The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match

by Stefanie Sloane

  Langdon waited for his eyes to adjust to the candlelight as he considered the Queen’s words. “Christening?”

  The woman sat in profile, watching the festivities through a spyglass. Her features were hidden behind an intricate mask. “Yes, of course. Our men are born anew when they join the Kingsmen. Is this not common practice where you come from?”

  “I am afraid not,” he answered, sure he was meant to be insulted by the lack of eye contact. “We are far too busy seeing to our success.”

  That got her attention. The Queen instantly dropped the eyeglass in her lap and swiveled her head about to face him. “And are we to be properly introduced?” she demanded imperiously.

  “My Queen, may I introduce Mr. Clark of Liverpool,” Mitchell began.

  The Queen nodded, the tassel on her aubergine turban swaying.

  “Mr. Clark, the Queen.”

  Langdon bowed as if he stood before a real queen. “Your Grace.”

  “Ah, you do have manners,” she exclaimed, disbelief coloring her tone. “And here I’d been taught to believe pirates are nothing more than savages.”

  Langdon rose. “Pirates, Your Grace? Ah, you must be referring to the India Queen. Well, don’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.”

  “Hemlock, move,” the Queen ordered the man on her left, ignoring Langdon’s teasing.

  The man obeyed, unfolding his long, wiry frame and standing.

  Langdon assumed from the man’s name he specialized in poisoning people. Hemlock’s stained fingers and shifty gaze only deepened his belief.

  “Come,” the Queen commanded, gesturing for Langdon to claim the seat vacated by Hemlock.

  Langdon moved across the box, stealing a glance at the two unnamed men. Both stared straight ahead, their eyes lifeless in their identical faces.

  “Tweedledee and Tweedledum, for obvious reasons,” she explained, holding up the eyeglass once more.

  So Mitchell is the highest-ranking Kingsman in attendance, besides the Queen?

  Langdon mentally filed away the telling fact and sat down next to the woman. “As I was saying, someone has been telling stories.”

  “Do you not plan to plunder the Kingsmen? To take what is not yours?”

  Now that he was close, Langdon could better see the Queen. She was older than he’d first guessed, perhaps in her fifties. The skin on her neck drooped slightly and her fair hands were wrinkled. Her high-necked muslin gown and cashmere wrap were of fine quality and her kidskin boots peeking out from beneath her hem looked to be brand-new. She sat with her spine rigid, her shoulders rolled back and straight.

  All of these things could be learned or bought with money. After all, dance masters, modistes—anyone required to make a lady into a lady, really—had to make money to survive.

  But something about the Queen told Langdon she wasn’t a street urchin who’d rose from nothing and paid her way to gentility. Instinct told him she’d been born a lady; he’d stake his life on it.

  “Mine is a business proposition, Your Grace,” Langdon answered her, accepting a glass of wine from Hemlock. “Not a hostile siege.”

  The Queen lifted a glass that rested on a small table next to her. “Stealing what rightfully belongs to someone else is not hostile?”

  He had to admire the woman’s skill with treachery. She needed to know how many details about the Company delivery Langdon had managed to procure.

  “Oh yes, that,” Langdon replied with casual charm. “Necessary and wasteful, but hardly what I would call hostile.”

  The Queen took a slow sip of her wine, her sharp, dark eyes watching Langdon over the rim of her glass.

  She returned it to the table with a snap and pursed her lips in derision. “I see. And the Widow Crowther?” she asked, raising her chin haughtily. “What does she make of her part in all of this?”

  Langdon swirled the wine in his cup slowly. He’d yet to drink. Nor did he plan to. Poison was all too easily disguised in wine. “It is a touch premature to be speaking of such things, wouldn’t you agree? I was disappointed that you missed my deadline.”

  The Queen visibly paled at his condescending tone.

  “Tell me, Your Grace, how much longer will we play this game?” Langdon asked purposely, stripping his voice down to nothing more than danger and intent. “I would hate to miss the famous Vauxhall ham.”

