The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match

by Stefanie Sloane

  Grace swallowed her fear and forced an uninterested expression. “I did not know one could go mad by degrees, Mrs.…” She paused, taking note of the insecurity that flashed in the woman’s eyes.

  “The Queen, Mrs. Crowther,” she replied icily. “You may call me the Queen.”

  “No, no! You need me, I can tell you where she is—and the Queen’s neck …”

  The conversation between the doctor and his killers flashed in Grace’s mind. She’d been terrified by the encounter she’d heard and would not have known she was hearing valuable information. Had she missed something? Had the doctor been about to tell Crow and his man something important?

  “Ah, I see the pieces are falling into place, then.”

  “He did not give me the necklace in an attempt to win my favor,” Grace said, her mother’s silver-chained pendant in her mind’s eye. “No, the doctor gave it to me for safekeeping. It was yours, not my mother’s.”

  “Smart girl,” the Queen complimented her, though the snide tone of her voice stripped her words of any true kindness. “The doctor liked to poke about in my things while I rested after receiving a medicinal sleep aid. When he found the necklace, he knew right away where to look for my true identity—because you had seen fit to tell him all about the pendant’s origins. Your mother’s necklace was gone, of course, traded or gambled away to a long line of wastrels, no doubt. And so your husband stole mine and passed it off as your mother’s.

  “I cannot blame you for failing to realize the mistake earlier. After all, the necklaces are only distinguishable one from another by the initials. Your mother’s were SLH, for Sibyl Louise Hastings, while mine are STH for Serendipity Theodora Hatch. A very subtle difference—only one letter. But one you may have used to identify me. That is, if you’d known what to look for.”

  The woman was right. Grace hated to admit it, but there it was. She’d not bothered to remove the necklace from its velvet jeweler’s pouch since the doctor had returned it to her some years before. The proof had been in her possession all along.

  “Why?” she asked the Queen, genuinely curious. “Clearly you were a member of the ton. Why would you sacrifice your life in order to work for an organization such as the Kingsmen?”

  The Queen flushed with annoyance. “I did not sacrifice my life to work for the Kingsmen. I sacrificed my life to create the Kingsmen. As to why? I did it for love, Mrs. Crowther.”

  “You missed out on all the fun.”

  Concealed behind a stack of wooden crates on the deck of the Resurrection, Langdon watched as a bulky Kingsmen, his belt bristling with weapons, addressed Marcus.

  “Buttons,” Mitchell said in reply.

  The man glared at a group of Kingsmen as they bounded up the stairs. “Back down with ye,” he yelled at them, gesturing toward where they’d just come from. “Those Hills Crossing boys will be here soon enough.”

  The Kingsmen eyed Buttons, then the gangplank.

  “Don’t even think—”

  The six Kingsmen rushed him, knocking him off his feet before bounding down the gangplank and into the dark night.

  “Did I miss something?” Marcus asked, stepping closer to his fellow Kingsmen.

  The man rolled over and rose on all fours, pushing himself to stand. “Someone’s been spreading the news that the King is dead—and the Queen is the killer. That doesn’t sit well with some of the boys, who say she’s barking mad. Been plenty of deserters, and us expecting Clark’s men anytime. Bloody cowards.”

  Buttons threatened a new group of men who appeared on the stairs, his knife drawn. “Go on.”

  The men gave him a wide berth as they ran for freedom.

  “And the Queen?” Mitchell asked, watching the Kingsmen retreat. “Is she still aboard?”

  “She may have gone, though I doubt it,” Buttons answered, kicking a Kingsmen backward as he climbed the stairs. “This is the only way off the ship and I’ve not seen her leave. Must be below deck.”

  “Many thanks,” Marcus told the man, then hit him hard with a wooden belaying pin.

  Buttons went down like a sack of potatoes. Marcus nudged him with the toe of his boot, but the man remained completely still, not responding. “Come. We will find the Queen.”

  Langdon left his hiding place and stepped over Buttons. “And Grace?” Both he and Marcus swerved to avoid a fresh crop of Kingsmen pounding up the stairs.

