The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match

by Stefanie Sloane

  “Shh, love,” he murmured. He lifted her just far enough to position his erection against her aching center and then lowered her, surging upward and filling her.

  She moaned louder and rocked forward, forcing him deeper into her. His groan joined hers as the movement seated him hard within her. With his hands at her waist, he lifted her just enough to partially retreat, then lowered her in a long smooth slide that had her clenching him, her nails scoring the skin of his shoulders.

  “Langdon,” she begged, tortured, needing more. She put her arms around his neck and clasped him, pressing her breasts against his chest. His hair teased her sensitive nipples as she moved up and down his shaft.

  “Grace,” he growled, grabbing her backside with both of his hands. He flipped her onto her back, his heavy weight pinning her to the mattress, and began a pounding rhythm that made her cry out with pleasure.

  “Let go, my love,” Langdon urged.

  “With you,” Grace panted. “Only with you.”

  Langdon sunk himself into Grace’s core, his eyes wild with passion. “Now.”

  And Grace let go. Her body shattered into a thousand points of white light as she climaxed.

  Langdon pressed his forehead to hers and groaned loudly, his own release exploding within her.

  “I love you,” he whispered over and over, reverently.

  Grace pulsed with pleasure and wrapped Langdon in an embrace. “And I love you.”

  Much later, after Langdon had taken Grace once more, and Grace had done the same to him, she lay in his arms, her head resting on his bare chest. She listened to his steady breathing, the strong beating of his heart against her cheek like music to her ears.

  Home. Langdon was her home.

  “Do you know, I think I would make quite an accomplished criminal.”

  Langdon looked at Niles, the man’s face almost entirely shadowed by the dark night. “Considering a change in careers?”

  The kitchen door of the Four Horsemen rattled, drawing the men’s attention.

  “All I am saying is that it is never a bad idea to have options,” Niles explained.

  The door slowly swung open and the Young Corinthian agent assigned to the gaming hell emerged. “Sir, the name is Rawlings,” he said to Langdon in greeting. “You will have no more than an hour before the first of the employees begin to arrive.”

  Langdon looked at Niles, then swept his gaze over Cleese, the second agent he’d brought along. “Do you hear that, men?”

  Both nodded in understanding.

  “Good,” Langdon said. “Let’s not waste a minute of it.”

  Rawlings stepped aside and Langdon gestured for Niles and Cleese to move.

  “Watch the door,” he ordered Rawlings, waiting for the other two to enter before crossing the threshold himself.

  “I will,” Rawlings replied, then quietly shut the door behind them.

  Langdon took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the almost entirely dark room. Slowly, the layout of the space came into focus. They were in the Four Horsemen’s kitchens, a set of stoves on the far wall and work areas to the right. A large wooden worktable stood directly in front of them.

  “Cleese, light a candle and unload the supplies.”

  The young agent walked to a lit sconce on the wall opposite them and produced a tallow candle. Lighting it, he returned, then bent to retrieve the large rucksack he’d brought with him.

  “The gunpowder has been encased in wooden tubes, all sharing a common fuse,” he began, gently setting the sack down on the worktable. “We will start upstairs, in the northern corner of the building, then work our way counterclockwise. I will place the tubes approximately in the middle of each corner room. Then we will return to the main floor. We will prepare that floor in the same way, then return to the kitchens. Once you two have exited the building and moved a safe distance away, I will see to the wick.”

  “Simple enough,” Niles commented dryly.

  Cleese gave him a pointed look, then picked up the sack and moved toward the stairs.

  Taking two at a time, the line of agents made quick work of the two flights and headed for the northern corner of the Four Horsemen. Cleese set the sack down on the floor and unbuttoned the flap, revealing an intricate web of gunpowder tubes and lines that attached each one to the next. “You’ll find it tedious work, but it is absolutely essential that we stay together.”

  Cleese picked up the first batch of tubes then stepped aside. Langdon saw to the sack and Niles followed behind.

  “Let me place this one before anyone else touches the next unit,” Cleese instructed. He moved slowly toward the middle of the room with Langdon and Niles following closely behind.

