The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match

by Stefanie Sloane

  Grace forgot about the second biscuit and focused more intently on her friend’s words. “What was that?”

  Imogen glanced about them, then leaned closer, her voice dropping to just above a whisper. “Apparently a powerful gang from outside London has threatened to overthrow the Kingsmen and take everything,” Imogen explained with great enthusiasm. “This young man told Maisy he heard the King was out of his mind with anger. So angry, in fact, that he’s going to double-cross the gang’s leader and trap him in one of those prison ships bound for Australia.”

  “What do you mean?” Grace pressed, her heart beginning to race.

  Imogen smiled with satisfaction, clearly pleased with Grace’s piqued interest. “The Kingsmen have their fingers in every sort of unsavory business there is, including prison ships. Captains are issued a quota, and if they do not meet this quota, they do not get paid. The Kingsmen supply the numbers needed in exchange for money.”

  “But surely this man will protest,” Grace countered vehemently. “You cannot punish a person for something they did not do.”

  Imogen patted Grace’s shoulder. “It is terrible, I know. But it happens every day. This man will only be one in a sea of men claiming their innocence. I imagine the crews of these prison ships no longer bother to listen.”

  Grace could hear the loud pounding of her heartbeat in her ears, the drumming drowning out everything except for one thought: she had to tell Langdon.

  “Do you know, I believe the sun is a bit too much for me today,” she told Imogen, leaning on her friend’s arm for support.

  Imogen gasped and placed her palm on Grace’s forehead. “I told you, did I not? And now you are burning up. Baylor!” she called to the footman who stood at a respectful distance from the two.

  The poor man sprinted toward them and fell down on one knee in front of Imogen. “Yes, miss, how may I help?”

  “Have the driver bring the carriage at once, please.”

  “At once” didn’t seem fast enough to Grace. She wondered if the Hills Crossing men watching from nearby would allow her the use of one of their horses.

  “There, there, my lady,” Imogen crooned, wrapping her arm about Grace’s shoulders. “We shall have you home as soon as is humanly possible.”

  Grace searched the trees and grassy areas behind them, but could not manage to spy even one of Langdon’s men.

  “Here he comes,” Imogen announced as she hauled herself to her feet. She offered her hand to Grace and waited. “We will have you home soon.”

  Unfortunately for Grace, soon was not soon enough.

  Langdon looked out the bank of mullioned windows that occupied the south side of his study and closed his eyes. He pictured the Resurrection, the prison ship that the Kingsmen insisted would be the site Grace was given over to them in exchange for the King’s cooperation. “Again,” he commanded.

  “We have reviewed the plan more times than I can count,” Niles groaned, the sound of his crystal glass clinking against the mahogany desk, punctuating his annoyance.

  “And we will continue to do so until I am able to cast a critical eye forward and back without finding a weak link,” Langdon replied in a short, clipped tone.

  The truth was he was feeling impatient. Corinthian business used to fire his blood with excitement and anticipation. Now Langdon only wanted to be on the other side of the attack, the King in shackles and Grace in his arms.

  “I apologize for the interruption, gentlemen.”

  Langdon turned at the sound of Grace’s voice. She stood in the doorway behind him, visibly upset.

  “Not at all, Lady Grace,” Niles addressed her, sitting up a touch straighter in his chair. “An interruption would be most welcome at this point.”

  Langdon beckoned her into the room. “Pay no attention to Mr. Davis. He is attempting to shirk his duties—with very little success.”

  Grace stepped over the threshold and closed the oak door behind her. She eyed Niles hesitantly before speaking. “I wonder, Langdon, if we might have a word in private?”

  “I will plug my ears,” Niles interjected, placing one finger in each ear. “You see, I cannot hear a thing.”

  “It is to do with the prison ship,” Grace whispered to Langdon.

  He looked at Niles and mouthed “Enough.”

  “Well, that was surely the shortest conversation of importance in the history of important conversations,” Niles proclaimed, standing belatedly in deference to Grace.