  “God, I hope so.”

  Marcus shoved and fought his way down the stairwell and Langdon followed, doing the same. The men came more quickly now.

  “Keep your head down,” Marcus warned. They turned left down a short hall.

  Langdon stuck close, taking one sharp, assessing glance around before tucking his chin lower. “Is that the King’s man, there, at the end?”

  “Oh God,” Marcus answered.

  Langdon kept his head down as they strode toward the King’s cabin. “Is that Isle?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “I’d turn back ’round if I were you,” a booming voice sounded.

  Langdon lifted his gaze upward until he could see the face that belonged with the voice.

  Marcus’s eyes went to Langdon, then back to the large man. “Thank you for the suggestion. But I believe we will do otherwise. Now, move out of the way.”

  “You’re a funny man, Mitchell,” the man growled in response.

  Marcus slammed his fist into the giant’s jaw.

  Isle barely flinched. “Shoulda done as I told you to,” he warned, then reached out and grasped Marcus by the neck with one meaty hand, lifting him off his feet.

  Marcus flailed, but his punches did not faze the giant.

  Langdon slammed a fist into the huge man’s gut, then again when the man continued to remain upright.

  Marcus’s face was turning a brilliant shade of purple.

  The giant looked to be hardly breaking a sweat.

  Langdon grabbed the stiletto from his boot and palmed the hilt. With a swift, practiced move, he drove the razor-sharp blade into the giant’s gut and sliced upward, straight to the heart.

  The man’s hand opened and Marcus fell, staggering as he landed.

  “I do hope you’ve found the right cabin,” a familiar voice called out from behind Langdon.

  The giant collapsed onto the floor into the growing pool of his own blood.

  Looking over his shoulder, Langdon saw Niles and at least a dozen other Corinthians coming toward him, weapons drawn.

  “About bloody time,” Mitchell said, his voice ragged.

  Niles raised his sword in a blur of movement and before Mitchell could blink, the point rested dangerously close to the pulse in his throat. “I will deal with you later.”

  “Where are the rest of the men?” Langdon asked, reaching out and lowering Niles’s weapon.

  He looked at Langdon and raised his eyebrow in inquiry. “Above, seeing to the Kingsmen who are fleeing like rats from the proverbial sinking ship.”

  Langdon nodded. “There seems to be some question as to who is in control of the Kingsmen. King or Queen.”

  “Well, let’s find out. Remember, we need him or her alive,” Niles warned before handing his sword to his friend.

  Langdon gripped the hilt in his hand, the weight of the steel familiar. He did not bother acknowledging Niles’s warning. Instead, he kicked the frame of the broken, closed door as hard as he could.

  The already battered wood gave way, ripping clean off the hinges and landing with a crash inside the cabin.

  A feminine scream sounded from a corner of the room.

  Langdon charged inside, followed by Niles and his fellow Corinthians. The Queen held Grace at the back wall, a knife blade too near his love’s slender throat.

  A man Langdon assumed must be the King lay on the floor in front of the two, an impossible amount of blood pooling beneath his body.

  “Did you deny me my justice on purpose?” Langdon asked the wild-eyed woman. “Or was it done unwittingly? Either wa
y you will pay, I promise you. But I would prefer to know, all the same.”

  “He is an imbecile,” the woman said in Grace’s ear, her voice laced with disgust. “The King lies dead at his feet and still he cannot see what is, quite literally, right before his eyes. Tell him, Mrs. Crowther, if you would.”

  Grace looked only at Langdon. Her eyes held fear, but also determination. “There never was a King. All these years, a Queen pulled the strings.”

  Langdon gritted his teeth. His mind warred with the immediate need to free Grace from the madwoman’s grasp and the unquenchable desire to free himself from the past. “You mean to tell me that you, my Queen, are the true leader of the Kingsmen?” he asked, allowing an air of disbelief to color his words. “Surely a woman capable of running the most dangerous of criminal organizations would not find it necessary to hide behind a man, would she?”