  “Like you’re cradling a baby, gentlemen,” he told the two as he knelt down and gently placed the tubes on the floor.

  “Rather less dangerous than a baby,” Niles replied.

  “Only you could make a joke while we risk blowing ourselves up,” Langdon commented, watching closely as Cleese saw to the unit.

  Cleese stood up and chuckled at the comment. “It’s actually quite safe—as long as you do not move too quickly. Or drop anything. Or speak too loudly.”

  “I feel so much better now, Cleese, thank you,” Niles replied dryly. “Come, let us see to these babies before I lose a limb.”

  The three carefully covered the top floor with the black powder tubes, keeping close track of the shared fuse as they went. They moved on to the main floor and set about repeating the meticulous ritual. Returning to the kitchens, Langdon clapped Cleese on the back. “Be quick about it.”

  “I always am,” the young agent assured him.

  Niles opened the door and shooed Rawlings away, then followed.

  “We will be across the street waiting,” Langdon told Cleese before exiting the Four Horsemen. He ran west along the building, looking both ways before crossing the street and taking up his spot behind the tobacco shop that faced the gaming hell.

  Cleese appeared two minutes later, running faster than Langdon had ever seen a man move. He made it to the corner of the tobacco shop when suddenly the Four Horsemen exploded, knocking the young agent into the air.

  Langdon ran to Cleese’s side, glad when the agent turned over and frowned.

  “I was off by two seconds,” Cleese groused. “So much for perfect execution.”

  Langdon looked across the street to where the Four Horsemen once stood. Rubble, splintered wood, shattered brick, and broken glass were all that remained of the Kingsmen’s popular business.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he told Cleese, then offered the agent his hand. “Looks pretty near perfect to me.”

  Serendipity stared out the elegant French doors to where her perfectly cultivated garden grew. In her hand, a letter from the King. The man was sorry to have to tell her that the Hills Crossing gang had burned the Four Horsemen to the ground. The building was completely lost. All of the furnishings had been reduced to ashes. A supply of French wine smuggled in from Calais was gone, too, along with the rest of the spirits. Not to mention the beef and poultry, potatoes and carrots. Even the salt, Serendipity reflected.

  Luckily, the King had relayed, not one person had been injured.

  Serendipity crumpled the letter in her hand. People were dispensable. Easily bought, easily sold. While furnishings, fine food, bricks, and mortar? Those took time. And effort.

  But especially money.

  Mr. Clark had cost her all three.

  Mr. Clark had cost her quite a bit more, actually. Serendipity could count on one hand the number of restful nights she’d experienced since his arrival in London.

  He plagued her mind with his machinations and scheming. Why would one man—one unimportant, common man from Liverpool—think he had any right to her kingdom?

  It was beyond comprehension, Serendipity realized. As was the idea that Mr. Clark clearly believed she would release everything she’d built because he said so.

  The audacity! The n
erve. His hubris would be his downfall, Serendipity felt sure. Stealing the East India Company’s shipment was something she could almost admire. Indeed, given the same situation, Serendipity would have more than likely made the very same move. It had cost her dearly, the Company men demanding their required payments for the Kingsmen’s protection be cut in half. And she had not been pleased.

  But the Four Horsemen? Serendipity had seen to the gambling hell herself, taking special delight in overseeing the project. Not one pathetic excuse for a man who darkened its door would have done so if they’d known of her connection to the hell, simply because the establishment was owned by a woman. And still, they spent their money as if they could not get enough of the very things Serendipity had chosen so carefully in order to entice them. To ensnare them.

  It began to rain outside, darkening Serendipity’s mood further. She moved away from the window and walked down the main hall of her townhome, taking note of the priceless art that lined the walls—pieces by the Masters and a handful of more modern work carefully arranged to highlight exquisite artistry. She savored the softness supplied beneath her feet by the finest of Aubusson runners in peach and blue tones that covered the floors. Stopping in front of the entryway to the drawing room, Serendipity cast an approving eye over the luxurious settee and matching chairs, the silk wallpaper and flawless oaken tables. Breathtaking crystal candlesticks adorned the large marble fireplace, along with a pair of busts depicting Aristotle and Plato.

