The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match

by Stefanie Sloane

  “Power monger,” he muttered good-naturedly, the delicious dimple appearing once more.

  Flirting again, after she’d spent so long avoiding innuendo and affection, felt good to Grace. She was elated to learn she’d not forgotten how to do it.

  A man stepped in front of them, a sly, wily grin on his long, narrow face. “Good evening to you, Mr. Clark.”

  Grace did not recognize him as a member of the Kingsmen, but that meant very little, especially in light of his jaunty scarlet mask. New recruits were forced into service every day. She was glad she still wore the serviceable dagger strapped to her thigh.

  “Mr. Davis,” Langdon replied in a relaxed manner. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  “You’ve not been able to see me, as you’ve been admiring the Widow, here,” the man countered, his smile friendly as he bowed politely to Grace. “And who would blame you.”

  Langdon looked down at Grace, consideration on his face, laughter in his eyes. “Should I introduce you to Mr. Davis? His charm is well known. He might just steal you away, right out from under my nose.”

  “Impossible,” Grace assured him, then held out her hand to the man.

  “Very well,” Langdon proceeded. “Lady Grace, may I introduce you to Mr. Richard Davis, my second in command.”

  Mr. Davis carefully clasped her fingers and bowed with polite deference, his eyes twinkling as he looked up at her from beneath his lashes.

  Amused, Grace laughed softly.

  “That is far too sweet a sound to have come from the Wicked Widow,” he remarked, winking rakishly.

  “And that is far too grand a mustache to spring on unsuspecting strangers, Mr. Davis,” Grace replied, looking pointedly at his upper lip.

  Surprised, Mr. Davis let out a hearty bark of laughter and smoothed his fingers over the brushy length. “All part of the masquerade, I’m afraid.”

  She cast a critical eye over the man’s face, finally offering a nod of judicious approval.

  “I see where the ‘wicked’ in your name was earned,” he said, then turned to Langdon. “It is a pity she will not be meeting the King this evening. She might have been able to thaw his heart a bit.”

  Mr. Davis gestured toward the luxurious guest boxes located near the end of the promenade. “He awaits—with very little patience, I might add.”

  “We are on time,” Langdon said, scanning the boxes. “Besides, we hold the upper hand. Surely the King understands this. Otherwise, he would not be here.”

  “I agree. But even if he knows how this will play out, that does not mean the King has to be at peace with the impending takeover of his organization.”

  Grace had heard countless men and women make references to the King. His reputation alone did not frighten her, but the thought of sitting near to the notorious gang leader who had given the order for her own death made her heart beat faster. She turned her body into Langdon’s until she was as close as she could possibly get to his hard strength.

  He tightened his grip about her waist, which eased her concern … a little. “And you can assure me the night will proceed as planned?”

  “What good would I be if I could not?” Mr. Davis asked dryly, rolling his shoulders back and standing tall. “I’ve had eyes on the gardens since you received the summons. The Kingsmen are well represented tonight, but we still outman them three to one. Seems they’ve underestimated just how seriously you desire this partnership to work.”

  Mr. Davis’s information eased Grace’s nerves. “Then we’ll be safe?” she asked, wanting Langdon to confirm. Only hearing the words from his lips could completely convince her. And she needed to be convinced. Otherwise, she’d not be able to play her part in the evening’s charade. And she wouldn’t—no, couldn’t—disappoint Mr. and Mrs. Templeton. Nor herself. The Kingsmen would pay for Timothy’s death, and Grace would have a say in just how high the price would be.

  “Sounds rather weak, I suppose,” she added, sorry that she’d said the words out loud in front of Mr. Davis.

  Langdon tipped her chin up to look into her eyes. “You will always be safe now.”

  Grace’s fear slipped away from her just as the collective noise from the surrounding crowd did, until there was only one thought that existed in her mind:

  She did not feel afraid.

  For the first time in her life, fear did not accompany her initial steps toward the future. She knew her time with Langdon would end when all this was over, but she would be settled, safely, in the country. Away from London. But also away from Langdon. So for now, she was determined to make the most of every moment with him.

  “I believe you,” she murmured. Langdon’s dark eyes flared with heat. His hand tightened on her waist.

  Mr. Davis cleared his throat and Grace realized that Langdon’s associate still waited.

  “I suppose we’ve kept the King waiting long enough,” Langdon said, then asked Grace, “would you agree?”

  His words. His presence. Him. Langdon could reveal her vulnerability with a touch and convince Grace of her strength with one word.

  She took a half step away from him and squared her shoulders. “I would.”

  “So it is true. The doctor’s widow stands at the usurper’s side.”

  The Queen held the spyglass up to her eye. “Why the gardens?”