  The Queen visibly stiffened with rage at his apparent doubt and placed her blade against Grace’s skin. “Come now, you are stupid, but not completely without wits. Your sex believes mine to be the weaker—a fact that both plagued my efforts while helping as well. It is true that hiding behind the King was necessary. No man would willingly work for a woman. And so I put Adolphus on the throne while I operated behind a veil of secrecy, holding the reins of power. But do you know, not one man ever suspected me of being involved. Not one. Which was convenient, considering my place in society.”

  “Not one man until the doctor, that is,” Grace added, her voice no more than a whisper.

  The Queen’s mouth pursed with irritation, while her eyes flashed, glittering with madness. “Unbelievable, isn’t it? Of all the so-called gentlemen of my acquaintance, and all the skilled criminals as well, it was the worthless Rupert Crowther who discovered my secret.”

  Langdon narrowed his eyes at the woman; the leashed fury from the Corinthians standing behind him was palpable in the disheveled cabin. “But my men and I know the truth now, too. Why would you go to all this trouble only to reveal yourself to those who will most certainly bring you down?”

  “Because of love,” the Queen answered, an unhinged cackle of satisfaction escaping her lips.

  Langdon felt Niles, relieved of his sword only moments before, begin to draw on his back. A plan. The two of them had been reduced to such tactics in the past. Outlining a plan silently, sightlessly. It left an agent feeling somewhat childish, but it had proven effective.

  “Love?” Langdon asked, pretending to be riveted to the Queen’s words while he secretly followed Niles’s directions.

  “Does that surprise you?” she asked, an almost sentimental air to her tone. “It did Mrs. Crowther as well. But I assure you, I too was young once. And just like you, I fell deeply in love. Which is why I know you will do nothing that might bring harm to Mrs. Crowther.”

  She shifted the knifepoint until it rested directly over Grace’s pulse.

  Langdon started forward but was held back by Niles.

  “You see? Love is powerful—so much so that it will make you do foolish things. Will even drive one mad if given enough time.”

  The Queen’s smug condescension gnawed at Langdon’s self-control. But he managed what he hoped was an admiring expression anyway. “You know me too well, my Queen. Love has indeed impacted my ability to think clearly. I am glad to know I am not the only fool.”

  The smile that spread across the woman’s thin lips enraged Langdon. Still, he bided his time, knowing it was only a matter of minutes until Grace would be free.

  “My dear man, love has its way with even the mightiest of mortals. Do not make the mistake I did and assume you are weak. It is not you, believe me. You are the brave one. It is the object of your affection who fails you. The man I loved tortured me with innuendo and false dreams. And when I was completely under his spell he cast me upon the rocks. Mrs. Crowther would do the same to you if given half a chance. Therefore, I will spare you the heartache,” the Queen said, her tight grip on the knife visibly relaxing as she reveled in her wisdom being acknowledged. “You will provide me with the means to leave the country safely. And in return, I will take Mrs. Crowther with me. I will not kill her, you see. She will live out her days as my maid. And you, Mr. Clark, will be freed from a future that would truly be worse than this prison.”

  Langdon nodded in apparent deference to her intelligence, though the woman’s chillingly mad line of reasoning was horrific. “You would do that for me? And all you require in return is safe passage?”

  He watched closely, and at last saw the Queen’s grip about Grace’s waist ease. “And the funds to live in a manner befitting a queen, of course,” she replied, her chin dropping at a flirtatious angle as she appeared to sense victory.

  Niles tapped just below Langdon’s shoulder blade.

  Langdon flung himself low and forward, reaching for Grace.

  The distinctive soft hiss of displaced air from Niles’s stiletto sounded in Langdon’s ear and he looked up just as the blade pierced the Queen’s forearm and pinned her to the cabin wall.

  Langdon caught Grace’s legs at the thigh and snatched her from the Queen, rolling with her wrapped in his arms, away from the danger and across the cabin floor.

  The Queen let out an otherworldly scream of rage. She reached up and pulled the knife from her arm and the wall, spinning toward the open porthole. “You will regret ever having crossed me,” she lashed out, a stream of red blood spreading over her arm and splashing her skirt. She leapt up and out through the porthole, only the bottom half of her visible. Langdon shoved to his feet and lunged for her, grasping at her skirt as she disappeared.