  “My lady, you are bleeding.”

  Serendipity looked back to where the voice came from. Her maid stood nearby, concern creasing her features.

  “I am?” the Queen asked, following the maid’s gaze. Blood dripped from Serendipity’s closed fist. She unclenched her fingers and discovered several scoring marks in the flesh of her palm from her own nails.

  “I am,” Serendipity said again, this time with anger. “Go at once and fetch a length of linen for me,” she commanded.

  The maid bobbed a bow then scurried toward the servants’ stairs.

  Serendipity looked at the letter from the King, now crumpled and stained. The words “Mr. Clark” stood out from the rest of the smudged missive. She curled her bloody fingers into a tight fist around the paper once again and swore under her breath.

  Mr. Clark intended to take everything away from her. Without the Kingsmen, Serendipity would lose her home and everything inside of it, including the artwork and furnishings, the busts and crystal candlesticks. Next would be her standing within the ton—something she felt sure her peers would gleefully applaud. And finally, she feared, the last scintilla of sanity she possessed. All of her work, her careful planning. The sacrifice and years spent hiding behind that imbecile Adolphus Beaufort. Going without the respect and recognition she fully deserved. And everything without the man she loved.

  Her vision narrowed and all Serendipity saw was Mr. Clark. He was responsible for everything that was not right in her life. Why had she not recognized it before? Mr. Clark had to be dealt with severely and with finality. He could not be allowed to go on living and reaping Serendipity’s rewards.

  He would remain alive, but she would ensure his life was hell on earth. Seemed a much more fitting punishment for his crime.

  The Kingsmen did business with a prison-ship captain by the name of Mr. Croy. The man operated under unattainable quotas put forth by his company. And when he needed men to fill the cells on his ship, he consulted the Kingsmen. It would not be difficult to arrange passage for Mr. Clark on Mr. Croy’s ship. Every last man aboard claimed innocence, therefore his own cries of injustice would be ignored by crew and captain alike.

  Serendipity had been on Mr. Croy’s hulking ship once. It was indeed hell on earth. And when she told Mr. Clark of the Widow Crowther’s painful death, his slow, tortuous journey to Australia would be the end of him.

  Grace plucked a strawberry from one of many trays laid out before her and maneuvered it beneath the netting of her heavy, concealing hat. She bit into the juicy fruit, savoring the sweet, slightly tart taste.

  “Well, at least one of us was good and thoroughly bedded last night.”

  Imogen’s outrageous statement found Grace almost choking on her bite. She swallowed the tangy flesh and furtively glanced about her. Thankfully, only a few others had come to Hyde Park to enjoy the appearance of the sun. While Grace and Imogen relaxed by the banks of the Serpentine and feasted on the gourmet picnic, a handful of ladies strolled the many man-made paths that cut through the large green space, presumably discussing the latest en dits rather than Grace’s possible night of passion.

  “Come now, you are not going to deny it, are you?” Imogen prodded, waggling her eyebrows in comedic fashion.

  Grace popped the last bite of strawberry into her mouth and chewed slowly—either to buy herself some time or to torture Imogen, she could not say.

  “And what led you to such an assumption?” she finally asked, widening her eyes and pretending innocence.

  Imogen sighed and pursed her Cupid’s bow lips. “Please, my lady. Recognizing such things is nothing more than a trick of the trade. Now, stop stalling and tell me all about it. Did you attempt the magic carpet ride? Where your leg wraps about his—”

  “Imogen,” Grace hissed, tickled by her friend’s bravado though she tried not to be. “I did not mean to insult you, Imogen,” she assured her friend. “It is only that I would prefer to keep some of our discussions more private than a public park allows. Do you understand?”

  Imogen rolled her eyes in true Imogen fashion. “Oh, all right. Does this mean we will not be discussing any gossip, either?”

  “I am reserved, Imogen, not cruel,” Grace answered, with a decidedly wicked wink.

  “Oh well, that is good news.” Imogen beckoned her closer and waited while Grace scooted over. “You’ve forgotten your parasol.”