  Langdon walked to the chair next to Niles and waited for Grace. “You look as if you could use a brief rest. Sit.”

  “I do not want to rest,” she answered, though she did as he asked. “I need to speak with you. Alone.”

  Langdon walked around his desk and took his own seat, watching as Niles reclaimed his chair, then stared at Grace.

  “You are up to something, my lady,” Niles said, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

  Grace’s lips thinned at his accusation but her face remained unreadable.

  “It is all right, Grace,” Langdon told her, then looked at his friend. “Though he often appears the fool, Niles is one of the most accomplished agents I’ve had the good fortune to work with.”

  Niles’s jaw dropped. “First, thank you for the compliment. They are, unfortunately, too few and far between coming from you. Second, you’ve just told Lady Grace my real name and that I am an agent. Have you lost your mind?”

  “I was wondering the very same thing,” Grace added.

  The two stared at Langdon, a similar mixture of anger and disbelief coloring their gazes.

  “For the record,” Langdon began, “yes, I am as sane today as I was yesterday. And I have it on good authority that that is very sane, indeed. As to why I am revealing Niles’s identity?”

  Langdon considered his next words carefully. From a practical standpoint, it made no sense to keep Niles’s real identity from Grace. It would prove to be an inefficient use of his time at a point in the case when every last minute of each day needed to be dedicated to capturing the King.

  And from a wholly selfish side, Langdon no longer wanted to hide anything in any way. Now that he knew what his life was meant to be, it felt dishonorable.

  “Because it would not be right to do otherwise. Each of you plays an integral role in capturing the King. Therefore, what good would it do to continue this charade?”

  Niles opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “Oddly enough, I do not have an argument.”

  “Nor do I,” Grace agreed. “However, I do have something of importance to speak with you about.”

  Langdon nodded. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Imogen has learned the Kingsmen are planning on taking you prisoner aboard a prison ship docked in Weymouth.”

  “I am sorry,” Niles said, raising his hand. “But who is this Imogen and why would we trust her information?”

  Langdon began to look through the sheaf of papers concerning the most recent events in the Afton case that lay open on his desk. “She is Cuthbert’s mistress.”

  “The Lord Cuthbert who would quite literally lose his own head if it were not attached to his neck?” Niles asked incredulously.

  “I do not see how the intelligence or lack thereof possessed by Imogen’s protector has anything to do with the information she supplied,” Grace countered. “Imogen learned of the Kingsmen’s plan by way of her kitchen maid—”

  “Oh, well then,” Niles interrupted rudely. “By all means, if a mistress’s kitchen maid claims it is the truth, let us all stand corrected.”

  Langdon speared his friend with a murderous look. “If you would shut up for one minute I feel certain Grace will provide a reasonable explanation.”

  “Thank you,” she said, adding, “Langdon, that is. Now, Imogen’s kitchen maid has many admirers, one of whom is a member of the Kingsmen. The young man told Maisy that the King is nearly mad with rage over your attempt to take over his gang. So much so that he plans on imprisoning you aboard t
he ship and sending you to Australia as a convicted criminal.”

  “While your theory is plausible,” Niles said, watching Grace as she began to pace back and forth, “let us not forget the months of Corinthian work that have gone into securing the most accurate of information. Are we really going to trust a kitchen maid over our agents?”

  Langdon could not ignore Niles’s argument. Imogen’s kitchen maid was a young girl whose skills included washing cookery and fetching the white sauce for the fish. She was not a highly trained agent with the experience to know when someone was telling her the truth.

  “We’ve received word from the Kingsmen, Grace, with the name of the ship, its location, as well as the day and time to meet,” he began respectfully. “They’ve agreed to our terms. You will stay here and an agent, dressed as you, will go in your place. I’ll be accompanied by a number of Corinthian agents.”

  Grace stopped in front of his desk and placed both palms flat on the oaken slab. “Please,” she asked, her voice low, pleading, “do not ignore this threat.”

