.

  Or it might not.

  “Really, I do not know why you are bothering to ask me anything. Moth seems to have already told you everything you need to know. Quite the accomplished young man, Moth.”

  The throbbing in the King’s temples picked up speed. “The card, Mitchell.”

  Marcus had no choice. He reached into his vest pocket and produced the card, the address listed upon it already safely stored in his memory. “Rather nice address, that.” He reached across the desk and set the paste card in front of the King.

  “Have our boys take a look at the house,” the man ordered, picking up the card and staring at it. “I want to know how many men he has with him. When they eat, sleep, relieve themselves. And keep an eye on our Mr. Clark. Anything odd and you come straight to me, all right?”

  Marcus had already done everything the King had listed, except, of course, for coming to him. Mr. Clark had brought an army with him to London. But he would not share this with the King. Sending the boys off to do the King’s bidding would buy Marcus some time.

  “Will do,” Marcus said. “With pleasure.”

  “Go,” the King commanded. “I am sick of the sight of you.”

  Marcus clutched at his heart, but was careful not to waste his opportunity to escape. He stood and turned to leave.

  “And do not think I’ve forgotten about the Widow,” the King added. “Now that we know where she is, it should be a simple enough task to kill her.”

  Marcus continued to stare at the door. “I have the feeling Mr. Clark would be rather displeased if the Widow Crowther was to turn up dead.”

  “Mr. Clark’s presence in London does not change our plans.”

  We shall see.

  Grace sat in the sunny back garden of Aylworth House. Her eyes were closed. There was a light breeze that occasionally carried snippets of sounds to her, of the servants inside the home and Mr. Clark’s men standing watch on the grounds. She had no idea what time it was nor how long she’d been sitting on the stone bench. And she did not care.

  The first step had been taken—and she was still alive. She breathed in deeply and exhaled, thankful for Mr. Clark’s … Mr. Clark’s …

  Thankful for Mr. Clark, Grace thought. For his cleverness and ease at the Four Horsemen. For his reassuring words and comforting touch. For his strong arms and kind smile.

  For him.

  What was she going to do?

  “Are you asleep?”

  Grace’s eyelids flew open and she peered at the brick garden wall that separated Mr. Clark’s home from the one next door. A pair of hands gripped the wall, a woman’s neck and head just visible above the gray stones.

  “Are you dangling there? From the wall?” Grace called out. “Is that quite safe?”

  “Of course I am dangling,” the woman replied as if Grace had just asked the silliest question in the world. “And I’ve no idea if it is safe or not. Do come over here and help me.”

  Grace leapt from the stone bench and ran toward the wall, capturing the attention of Midge, the man Mr. Clark had ordered to stay with her. “There is a woman,” she shouted at him. “On the wall.”

  “Oh dear, I believe my hands are slipping,” the woman cried.

  The guard reached the woman before Grace did and leapt up, placing one foot on the wall and capturing her hand in his.

  Grace reached him and stopped, a faint burning in her lungs from the sudden exertion. “Oh, well done, Midge.”

  “Midge?” The woman’s head appeared again. She looked at her hand in the guard’s and laughed. “You are not the Wicked Widow.”

  Grace froze at the woman’s words.

  “You are,” the woman continued, eyeing Grace with keen interest. “And I am afraid this was all a ridiculous plan to make your acquaintance.”

  The woman was clearly mad.

  “Oh dear, you think I am mad, don’t you?” she asked, reading Grace’s mind. “First, my name: Imogen Smithers—awful, isn’t it? That’s precisely why I go by Mademoiselle Louise LaRue.”

  “Go by?” Grace repeated, knowing she should not encourage the insane, but unable to stop herself.

  “Well, I’ll admit it is nowhere near as fetching as the ‘Wicked Widow.’ ”

  “Oh,” Grace said, putting the pieces together. “Then you are a …” She wasn’t sure what the polite term was, and she did not want to insult the woman, in case she actually was crazy and capable of violence.

  “Companion? Bird of paradise? Bit of muslin? Cyprian?” Imogen offered, ticking off the terms. “Oh please, Midge, you are blushing.”

  Grace looked at the guard, who was indeed red in the face. She patted the man’s arm reassuringly and attempted to not be amused. “Yes, to all.”

  “Well, of course ‘yes to all,’ otherwise I truly would be mad—which obviously I am not,” Imogen said. “Now, will you come to tea? I simply must know more about the Wicked Widow. And I have grown weary of taking tea all by myself.”

  “I am afraid that won’t be possible,” Midge answered on Grace’s behalf, his cheeks having returned to their normal color.