  Grace looked at the sunshade lying alone just on the edge of the blue wool blanket. “No, actually, I did not.”

  Imogen frowned and leaned in until their shoulders touched and her parasol shielded both from the sun. “There. Now, would you like to go first or shall I?”

  In truth, Grace had very little to share in the way of gossip. Mrs. Templeton always told her any news she had gathered throughout the day, but it was hardly titillating. The latest to-do involved a deliveryman who had possessed the temerity to suggest the house could make do with substandard potatoes.

  Grace looked at Imogen. The woman’s expression was jubilant, clearly delighted at the very idea of a fine bit of juicy gossip.

  The tale of the potatoes would not satisfy. “Why don’t you start?” Grace suggested, sure she would remember something interesting by the time Imogen had finished.

  “Well,” her friend began, drawing out her L’s for added effect. “Last night, poor Kirby fell asleep while waiting for me to change into Madame Fontaine’s latest creation. He has been rather preoccupied lately, so I was not overly surprised.”

  “And who is your Kirby, again?” Grace asked, holding her hand out beyond the parasol’s protective boundary of shade.

  Imogen smiled widely. “Lord Cuthbert. An absolute dolt in the bedroom, but very sweet, and rich as they come. Now, where were we?”

  Grace’s fingers flexed in the sun’s heat and she sighed. “Um, Kirby was asleep.”

  “Yes, of course,” Imogen replied. “How silly of me. Well, I am rather used to being awake and active well into the wee hours. And try as I might, I could not fall asleep. And so, as I am wont to do in such circumstances, I wandered down to the kitchens in search of a little something to eat. And who should be there?”

  Grace had grown bolder. The lower half of her arm now brazenly defied Imogen’s circle of shade.

  “Are you not going to guess?”

  Grace roused herself from the sun’s relaxing effects. “The cook?”

  “No, thank heavens,” Imogen replied with a shudder. “That woman hates me. But I did take your advice and managed to b
efriend a kitchen girl, Maisy. Charming young thing and pretty as a picture—which is where our story begins.”

  Grace could not help but think that Imogen had missed out on a splendid stage career. Every conversation was a performance, and this one was no exception.

  “Do continue,” Grace prodded her friend, reaching for a biscuit.

  Imogen cleared her throat, signaling her performance was about to resume. “Well, it seems our Maisy has an admirer. Actually, I believe she has many. But there is one in particular who has caused quite a stir within the circle of servants.”

  “Not up to snuff?” Grace ventured a guess. She nibbled on her biscuit and awaited Imogen’s disclosure.

  “Worse,” Imogen answered, gesturing for Grace to pass her a biscuit. “Apparently he is a member of the Kingsmen, the most dangerous gang in all of London.”

  At the mention of the Kingsmen, Grace’s skin went cold. “The Kingsmen, you say?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I narrowly escaped a brush with them when I first arrived here,” Imogen answered, then took a bite of her biscuit.

  Grace finished her own, chewing slowly as she willed herself not to react emotionally. “Is that right?”

  “Yes, but that is not the story I am telling today,” Imogen answered while brushing stray crumbs from her skirts. “Now, Maisy’s admirer is apparently young and handsome—and charming, too, but aren’t they all? So when she saw the boy at the market, she allowed him to walk her home.”

  Grace had to admit the situation sounded entirely innocent despite the young man being linked to the Kingsmen. She relaxed slightly and rolled her shoulders to ease her tension.

  “Aren’t you going to ask what happened then?” Imogen demanded, ever the showman.

  “I thought you had come to the end of the story,” Grace explained, reaching for a second biscuit.

  Imogen caught Grace’s elbow and pulled her back. “What kind of story would that be?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Grace countered, focused on the biscuit tray.

  Imogen rolled her eyes. “The young man turned out to be quite loquacious and kept Maisy talking long after she should have gone to bed. But, as I mentioned before, he was handsome and charming, so she stayed and listened to his dangerous tales of life within the Kingsmen. Until he told her something Maisy knew could get her in trouble.”