The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match

by Stefanie Sloane

  “Lady Serendipity,” Lady Herbert said with overwhelming enthusiasm. “You are looking well this evening.”

  She sighed. Enduring such company was the price Serendipity was required to pay for catching a glimpse of him. It seemed rather high at times. There were days when she hated him for forcing her into such a degrading position, suffering fools so that she might be near him.

  In fact, there were times when she wanted to kill him. But Serendipity wasn’t a stupid woman. To kill the only man she’d ever loved would defeat the purpose of remaining devoted to him for so many years. And so, she’d killed others in his place. The deaths relieved the tension and she’d found them a convenient way to ease the stress of unfulfilled dreams.

  “You are too kind, Wilhelmina,” Serendipity finally responded, aware she’d taken a touch too long, but caring little.

  Several men sauntered into the room, not bothering to wait for the majordomo to announce them. And there he was, right in the middle of the pack of young lords, indulging their antics while remaining wholly above them. They looked even younger next to his seasoned, experienced character.

  Women adored him and men revered him.

  But Serendipity was the only one who truly loved him, she thought smugly.

  “I did not see you at Lady Pickwick’s garden party,” Lady Herbert said congenially.

  Serendipity knew what the woman was up to. Ever since Serendipity’s father had died and left his entailed estate to a distant cousin, the ton had made a habit of attempting to discover how, precisely, she paid her way.

  She’d never married, of course. And the distant cousin was a tightfisted penny-pincher. Gossips spread rumors that a mysterious male benefactor had come to her rescue.

  Little did the idiots know Serendipity had not required rescuing. She’d built her business brick by brick, employing many but trusting few.

  And along the way, she’d donated to charitable causes and dropped enough coin the length of London to ensure even those within the highest echelons of the ton could not ostracize her—though Serendipity was quite sure they would like nothing else.

  Lady Herbert wanted to know if Serendipity had been invited to Lady Pickwick’s party because the fat, over-rouged woman had nothing better to do with her time.

  It disgusted Serendipity.

  But torturing her with a prolonged pause was the tiniest bit enjoyable.

  “That’s because I was not there, Wilhelmina,” Serendipity replied, eyeing the woman with a condescending glare. “I had a previous engagement in Kent.”

  It was a lie, of course. Serendipity had been forced to miss the garden party due to an issue with her business. But she’d overheard Lady Filburn bragging to Lady Morrow about having received an invitation to Lord Carstair’s house party, which occurred on the same day as Lady Pickwick’s garden party.

  “In Kent, you say,” Wilhelmina asked, her skin slowly warming to a spring green, if Serendipity was correct.

  “Envious?” she countered, failing to supply an answer.

  Wilhelmina furrowed her heavy brow as if she did not understand. “Why would I be envious of your trip to Kent? I understand the weather is most unpredictable in that part of the country—especially during the spring.”

  “Oh, quite the contrary, I assure you,” Serendipity replied with relish. “I can’t remember the weather ever having cooperated in such a glorious fashion. You really should have been there.”

  A footman approached the two, a silver tray with a single, sealed note resting on its gleaming surface. “For you, my lady,” he said to Serendipity, holding the tray out to her.

  “Well, I will leave you to your correspondence,” Lady Herbert said, clearly knowing when she’d been beaten and thankful for the opportunity to make her escape.

  “Thank you,” Serendipity answered, taking the letter in her hands and ripping it open.

  Wilhelmina nodded then scuttled away.

  The footman remained.

  “Go,” Serendipity ordered, anxious to read the missive in private.

  The man remained. “I am to accompany you to your carriage should you agree to the meeting.”

  Serendipity captured the impertinent man with a critical eye. Was he one of hers? “Well, give me a touch of space, you idiot,” she hissed.

  The footman took three steps back and waited.

  Serendipity read the short letter, which requested she leave directly to attend an urgent meeting. Annoyed, she looked up from the letter and once again at her true love. Would this have been the night he realized life was nothing more than a string of mundane interactions without her?

  She read the letter once more then crumpled it in her hand. Now she would never know.