  Langdon closed the folder of papers and sat back in his chair. “Though I know you have your doubts, we must make an attempt to determine the validity of the maid’s claim,” he told Niles, then looked at Grace. He hated to see the clear disappointment and concern that flashed in her eyes, but could think of no other way to proceed. “There is not enough time to do a proper job. But it is all we have.”

  Grace groaned as the carriage wheels struck a rut in the road.

  “Will she be all right?” Midge asked, eyeing her as though she might die on the spot.

  Mrs. Templeton rubbed her hand in a circular pattern on Grace’s back. “Once we get her to Master Chow, yes,” she answered. “Which we should have done an hour ago,” she added repressively.

  Grace bent at her waist and kept her gaze on the coach floor, afraid Midge might discover this was all a charade. An urgent missive from Marcus had been waiting for her when she’d arrived home. Smuggled in by way of one of the housemaids, the letter stated that Marcus had something extremely important to share with her. With less than twelve hours to confirm the Kingsmen’s plan, Grace knew she had no other choice but to pay the man a visit.

  Mrs. Templeton had been enlisted to concoct a story that would convince Midge to allow Grace to leave Aylworth House. She never dreamt the woman would use Grace’s monthly courses to embarrass the man into submission.

  “Why does she have to go out to see the doctor?” Midge asked, concern in his voice. “Surely I could have fetched him to the …”

  Grace felt badly for deceiving Midge. She could only imagine what the young man assumed Master Chow would prescribe her. Potions? Lotions? Eye of the tiger and tongue of a serpent?

  “Master Chow cannot provide treatment unless he examines the lady for himself. And once he has, it is necessary for him to have access to all of his herbs and such,” Mrs. Templeton answered with a huff. “We are not all alike, Mr. Midge. Some of us suffer from back pain while others bloat up like spoiled fish—”

  “All right!” He cut off Mrs. Templeton, an audible sigh escaping his lips. “I should not have asked after such things.”

  Grace let out another groan just as the carriage came to a stop.

  “Wait here,” Midge instructed, opening the carriage door and jumping out.

  Grace looked at Mrs. Templeton pointedly. “Did you have to embarrass the man?”

  “It worked,” Mrs. Templeton countered proudly. “And besides, we women have very little in the way of weapons. Might as well use what is at our disposal.”

  “Come,” Midge said, offering his hand to Grace and assisting her from the coach.

  Grace hunched over and stretched to press her hand to her lower back, managing a pitiful moan. “Do hurry, please.”

  Midge did not bother helping Mrs. Templeton. Instead, he simply grabbed her about her thick waist with both hands and lifted her to the ground, gently setting her next to Grace. He took each woman by the arm and hustled them toward Master Chow’s shop.

  A young Chinese girl opened the glass-paned door and stepped aside to allow them in.

  Midge nodded in abrupt thanks to the girl and gently pushed Grace over the threshold first, Mrs. Templeton following closely behind.

  “Mei, my child, you’ve grown,” Mrs. Templeton said to the girl, wrapping her arms about Master Chow’s daughter and hugging her tightly before letting loose.

  Mei looked suspiciously at Midge before giving Grace an enchanting grin. “Lady Grace, we have missed you.”

  “And I you, Mei,” Grace answered the dear girl, reaching for Mei’s hand and clasping her tiny fingers in hers. “I would like nothing better than to talk with you, Mei, but I am in need of your father’s help. Is he here?”

  “He is, my lady,” Mei answered, casting one more suspicious glance in Midge’s direction. “Come, I will take you to him.”

  Mei pulled Grace toward a narrow set of stairs to the right of the door.

  Midge started after them.

  “And where do you think you are going?” Mrs. Templeton asked the man in a loud voice. “Master Chow will need to examine my lady, Mr. Midge. I believe Mr. Clark would be quite displeased to learn you accompanied Lady Grace on such an intimate errand.”

  Grace looked over her shoulder and caught sight of Midge. The poor man looked about to explode from worry and indecision.

  “Tell Master Chow to be quick about it,” he said through tight lips.