  The fabric tore, leaving nothing but a scrap of embroidered muslin in his hand. Langdon stuck his head out the porthole and peered into the dark water, watching as the woman’s head suddenly bobbed up.

  Torchlight flashed, illuminating a small boat as it pulled alongside the Resurrection. A man hauled the Queen out of the water and shoved her into a sitting position aboard the skiff.

  “The King?” the man yelled to Langdon, his voice unmistakable.

  “You have what you came for,” Langdon answered Carmichael. “It is done.”

  Henry Prescott, Viscount Carmichael, sat in his office at the Young Corinthians Club. Everything in the room was familiar and dear to him. The desk, made of sturdy, strong mahogany, had been his superior’s, and his superior’s superior before that. The well-worn Persian carpet beneath his feet was one he’d crawled upon as an infant. The candelabras that perched upon the serviceable fireplace hearth once graced the mantel of his family’s Warwickshire property. Even the ink pot held precious memories, being the very one his father had employed to write a fairy tale for his son.

  No one else knew what the contents of the room meant to Carmichael. And he’d designed it that way. Even the many conversations with his fellow agents that had taken place within the four walls were catalogued within his heart, his Corinthians the only family he had left.

  Henry looked across his desk at Lady Serendipity Hatch. She’d once been familiar to him as well. Never as dear as those memories that cradled him within his Corinthian office. No, never dear. But fond? Yes, he would use such a term.

  Not now. Henry had come in contact with Serendipity over the years since their awkward moment in the garden. Seeing each other on occasion was practically unavoidable, both being members of the ton. At least he had never thought to stay out of her path, their past hardly warranting such behavior.

  Clearly, she had felt differently.

  “You are surprised?” she said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had stretched between them since two agents had brought her into his office.

  “I am,” he confirmed, her glittering, fixated stare more unnerving than any Henry had faced before.

  She batted her eyelashes, flirting as if they were young lovers conversing at a ball. “I must confess, I am as well. I never would have guessed you were the sort who would relish a job.”

  “Is that so?” Henry
asked. He began to slowly twist his signet ring around his finger, the act bringing him a measure of calm. “And why is that?”

  Lady Serendipity smiled with condescension. “Our kind was not meant to work, Henry. It upsets the natural balance of things.”

  “And you?” he asked, carefully measuring his tone. “One would argue you’ve worked harder than all of my men put together. What of that?”

  She lowered her gaze to his desk and picked up a crystal figurine that had once belonged to his mother. “You know the answer to that question, Henry.”

  “But I would prefer to hear it from you, Lady Serendipity,” he countered, dreading what she might reveal.

  She settled back into the leather chair, her chin held defiantly high while a faint flush colored her cheeks. “I had no other choice. When you decided against asking my father for my hand in marriage, I refused to entertain any other offers. I felt certain you would come to your senses eventually, and so I waited. Before I realized it, time passed too quickly, I was too old to marry and my cousin had inherited the whole of Papa’s fortune. I was forced to consider alternative sources of income, which is when I conceived the plan to create the Kingsmen.”

  The woman was delusional, that much Henry could confirm without a second opinion. The very idea of marrying her had not entered his mind until the night she’d waylaid him on the terrace at the Filburns’ ball. He’d felt badly about hurting her and spent a significant amount of time considering whether there was any truth to her claim that he’d given her ample reason to believe he cared for her.

  His conclusion? He had not. There was only one girl for him and she’d agreed to marry another. And that girl was not Serendipity Hatch.

  “Did you mourn Lady Cecelia Afton?”

  Her question shocked Henry, but he remained calm, a skill he’d honed over years of Corinthian service. “I did, as every last member of the ton did as well.”

  “Not every last member, no,” she replied, holding the figurine up in order to examine it more closely. “As you know by now, I am the person who ordered her death. And do you know why? Oddly enough, it had absolutely nothing to do with the Young Corinthians. That connection was simply an added bonus. No, I killed her for love. Your love.”