  “Come,” she ordered the footman, shoving the letter into her reticule as she stalked toward the stairs, the weight of her position—made heavier by male incompetence—ever so slightly bowing her normally erect, even regal, carriage.

  “I adore the cut of your gown,” Imogen complimented Grace as their barouche rolled along Regent Street. “But the bonnet seems a bit much. Actually, more than a bit—even for me. And your entourage, though discreet, smacks of arrogance.”

  Grace smiled. Not that anyone but her was aware of her amusement since her entire head and most of her neck were encased in a swath of black netting. Grosgrain ribbons were tied in a jaunty bow beneath her chin, anchoring the bonnet in place against a slight breeze. The playful gusts ruffled skirts and bonnet ribbons on strolling shoppers up and down the exclusive row of shops. “Mr. Clark can be quite protective.”

  Grace knew the bonnet looked ridiculous as did Mr. Clark’s men trailing behind her. Nevertheless, she would have done anything within reason—or not, actually—to get away from Aylworth House. She’d followed her instincts and pursued Mr. Clark, only to be rebuffed. She was humiliated, but more than that, she was disappointed. She’d thought for certain there was a connection between them.

  “Well, you do have a flair for the dramatic, I’ll give you that,” Imogen replied, arching one perfectly plucked brow as she discreetly looked behind, to where a number of gang members followed. “I don’t know that there will be room for all the men in Madame Fontaine’s, though.”

  Grace pulled her cashmere shawl more tightly about her shoulders and pictured Mr. Clark’s men squeezing into the modiste’s shop, thankful for the distraction. “I believe you are right, Imogen.”

  “Remember, it is Mademoiselle Louise, if you please,” Imogen playfully whispered as the barouche drew smoothly to a stop. “Mademoiselle Louise LaRue.”

  Grace covered her mouth with mock embarrassment. “Of course. How could I have forgotten?”

  “It is the bonnet,” Imogen replied, stifling a laugh. She allowed their driver to take her hand, then stepped down from the carriage and smoothed her cherry-red pelisse over her gown. “The weight is muddling your mind.”

  Grace rose from the cushioned carriage seat and accepted the driver’s hand, carefully stepping down onto the street. “Do you know, you may be right? Perhaps your Madame Fontaine might be able to help.”

  “Oh, Madame is truly the most talented modiste in all of London!” Imogen exclaimed, looping her arm through the crook of Grace’s elbow. “You have heard of her before, haven’t you?”

  Grace let Imogen steer her toward Madame’s front door. “I am afraid I have not,” she replied as Imogen grasped the polished brass doorknob and pushed. “My husband would have liked for me to have taken more care with my appearance, but it seemed a trifling detail at the time.”

  “Well, your situation has changed. And so must your wardrobe,” Imogen answered, a small, wicked smile curving her mouth as she opened the door.

  Grace looked down at the handsome morning dress she wore. Made of soft muslin in a stylish blue pattern, she’d thought her appearance rather fashionable—especially when one remembered that it was Mr. Clark who chose the gown for her.

  Mr. Clark.

  She shivered as me
mory and vivid sensations flooded her.

  Or rather, Mr. Clark’s lips.

  Grace fought the urge to run the pad of her forefinger across her mouth.

  “Bonjour, Madame Fontaine,” Imogen trilled, sweeping into the waiting area of the dress shop with a flourish.

  A woman and her two daughters sat upon a striped divan, their backs as rigid as the expression on each face.

  Grace’s lungs filled with irritation, the doting mama and her matching offspring’s reaction to Imogen’s presence wholly insulting.

  And then she realized it wasn’t only Imogen’s presence in the modiste’s shop that offended the trio. It was Grace as well.

  An impish woman appeared from behind a pair of fanciful, lace-over-brocade curtains that separated the front of the store from the back. Her coal-black hair was clipped and curled close to her head, the style perfectly showcasing her enormous hazel eyes and high cheekbones. “My dear Mademoiselle LaRue,” she said in welcome, her husky voice musical with a delicious French accent.

  The society mama huffed with indignation at the modiste’s friendly hello.