  Grace nodded, looking away from him just in time to manage the first stair tread. Mei’s steps hurried faster as they ascended. She was practically running by the time they reached the landing and turned down the hall toward Master Chow’s study.

  Mei stopped in front of his door and knocked gently.

  “Come,” Master Chow answered.

  Mei opened the door and stepped inside, dragging Grace behind her.

  “Close the door,” Master Chow told his daughter as he rose from behind his large lacquered desk and walked to Grace. “Lady Grace,” he said, bending at the waist and bowing low before her. “Mei and I feared we would not see you again.”

  Grace smiled at the man with genuine pleasure. “As did I. But that is of no matter now, is it? I am here, in one piece.”

  “Yes, you are,” Master Chow said, his stoic facade betrayed by the shimmer of tears in his eyes. “And I cannot tell you how happy my heart is to see you. But I would urge you to go. Mr. Mitchell still resides upstairs. It is too dangerous for you here.” From the day Marcus had moved into the Chows’ apartment for let above the shop, Master Chow had decided he did not like him. Marcus was a member of the Kingsmen, and in Master Chow’s eyes that meant he was not to be trusted. Even though Grace had assured her friend that Marcus was different from his fellow gang members, Master Chow would not change his mind.

  “He lives here because he believes you have magical powers,” Grace told her friend, knowing the Chinese doctor’s ego was not above a bit of stroking.

  Master Chow pursed his lips at Grace’s attempts. “He lives here because his fellow Kingsmen are fools who believe the tales they’ve been told.”

  “Then you do not possess the gift?” Grace asked, rather sure herself that the man had hidden otherworldly talents.

  Master Chow was a man who knew when he’d been beat. “He is at home. Go quietly. Do not stay long. And promise you will call on us again.”

  “I promise, Master Chow,” Grace replied, fully intending to keep her word.

  She turned to Mei and kissed her on the forehead. “Stay close to your father until we’ve gone.”

  Mei nodded and noiselessly opened the door.

  Grace stepped out to the hall and went toward the landing, carefully picking her way across the aged wooden floors.

  Mrs. Templeton’s voice drifted up from the shop below. “Try some tea, Mr. Midge. It will do you a world of good.”

  Grace placed one foot on the first stair tread and nimbly stepped up, taking two
stairs at a time thereafter. She made quick work of the flight and hurried toward Marcus’s door.

  Knocking quietly, Grace listened for sounds from within the apartment. The scuff of a chair leg against a bare floor was followed by footsteps, and finally the door creaked open.

  Marcus’s eyes widened and he stared, an alarmed expression on his face when he realized it was Grace standing in front of him.

  Grace clapped her hand across his mouth before he was able to utter a word and pushed him back into the room. She closed the door with her other hand and looked at him sternly. “We must be very quiet. I am going to remove my hand from your mouth now.” She relaxed the muscles in her fingers and slowly pulled her hand away.

  Marcus’s mouth remained closed as he walked around Grace and locked the door. He turned back and frowned at her.

  Though they’d been allowed to spend very little time alone together, Grace had thought of Marcus often and wondered at the little details that come together to form a person. His quarters were neat and elegantly furnished, a preference for the finer things in life evident in such possessions as the deep brown silk coverlet upon the bed in the room beyond the half-closed door and the ornately carved period desk situated in front of the window. Even the carpet upon which she stood spoke of Marcus’s good taste. The wooden floor beneath it was no doubt as scarred and neglected as those throughout the building, but the expensive Persian rug hid such truths.

  Marcus beckoned Grace over to a chair and waited while she sat down.

  “What in the hell are you doing here?” he asked, his tone low but lethal.

  Grace shook her head in confusion. “Marcus, your letter asked that I come straightaway. You promised information that would help our cause.”

  The half-closed bedroom door suddenly opened and two men walked in.

  “Mitchell here knows nothing of the letter, Widow Crowther,” the first man said, his sharp, broken voice shocking Grace’s senses. “Because he didn’t write it.”