  The Queen took up her spyglass again and turned to the crowd beyond. “We’ve yet to even speak of terms, Mr. Clark.”

  “I’ll not discuss terms with you.”

  “Because I am a woman?” the Queen asked, her hands visibly tightening as she held the spyglass aloft once more.

  Langdon handed the untouched glass of wine back to Hemlock and stood. “No, not because you are a woman. Because you are not the King.”

  He strode toward the door, his gaze cold, lethal, as he purposely looked at each of the four men as he passed. “This situation appears to be quite difficult for you to address, my Queen. Therefore, I will allow you two days to respond before I find it necessary to teach you a second lesson. Good evening.”

  Grace had never been able to understand why everyone fussed over the Vauxhall ham. She speared a piece from her plate and placed it in her mouth. Thin, salty, and ridiculously expensive.

  A footman appeared in their box and began to douse the candles.

  “Did anyone ask you to do that?” Mr. Davis snarled, standing up from his seat next to Grace.

  “It is for the fireworks, my lord,” the young man explained, staring at his boots.

  “Leave them. Go. Now,” Mr. Davis ordered the footman just as the colorful display began.

  “Mr. Davis,” Grace said, gesturing for him to reclaim his seat. “Come, or you will miss the show.”

  “I am not here for the fireworks, my lady,” Mr. Davis replied, reluctantly returning to his seat.

  “You yourself said we outman the Kingsmen three to one. I do not know about you, but I rather like those numbers,” Grace reassured him.

  The first of the fireworks exploded across the darkened sky, streaks of light racing against one another. Though she’d never had the opportunity to view a fireworks spectacle, Grace had always assumed it would be entertaining. And if the opening sequence was a promise of things to come, her assumption had been correct.

  “Oh,” Grace murmured, more impressed than she’d hoped to be. “It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Davis humphed with disapproval. “Considering it is akin to setting coin on fire for entertainment? Yes, I suppose it is.”

  The shape of a flying horse appeared overhead in shades of gold and blue. A unified “ooh” of awe rose from the dinner boxes and Grace smiled. “Come now, surely a flying horse in the sky is impressive—even to you, Mr. Davis.”

  The horse slowly melted just as a woodland rabbit hopped across the stars. Suddenly the outline of a large hawk appeared. In pursuit, its wings were fully extended and his beak parted as he swooped down toward the rabbit. His claws dropped and he scooped the helpless animal up in his powerful talons.

  Grace squeaked in surprise, as did many of the other women around her. Thankfully, the creators of the light show brought the image to a thrilling end before the impending carnage.

  “I must admit, I found that impressive,” Mr. Davis commented, his eyes now fixed on the display high above.

  “That is very male of you,” Grace said, glad for Mr. Davis’s presence. The rest of the box was absolutely filled to bursting by Langdon’s men, including Midge. She liked Midge, but he, much like the rest of their party, was not the loquacious type. Grace was too practical to react to such treatment in a sensitive manner. She understood that the men had a job to do. And talking to her was not one of their duties.

  Mr. Davis, on the other hand, while nowhere near chatty, was at least willing and able to carry on a conversation.

  He puffed out his chest and clapped his fist against his coat in a comical gesture. “Well, I am a man, my lady. And this display,�
�� he gestured at the night sky, “involves loud explosions and marauding hawks. Both are decidedly male interests.”

  Grace laughed and looked up at the dark sky just as a gathering of fairies in pinks and lavenders floated away. “Surely you are comfortable enough in your manhood to admit when something more tender, such as fairies, tickles your fancy?”

  Before he could reply to her teasing comment, a loud crash directly behind them startled Grace. Davis pushed Grace to the floor. “Stay right here. Do not move until I tell you it is safe to do so.”

  Long strides carried him across the box and the wall of Langdon’s men parted, quickly closing behind him, and he disappeared from Grace’s view.

  Every inch of Grace’s body and brain screamed for her to run away. She pressed her back against the wall of the box. Dealing with the doctor had been fertile ground for training her how to deal with dangerous circumstances, though her preferred method had always been to hide.