  “Lady Finnywinch, you have something to say?” Madame Fontaine asked the woman pointedly, her tone clipped.

  Grace held her breath. She was not familiar with the Finnywinch name. But anytime “Lady” preceded a surname, one was advised to tread carefully.

  Clearly, Madame Fontaine held an entirely different view on the matter.

  “Tea, please,” Lady Finnywinch ground out.

  Grace exhaled.

  Imogen preened.

  And Madame Fontaine sniffed imperiously. “Cosette,” she called, snapping her fingers as she did so.

  A young woman appeared from behind the curtains, a tray laden with service for three in her capable hands. “Oui, Madame,” she answered quietly, gliding past Grace noiselessly.

  She set the tray on the low mahogany table in front of the Finnywinch ladies and proceeded to pour.

  Lady Finnywinch looked as though she might scowl.

  Grace rather hoped she would, if only to witness Madame in action once again.

  “This way,” Madame ordered, turning toward the back of the shop and gesturing for Grace and Imogen to follow.

  The curtains parted to reveal a neat hallway. A door on Grace’s right sat partially ajar and she peeked inside. A cozy, neat kitchen lay within.

  Madame Fontaine reached the door at the end of the hallway and opened it. Bright light spilled out, rushing down the hallway, nipping at the toes of Grace’s kidskin boots and quickly spreading sunny rays from her hem to her bodice to finally reach her bonnet as she neared the room.

  “You must spend a fortune on candles, Madame,” Grace remarked as she walked across the threshold and into the modiste’s workroom.

  “Au contraire,” Madame Fontaine replied with a smile, closing the door behind Grace and gesturing to the high-banked windows that made up the entire upper half of the workroom’s back wall. “Candlelight masks a woman’s imperfections—this is why it is preferred by lovers, oui?”

  Grace nodded in agreement as she lifted her veil, tucking it back over the crown of her bonnet. The woman’s line of thinking made sense.

  “Non, natural light is the modiste’s brother-in-arms. Not the clients’, it is true,” she added, shrugging. “But that is neither here nor there. Once the garment is fitted and sewn, then is the time for candlelight and masquerades.”

  “And Lady Finnywinch approves of your methods?” Grace asked, hiding her curiosity by scanning the large fabric-strewn room.

  Madame Fontaine chuckled, the low, throaty tone at odds with her tiny, feminine visage. “Now I see why you and Imogen are friends. Honesty, as you English are so fond of saying, is the best policy, oui? Lady Finnywinch is an exact replica of the last lady to darken the door of my shop. And the one before that, and the one before that …”

  Grace turned to discern why Madame had paused in her explanation. The woman had bent down to retrieve a slip of creamy Belgian lace.

  “That is to say, when one influential lady decides something, the rest follow,” she went on, straightening and coming toward Grace. “In Paris, my mother was a wealthy man’s mistress and I his bastard child. In London, a lie or two and voilà, I have dressed princesses and ladies most highborn. English ladies are easily fooled—present company excluded.” She held the lace up to Grace’s neck and smiled wickedly. “Parfait.”

  Ah, Madame was not who she appeared to be. Grace felt a touch of the tension that had tightened her shoulders slide away.

  “Now you see why I am so fond of Madame Fontaine,” Imogen said, walking to join Grace and the modiste. “She’s one of us. Or might as well be. That does not sound right, does it?”

  Madame Fontaine handed the lace to Imogen then patted her hand. “Do not worry yourself, mon amie. Now, what have you come for? Dresses?” She turned back to Grace and began to examine her green gown. “It is Mrs. Beecham’s work, yes?”

  Grace stood still while the woman looked at the lace on her sleeves. “I honestly do not know. I neither ordered nor paid for the gown.”

  “Before her recent round of luck, Grace was married to a horrid man—did not want him near her, so there was no need for pretty things,” Imogen explained, admiring the strip of lace. “Lost in a game of cards by her father, if you can believe it.”

  Madame Fontaine’s eyes rounded with surprise. “Is this true?”

  Imogen ceased fingering the lace and looked at the two. “Did I say too much? I am sorry, Grace. Once I open my mouth it is almost impossible for me to close it.”