  Imogen waved the man off with the flick of her long, delicate fingers. “Be quiet, Midge. The Widow and I may not be proper ladies, but that does not mean we will allow our protector’s protector to dictate our schedule.”


  “Protector’s protector?” Midge repeated.

  “Are you hard of hearing, Midge?” Imogen yelled.

  Midge cleared his throat. “No. What I meant is that the Widow is required to be at home on certain days and at certain times.”

  Imogen stared at the man as if she did not understand.

  “At home—she cannot leave the property,” Midge explained, pointing at the house and gardens. “At home.”

  Imogen’s mouth formed a perfect O of understanding. “I see. In that case I will simply have to come to you.”

  She released his hand and disappeared behind the wall, the sound of slippered feet pattering quickly on a stone path prompting Grace and Midge to look at each other with the same surprised expression.

  “Is she …?” Grace began.

  “She wouldn’t,” Midge replied. “Would she?”

  Grace could no longer hear the footfalls—presumably because the woman was nearly at her front door. “There is only one way to find out.”

  Midge stepped aside and allowed Grace to go first. By the time she’d arrived in the entryway, Yates was arguing with Imogen on the front step, no less than four Hills Crossing men surrounding them.

  “I do not have a calling card,” Imogen told the butler. “But your mistress is expecting me.”

  Well, Grace thought to herself as she approached, she isn’t lying. Not exactly.

  Grace joined the butler at the open door. “I apologize, Yates. I should have informed you that I would be receiving a guest for tea. Imogen, do come in.”

  “I do not think it is right that you are apologizing to him,” Imogen started, sashaying into the foyer in a silk morning gown—a sprig of ivy clinging to the hem.

  Grace had only lived at Aylworth House for less than a week. But in that time she’d come to like Yates very much. Once he’d recovered from the shock of having to call her by her first name, the butler had proven himself to be practical, forthright, and quite kind.

  Still, Grace worried that Imogen’s sudden appearance on the doorstep, with no calling card nor formal invitation, might test the man beyond his means. Never mind the garden wall introduction.

  As a well-bred lady, Grace had been trained to know when a situation called for a full-fledged assault and when it warranted diplomacy. If Grace remembered correctly, under her parents’ roof the butler almost always won. And if he did not, copious amounts of soothing of the nerves were essential. Butlers—good butlers—were worth their weight in gold.

  Imogen had a bit to learn.

  Grace decided not to address the woman’s comment. “Would you inform Cook that we will take tea in the green parlor? I would be ever so grateful.”

  “You would be grateful?” Imogen incredulously asked.

  Grace could not bear to see the look on Yates’s face. She took Imogen’s arm in hers and steered her down the hall to the parlor.

  “Well, I must—”

  “No, not another word,” Grace whispered, leading the woman into the parlor and depositing her on a pale green, silk brocade-covered chair near one of the tall bay windows that looked out onto the gardens.

  Grace claimed the chair across from Imogen and arranged the skirt of her sprigged muslin gown. “You must treat your staff with respect—especially your butler. Without him the house falls to pieces. You need him on your side.”

  “But he works for me,” Imogen replied, removing her gloves.

  The woman’s accent was almost perfect. Grace had become quite adept at using speech patterns to discover where the Kingsmen she met came from.

  “Welsh?”

  “How did you know?” Imogen asked as she self-consciously patted her meticulously curled and upswept hair.

  “Beautiful country, Wales,” Grace replied, remembering a trip she’d taken there as a girl. “Why did you ever leave?”

  Imogen waited.

  “The lilting quality,” Grace explained with a friendly smile. “The Welsh tend to sing rather than speak.”

  “Cyfrgoli,” Imogen swore with exasperation. “I left Wales for my man Thomas. He said we’d find our fortune in London. And then he left me for a serving girl. Not exactly the fortune I had in mind.”

  “And now you are a man’s mistress,” Grace said, attempting to picture Imogen in her life before London.

  Imogen smiled, tilting her chin, the tension in her neck giving away her sensitivity to Grace’s description. “I am. And I’ve worked hard to get here. Folks back home wouldn’t know me anymore. My face, my clothes—the way I walk, talk. I changed everything about myself. And now, as they say, I am reaping the rewards.”

  A footman arrived with the tea and placed it on the small parquet mahogany table between the two women. He bowed to Grace and left.

  “And you?” Imogen asked, removing her gloves and dropping them on the cushion beside her. “What’s your story? I can tell already it is different from mine. There’s no disguising you are a lady.”