  Grace fumbled with her skirts and slipped her knife from its sheath. She braced for the yells and screams that would surely accompany the attack. Men never fought without the horror of the battle being expressed in as many different ways as was possible. The smell of sweat and urine. The sight of torn flesh and broken bone. The sounds were the worst of all. You could close your eyes and bury your nose in your wrap. And try to block out the horrific sounds by covering your ears with your hands. It never worked, really. Men’s violent efforts and ensuing pain were far too strong to be muffled.

  Grace braced herself for the terrifying sounds—but none came. Instead, she heard the low scuffle of boots on the plank floor. Straining, she then heard the wet suck of a knife being withdrawn from flesh. And finally a man’s last whispered gasp for life, air dragging against his windpipe, desperate for working organs that would guarantee its usefulness.

  The group of men parted and Davis emerged, stalking toward her, followed by two of Langdon’s men. One of them took her hand and pulled her to her feet while another took a stance behind her. The three formed a protective circle around Grace, blocking her from the rest of the men.

  “What is it? What’s happening?” She went up on tiptoe but couldn’t see past her guardians’ broad bulk.

  “Stay down, my lady,” Davis urged, his large frame easily blocking Grace.

  Determined to know what threatened her, she ducked and peered around his upper arm. The sky lit up with another burst of fireworks, illuminating the scene just beyond. Midge stood with his back to Grace, a man lying silent and unnaturally still at his feet. Just behind the two, more of Langdon’s men appeared to be securing the back panel of the dinner box.

  The outer door of the box slammed open, drawing the attention of all within.

  “Where is Lady Grace?” Langdon’s deep voice was hard, demanding an answer.

  “Here,” Grace called out. The agents around her stepped back and she saw past them to the doorway. “I am here.”

  Langdon strode toward her, his men clearing a path, moving out of his way. “Are you all right?” he asked, controlled fury lacing his tone.

  “She’s safe,” Davis answered.

  Langdon reached her and cradled her face in his hands. His fierce gaze scanned her pale features in an all-encompassing sweep. “Lady Grace?”

  “I am unharmed,” she answered, a tremor building within her as she looked into his eyes. “I promise.”

  The tremble transformed into violent shaking and Grace collapsed against him.

  With a muttered curse, he instantly gathered her in his arms.

  “I cannot stop shivering,” Grace muttered between her chattering teeth. He was blessedly warm and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing closer.

  His arms tightened.

  “You are in shock, my lady,” Langdon explained, carefully maneuvering his large frame through the door. “Davis, come with me. Bring four men with you. Leave the rest to clean up.”

  Grace clasped her hands more tightly around Langdon’s neck. “I am able to walk,” she insisted, pressing her face against his strong shoulder. She knew her words were contradicted by her actions. Still, instinct compelled her, the need to feel Langdon’s warmth seemed essential.

  “You are not,” he replied, his voice grim. They took the shortest path toward the boat landing, the five men with them forming a wall of protection around them. “And even if you were, I would not allow it. I need you in my arms.”

  “Sir,” Davis said, breathless as he caught up with them.

  “Is the intruder dead?”

  Davis took off his coat and tucked it around Grace. “Yes, sir.”

  Langdon swore under his breath. “Do we know who sent him?”

  “He bears a tattoo of a chess piece.”

  Grace turned her face into Langdon’s chest and closed her eyes.

  “The mark of the Kingsmen,” Langdon said, his voice hard.

  “We’ll make them pay, sir,” Davis assured him.

  Langdon’s heartbeat hammered beneath Grace’s cheek. “Oh, of that you can be sure.”

  Langdon swept Grace into Aylworth House, an arm around her waist. He was reluctant to let her go. He’d held her on his lap, close in his arms, on the coach drive home. He still needed her under his hand, the feel of her slim body next to his was necessary to his sanity and uncertain temper.

  “Have water brought up immediately for her ladyship’s bath,” he told Yates, pausing inside the entry.

  “Right away, sir.” Yates cast a concerned glance over Grace’s pale face and hurried away.

