The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match A Regency Rogues Novel (11 page)

They were two of a kind. And when he’d told her that the King would not let him go, Grace had cried for him—and for herself, too. Could anyone ever be truly free? She looked at the three Kingsmen standing before her and realized she was about to find out.

Marcus pushed off from the bar he had been leaning against and stood tall, offering Grace a friendly, if confused, smile. “Mrs. Crowther, I am surprised to see you here. I always believed such activities were not to your liking.”

“So did I,” Grace answered, glad Mr. Clark’s powerful body supported hers as she halted in front of the trio. “But a woman is allowed to change her mind, is she not?”

Marcus was disappointed. She knew him well enough to detect it in his posture, which was just as rigid as his tone. He would have heard of her disappearance from Rupert’s house and been happy for her. There was no way for him to know why she had
come back. And even if there was, she could not completely trust him with the whole truth.

She could not completely trust anyone but herself and the Templetons.

“You, Mrs. Crowther, should be allowed to do
anything
, that much is true.” Marcus’s words were completely proper but his voice suggested something else.

“I wholeheartedly agree,” Mr. Clark interrupted, his arm sliding about Grace’s waist with ease. “As long as she does it with me.”

Marcus looked at Langdon and offered a glacial smile in recognition. “Mr. Clark, I presume.”

Grace forced herself to relax into the man’s hold and attempted to ignore the uncomfortable edge of danger, almost hostility, that filled the air. A woman in her feigned position would be pleased by two men competing for her attention.

“That is correct,” Mr. Clark answered, squeezing Grace’s waist once before releasing her. He held out his hand. “And you are?”

“Marcus Mitchell. We were not expecting to see you this evening, Mr. Clark.”

The two men shook hands, a brief clasp of palms and fingers.

“No, I do not imagine you were,” Mr. Clark drawled, polite amusement layered over a voice that was lethal, cold steel. He released Marcus’s hand. “If there’s one thing you should know about me, Mr. Mitchell, it is that I am not a patient man.”

Grace watched the two men as they openly took each other’s measure. The doctor had threatened to kill every last member of the Kingsmen for the lack of respect they showed him. But the threats were always
voiced when he was safely ensconced inside his home, with the doors locked and the windows shut.

This was the first time she had heard anyone threaten one of the King’s representatives. It scared Grace. And thrilled her, too.

“That’s a pity,” Marcus finally replied, cracking the knuckles of his right hand. “Especially as the King does things in his own time. A visitor from Liverpool cannot expect an audience to be approved with undue haste.”

Mr. Clark watched Marcus crack the knuckles on his left hand, then smiled. His low, sinister chuckle raised the hair on Grace’s nape and she froze.

“You know my name, as do your men,” he said beside her. “Clearly, I am more than just any visitor.”

Grace held her breath. Her heart beat furiously, pounding in her chest. She had a nearly overwhelming urge to run.

Marcus tilted his head and pursed his lips. “That may be so. But the King operates on no one’s schedule but his own. You will receive word from him when he is ready. And not a moment before.”

Mr. Clark lifted Grace’s hand to his lips, placing a soft, slow kiss on her palm. “I believe I crave more carnal delights than are offered here, my Wicked Widow.” He produced a paste card from an inner vest pocket and held it out to Marcus. “Do let the King know I stopped by. I will not wait forever.”

Marcus took the card and examined it, then handed it to one of his men. “Of course.”

“Come, my love,” Mr. Clark said, gently turning Grace away from the bar and toward the door.

Grace glanced over her shoulder at Marcus. He mouthed “Be well,” concern evident in his eyes.

She tilted her head in understanding and moved away, shaken by the full realization that there was no going back. The crowd cleared a path for them, none-too-subtle whispers ricocheting from one man to another, to prostitute, to barkeep.

The sound and the stares, the garish hues of the women’s gowns and the frantic pace of the gambling hell melted into one, assaulting Grace’s senses as they pushed against her on each side. She gripped Mr. Clark’s hand and kept her eyes on the door, counting every step toward her escape.

“Wicked Widow.” Grace could not be sure if she’d heard someone within the crowd say what Mr. Clark had only just called her a mere five minutes past, or if her brain was repeating the title in an attempt to come to terms with what she now was.

Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two
. Grace focused on her careful steps, but the clamoring in her head would not cease.

A member of the Kingsmen held the door open just as Grace reached thirty.

Mr. Clark led her out into the blessedly cool air, pausing to whistle for their carriage. A number of the Hills Crossing gang appeared and formed a protective circle around them. The coachman immediately moved the horses toward them from where they waited, half a block down the dark street.

“Judging from your grip, Lady Grace, you are glad to be leaving.”

“Take me home,” Grace whispered, gritting her
teeth against the threatening tears. “Take me home now.”

Langdon tapped the roof of the carriage to signal his driver, and the coach lurched into motion. He’d accomplished what he’d set out to do, he thought. The Kingsmen now knew he was not a man to be trifled with. The plan had been put into action exactly as Langdon wanted. He waited for the customary flush of satisfaction he always experienced in such situations.

It did not come.

Lady Grace sat next to him, her hand still tucked into his, her clasp just as strong, perhaps tighter, than moments before. Her eyes were downcast and he couldn’t read her expression, but she was clearly upset.

Which was only to be expected, Langdon reminded himself. What woman would not be shaken after confronting and challenging one of England’s most powerful gangs?

Her reaction was completely understandable and made perfect sense. Langdon’s practical mind struggled to understand why he was stealing worried glances at her.

“Lady Grace?” he said rather more loudly than he’d intended.