  Grace moved to pour the tea. “Very astute, Imogen,” she said, handing a delicate floral china cup and saucer to her. “I was the daughter of a nobleman until my father gambled me away to a doctor.”

  “Some father,” Imogen remarked with disgust. “And the doctor?”

  “Very much like my father,” Grace replied, dropping two sugars into her tea and stirring. “Fond of gambling. Fond of drink. Old. And not particularly trustworthy.”

  “The old ones are the most horrid, aren’t they?” Imogen asked, taking a sip of tea. “Can’t ever finish the job no matter how many times they try.”

  Grace sipped at her own tea and nodded in agreement. She could feel the warmth of a slight flush spread across her chest and rise toward her neck. Imogen was correct. The doctor had never been able to consummate their marriage. He had blamed Grace for his failure—and for all she knew of such things, she was responsible.

  “And when was the Wicked Widow born?” Imogen asked, a seductive smile curving her lips.

  “The doctor died three weeks ago.”

  Imogen’s smile disappeared. “You mean to tell me the man that secured this house for you is your first protector?”

  Grace should have done more thinking on her supposed past. But really, how was she to know someone such as Imogen would suddenly appear in her garden—or within relatively close proximity, anyway.

  “Is that surprising?” Grace countered, setting her cup down on its saucer.

  Imogen returned her own cup and saucer to the silver tray then scooted her chair closer to Grace’s. “Yes, very much so! I have only caught glimpses of him from the street, but he looks to be of some importance. Quite a coup for such an inexperienced woman. Brava, Wicked Widow!”

  There had been very little to be proud of in Grace’s life for quite some time. She looked at Imogen and let the woman’s infectious smile kindle one of her own. “Brava, indeed, Imogen!”

  Langdon had always been fond of the water.

  Seawater, that was. But the Thames? He stared down into the murky dark river and a faint stench rising from the water reached his nostrils. The perfect place to meet the King.

  “Have you been thinking?”

  Niles appeared from the shadows and casually strolled up to Langdon, a sly smile upon his lips. “My question to you is humorous, because I already know the answer. You are a smart man and an excellent agent. Always prepared, ready with the latest information. So of course you have been thinking. The real question is, are you brave enough to accept my challenge?”

  “Funny, I do not recall any being issued by you,” Langdon answered, irritated by Niles’s correct assessment of the situation, save the last part.

  Niles released a gasp of surprise. “Oh, do not play coy. It is beneath you. I very clearly issued a challenge. After the crossroads bit and before I suggested taking up the bottle.”

  Several sinister shadows formed along the timbers of the tall ships as members of the Kingsmen approached.

  Langdon signaled to the Corinthian
s, who crouched behind shipping crates and boxes of goods stacked along the quay. “I am afraid our conversation will have to wait.”

  Niles slipped a knife from his boot and palmed it. “Lucky bastard,” he murmured.

  As the three men drew closer Langdon was able to make out Marcus Mitchell. He was accompanied by what looked to be standard-issue thugs. “Unless you are the King, I fear I am to be disappointed this evening,” he called out.

  “I do hate to disappoint,” Marcus answered, stepping into the ring of light cast by a workman’s lantern that hung from a pole some yards away. “But you could not have expected the most important businessman in all of London to go traipsing about in the dead of night? And on the wharves, no less?”

  Langdon shook his head at the man’s explanation. “Tell me, Mitchell. If I had done as your message said and met you at the Four Horsemen?”

  “The King would not have been there, either. But we all would have been far warmer,” Marcus answered, cupping his hands and blowing on them for warmth.

  Langdon already knew what Mitchell had just confirmed. The King had no intention of meeting with him—ever. It was time to persuade the man otherwise.

  “I love the water,” Langdon said to Mitchell, sucking up a long breath of the putrid air. “Do not know that I would build on it, though. Would you?”

  The man continued to rub his hands together while he considered the question. “Seems a rather good investment, considering the trade that’s conducted day in, day out.”

  “Perhaps, but it is too vulnerable for my taste,” Langdon replied, eyeing the two thugs as they listened.

  The thug on the right reached within his coat and produced a pistol. The one on the left raised the club he’d been holding and pointed it menacingly at Langdon.

  “You and I are too intelligent for such dancing about,” Mitchell said, warning off his men with a steely glare. “Say what you mean, plainly. Before these two grow as impatient as you claim to be.”

  Niles flashed the gleaming blade of the knife he was holding. “Do not rush the boss,” he spat out, his Liverpool accent spot-on.

  “Now, now, boys,” Langdon said, grinning at Mitchell. “No need to fight. After all, we’ll soon be one big happy family.”