  Langdon strode across the marble-floored entryway and up the stairs, taking Grace with him.

  “I am perfectly well, Langdon,” she protested as he closed her bedroom door behind them and untied her domino.

  “You are still trembling,” he said grimly, pushing the encompassing cloak from her shoulders and tossing it across a nearby chair. “And you are too pale.”

  “I am a bit chilly, that’s all,” she insisted.

  “That’s not all of it,” he told her as he quickly and efficiently stripped her out of her clothing and bundled her into a robe. “You shouldn’t have been there tonight.”

  “I wanted to be there,” she reminded him. “I would have been most put out with you had I not been.”

  Langdon ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “You could have been hurt. And it would have been my fault.” The thought terrified him. He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over a nearby chair, then unwound his cravat as he walked to the small table beneath the window. A decanter half-filled with brandy sat on a silver tray with several glasses.

  He poured brandy into two of the heavy cut-glass goblets and handed her one.

  She eyed it dubiously.

  “Just sip it,” he told her. “It will warm you and steady your nerves.”

  “Very well. If you insist.” She took a tiny sip and shuddered, waited a moment, then sipped again. The second taste went down easier. “Langdon—” she began but a knock on the door silenced her.

  “Your ladyship?” Yates said through the closed door. “Your bath is ready.”

  “Thank you, Yates,” Grace called out.

  “It is about time,” Langdon muttered. He took her hand and opened the door to the bathing room just beyond.

  The large tub was filled with gently steaming water. Langdon slipped her robe off her shoulders, letting it fall to pool at her feet, and caught her waist, lifting her up.

  Grace gasped, her hands closing over his forearms, her eyes wide.

  “Shhh, I’ve got you.” Langdon gently set her down in the rose-scented water.

  “Ahhh, this is lovely,” she murmured, closing her eyes as she eased back to rest her head on the rim of the tub. A smile of pleasure curved her lips.

  Langdon couldn’t resist her. He bent and pressed his mouth to hers. She responded instantly, lips soft and inviting, coaxing his, her damp hands cupping his nape to urge him nearer.

  Langdon lifted his
head and looked down at her. Her violet eyes were smoky, darkened, and sultry. The silky curves of her breasts and shoulders were flushed pink from the heat of the water and their kiss.

  “You are feeling warmer.” It wasn’t a question. Still, Grace nodded in response.

  “As am I.”

  His dry comment made her laugh.

  “You would be much cooler without your clothes,” she said, eyes sparkling with mischief.

  He eyed her for a moment, delighted by her daring. “You are right,” he said at last. “I believe I would be.”

  He removed his onyx studs and set them on the table that held a stack of linen drying cloths, some washcloths, a bowl with soap, and a jar of rose-scented bath oil. Then he shrugged out of his shirt and sat on one of the chairs, where he managed to tug off his snug boots. Then he stood and without ceremony shoved his breeches down his legs.

  Throughout his disrobing, Grace watched him silently, her eyes darkening even further, lashes half-lowered.

  “Move up, love,” he told her.

  Grace scooted forward and he stepped into the bath behind her, water sloshing dangerously close to the rim as he sank down.

  “Oh, this is so nice,” she murmured as he stretched long legs out alongside her hips and slipped an arm around her waist, drawing her back to lean against his chest. She rested her head on his shoulder, her damp hair tickling his throat when she turned to look up at him. “Are you warm, sir?” she teased.

  He brushed a kiss against her temple and chuckled. “I am, madam. As you no doubt can tell.” He spread his fingers over her belly and nudged her back against his solid erection.

  Her gaze turned sultry. “So I can,” she murmured with a soft laugh.

  Langdon scooped the bar of French soap from the bowl and rubbed it between his hands until bubbles dripped from his fingers. Then he set the soap back in the bowl and smoothed his hands over the wet curves of her shoulders, before moving on to the delicate line of her collarbone. Then he cupped her breasts, her wet skin slippery beneath his palms.

  She sighed, moving against him restlessly.

  He stroked his thumbs over her rosy nipples, pulled them into tight peaks.