  “Do not worry, Imogen,” Grace assured her new friend. “And yes, it is the truth. The father, the husband—the whole sordid tale, I am afraid. Are you quite scandalized? I am sure Lady Finnywinch would have an apoplectic fit if she knew even half the details of my history.”

  “Please,” Madame answered, rolling her eyes. “You are amongst friends here. And if you truly do want to give Lady Finnywinch a fit, come with me.”

  Madame took Grace by the hand and led her to a pair of upholstered chairs. She gestured for her to sit and asked Imogen to do the same.

  A low table stood between the chairs, a crystal decanter of amber liquid and three cut-crystal glasses placed precisely in the middle of the lacquered mahogany top. Madame knelt and decanted the carafe, lifting it gracefully and pouring a small amount into each glass before passing one to each younger woman.

  “First, we drink,” Madame explained, taking up her glass.

  Grace lifted hers, the heavy crystal feeling good in her hand.

  Imogen raised hers as well and all three women took a sip at precisely the same moment.

  The amber liquid warmed Grace’s lips at first, its heat increasing as it slid down her throat. She gasped from the unexpected sensation and sucked in cool air in an effort to ward off the building fire in her mouth.

  Madame swallowed the entire contents of her glass, an enthusiastic “oui!” escaping her lips before she returned the glass to the table.

  Imogen followed suit, tossing hers back with wild abandon. “Hamlet’s balls, but you best me every time!” She set her glass down on the table and fanned herself. “One day, Madame. One day …”

  Grace smiled at the woman’s antics—or was it the instantaneous effects of the drink? “I believe you are correct, Lady Fannywench—Finnywinch—would be appalled.”

  “Oh, no, this is not the scandalous portion of your visit,” Madame replied, standing up and quickly crossing the room to a large chest of drawers. She opened the top drawer and reached inside, removing a pile of soft silken things and lacy bits. “This is.”

  The modiste returned and slid the decanter and glasses to one side of the table, then deposited the fabric and lace on the other.

  “I do not find fabric and lace to be particularly offensive,” Grace offered, looking at Imogen. “But perhaps I am missing something.”

  Madame carefully plucked one slim line of
silk from the pool and held it up, revealing a soft, sensuous lilac gown, of sorts.

  “Oh, it is lovely,” Grace exclaimed, marveling at the intricate lacework that banded the bodice. “But where is the rest of it?”

  “That is the scandalous part, mon amie,” Madame Fontaine responded, holding up the second shoulder strap. The gown consisted of only enough fabric to cover Grace just past her derriere—if that.

  “Is it transparent?” Grace asked, quite befuddled by this point.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Imogen answered, admiring the scrap of silk and lace.

  Grace could not fathom what one was meant to do with something so … so … so small. “Is that meant for sleeping?”

  “Only if your protector is aged, blind, and infirm,” Madame answered practically.

  “Oh,” Grace exclaimed, feeling rather foolish. If the night before was any indication, the last thing on Mr. Clark’s mind was seeing her in such a gown.

  “Stonecliffe?”

  Langdon scanned the room and spotted Niles in the far right corner just as his friend received a facer from his sparring partner.

  The Young Corinthians was a demanding organization, expecting their agents to be brutes, politicians, Casanovas, and skilled spies all at once. Langdon excelled at anything he put his mind to. But that did not mean he enjoyed it. Boxing, in his opinion, was amongst the least likable.

  Deep in the underpinnings of the Young Corinthians Club, Langdon picked his way toward Niles, dodging agents in various forms of combat, until he reached the ropes that separated the boxing area from the rest of the room.

  “Was that quite necessary?” Niles asked Tamborlin as he gingerly inspected the welt growing on his right cheek.

  Tamborlin offered his fellow agent a cheeky smile. “Never take your eyes off your enemy, isn’t that what you are always telling the new recruits?”

  Langdon laughed, garnering a glare from his friend.

  Niles pointed to the door. “Go, before I literally make you eat your words,” he commanded the young agent.

  Tamborlin did as he was told, turning away before Niles followed through on his threat.