She looked up from her lap as if he had awoken her from an unpleasant dream. “I must apologize, Mr. Clark.” She pulled her hand from his and began to remove the pins from her bonnet. “I had rather hoped
I would not be affected by interacting with the Kingsmen again.”

Langdon’s hand felt oddly empty without her smaller, softer fingers and palm pressed closed within it. “Do not apologize, Lady Grace,” he said with an attempt at light reassurance.
No, really. Please do not. It only makes me want to ease your unhappiness even more than I already do
.

Langdon cursed his seemingly unending need to play the protector. Was it a trait he’d been forced to own by the death of Lady Afton? Or had he been born with the bloody anchor about his neck?

“I was not expecting to see Marcus,” Lady Grace continued.

He’d seen the male interest that lay beneath the concern on Marcus Mitchell’s face. Mitchell wanted more from Grace than friendship. Langdon wasn’t prepared to hear her talk about him. His control was already dangerously close to the breaking point. He needed her to stop talking. Now. Before he said—or did—something he should not. Like kiss her.

“I was surprised, to say the least. I would have told you everything I know about Marcus if I’d thought for a moment he would be at the Four Horsemen.”

Langdon’s arm itched to encircle Lady Grace’s slim shoulders and pull her close. He swallowed hard. “There is no need to apologize,” he ground out, regretting every last syllable as soon as they left his mouth.

“Are you angry with me?” Lady Grace asked, worry and, if Langdon was correct, hurt lacing her tone.

“Lord, no—you couldn’t be more wrong,” Langdon muttered, balling his hands into fists.

Lady Grace flinched as if he had hit her, the curve of her mouth trembling with vulnerability before she turned her face away and looked out the window.

Langdon did not need to see her to know that he had made her cry. Which only made matters worse.

“I am the one who should be apologizing.” Langdon took a linen handkerchief from his coat pocket. “I work with men, not with women. Talk is limited to the job at hand, whereas with women …” He offered the pristine white square of fabric to Lady Grace. “Things are different. It will take some getting used to.”

She accepted the handkerchief and blotted her eyes. “Yes, we ladies do tend to talk more than your sex.”

Langdon smiled at her wryness. “And about far more complicated topics than brandy and guns.”

He could not pretend that he did not care for her, he realized. For better or worse, and despite how much he would prefer to have no feelings about her whatsoever, he needed to protect Grace. “Now, tell me about Marcus. Who is he to you?”

“A friend,” she answered, twisting the linen handkerchief between her fingers, her hands resting in her lap. “He was forced into the Kingsmen because of a debt. And now they refuse to let him go. He is a good man, but a Kingsmen nonetheless.”

Langdon was thankful Grace had been able to count more than the Templetons as friends while married to the doctor. Still, Marcus Mitchell’s reaction to her presence troubled him beyond his personal reasons. He needed to know if Mitchell’s friendship
with Grace could create problems for the Corinthians’ plan. “He did not appear to be pleased with you.”

“I am sure when he learned of my disappearance, Marcus assumed I’d finally escaped,” Grace answered, turning her head to look at Langdon. “To see me willingly return to Kingsmen territory would be both a shock and a disappointment for him.”

“Was he
—is
he more than a friend to you?” It was an indelicate question, but a necessary one.

Grace raised one slim brow. “Straying from the topic of ‘brandy and guns,’ are we?”

Langdon chuckled at her jab. “Your relationship with Mr. Mitchell could be a problem. I simply need to know how big of a problem.”

“When I said he was a friend, that is exactly what I meant. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“Such questions should not be put to a lady,” Langdon said, painfully aware of the ambivalence Grace caused in him.

“Well, as I mentioned when we met, I am no longer a lady, Mr. Clark,” she replied, her brow smoothing.

She was a puzzle, flashes of insight into who she was—what she was—appearing and just as quickly disappearing. Langdon knew it would be best to ignore his interest in her. The question was, could he?

The carriage slowed to a stop and Langdon broke eye contact with Grace in order to part the curtains and look out the window. The Corinthian agent posing as a footman stepped over the Aylworth House threshold and walked toward the coach. “Safely at home,” Langdon said. “You did well this evening, Lady Grace. Midge will see you inside.”

“Thank you,” she said, tucking the handkerchief into her reticule and gathering up her skirts in preparation for exiting. “Your support this evening”—she hesitated as her eyes searched his— “made all the difference.”

Midge opened the carriage door and waited. Langdon moved to the bench opposite so Lady Grace would not have to climb over him in order to disembark. “There is no need to thank me. I promised you protection, and I am a man who keeps his word.”

“I see that now, Mr. Clark,” she replied, allowing Midge to take her hand as she stepped down.

Langdon had an appointment with Carmichael at the club. First contact had been made with the Kingsmen, and the leader of the Corinthians would want to know the specifics. And Langdon was anxious to learn more about Mr. Marcus Mitchell. He could not recall the man’s name in any of the Kingsmen documents he’d reviewed, but that did not mean the Corinthians lacked information concerning the lawyer.

All good reasons to leave.

Then why did he want to stay?

“I will see you tomorrow, then?” Langdon had meant to make a statement, not ask a question.

“Of course,” Grace replied with surprise, frowning at Langdon in confusion.

Langdon believed he’d succeeded in establishing the upper hand with the Kingsmen. He could not be so sure with Lady Grace. He gestured for Midge to close the door. “Good night.”

Though it was dark, his gaze followed Midge as he accompanied Grace’s slender figure up the stairs, and
inside the house. The large entry door closed and Langdon continued to stare, lost in thought.

“Blast,” he muttered at length, realizing the carriage had yet to move. He pounded his fist on the ceiling, the noise frightening the horses. The carriage lurched as they surged into the traces and Langdon fell back against the cushions, thankful for the distraction.