  “They seemed the perfect choice. Mr. Clark will not see us coming—and if he does, he won’t know to defend himself. One bloody harlequin domino looks the same as another at these events.”

  “Do not use such foul language in my presence,” she ordered, lowering the spyglass and glaring at him. “I am your Queen.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Beaufort humbly replied, hoping he’d managed the right touch of feigned obeisance.

  God but he wanted to kill her. He’d dreamt of it many times—too many times, strictly speaking, until now he feared he was obsessed with it. He watched as she adjusted the gold mask that hid her eyes and upper face, her beaklike nose sniffing delicately as if she’d smelled something offensive.

  “And how will it be done?” she asked, resting back in the gilt-wood chair.

  Beaufort had already explained the plan to her two times. Details were beginning to muddle her, only the eventual death of the doctor’s widow fastened in her mind.

  “We’ll wait until the fireworks are almost over,” he began, barely able to hide his annoyance. “Jones sawed through the back left panel of the box—though no one would be able to tell. He’s rigged it so that when the time is right, he can pull the panel out and take Mrs. Crowther. The crowd will be looking at the sky, just before all goes black.”

  The Queen’s thin lips pursed. “Won’t the light from the fireworks reveal you?”

  “That is why our timing is key, Your Grace. We know how long the fireworks will last and when to take Mrs. Crowther. You’ve nothing to be concerned about.”

  He regretted the implication the moment the words left his lips. He groaned silently. Sometimes it felt as if he would never learn when it came to the Queen.

  She sucked in a long draw of air and held it for interminable moments. Her face reddened from the effort until Beaufort thought she just might pass out.

  And then the sound. The low, hissing release of pressure as she breathed out her displeasure. She was livid.

  “I have nothing to be concerned about, you say? With one quick strike the man has managed to nearly destroy our agreement with the East India Company. He has in his possession the doctor’s wife. Have I forgotten anything?”

  Failing to answer was not an option. Beaufort had played this game before. He knew she wanted him to meekly place his neck in the noose.

  “No, Your Grace.” It took all his control to manage the subservient tone he knew was required.

  Her unblinking, glittering gaze pierced him.

  “I’ll not remind you of the power I wield—power I earned all on my own. No one gave it to me. No one laid the foundation, built the house, and then i
nvited me in.”

  “Are you suggesting I contribute nothing to the Kingsmen?” he ground out, his control slipping as he wiped a bead of sweat from his temple.

  She did not move, her face frozen in superiority. “I am suggesting you remember your place, Mr. Beaufort.”

  The Queen never used his given name. She was making a point. Would in blood, if necessary.

  “I remember,” he said, the anger that had threatened his common sense beginning to cool.

  “This Mr. Clark, is dealing with him the reason for your impudent behavior?”

  Well, Clark was as good an excuse as any. Besides, there was some truth in her question. If Clark succeeded in taking over the Kingsmen, life for Beaufort and all of his men would change.

  He looked at the bloody bitch seated before him and believed he could almost guarantee it would change for the better.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” he finally replied, avoiding her eyes. “I did not want to worry you. But you are far too intelligent for such games. Mr. Clark is a very real threat to all that you’ve worked so hard to build.”

  “And the doctor’s wife, do not forget to factor her in,” the Queen added. “If she should realize who I am …”

  Beaufort had half a mind to question Crowther’s widow himself and wring the information from her before handing her over to his men. He’d no idea what-all Mrs. Crowther knew. But from the Queen’s reaction, there was enough for blackmail. “I have to think Mr. Clark would have used any information the doctor’s wife had by now.”

  What was it that the blasted woman knew? Had she somehow seen the Queen’s face? Beaufort looked again at his employer. Nothing about the mask or her fine gown and turban spoke of anything incriminating. Of course, the light was poor in the box, as he’d purposely lit few candles, so he supposed something about her might stand out in the light of day.

  If he could somehow be responsible for capturing the woman …

  “Good point, Mr. Beaufort,” the Queen intoned, then muttered something to herself.

  It would mean taking out Clark and his men. He kept the Widow under constant guard.

  “Unless she has not told him yet.”

  Hate to lose a man like Clark. If he could negotiate a partnership with him, it would be highly profitable. And if it meant he could get out from under the bitch’s thumb?

  “Well, we’ll have her all to ourselves soon enough,” the Queen finished, raising the spyglass to her eye once more and pointing it through the velvet curtains of the tent. “They’re very nearly to the box.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Beaufort replied, glad to be released.

  “Do not fail me, Mr. Beaufort,” she said coldly, not bothering to look at him. “Disappointing me would be a mistake.”

  He glared at the woman, wanting to reach over and throttle her. Only iron control kept him from acting on the urge and allowed him to silently stand and leave the box.

  Langdon escorted Grace toward their box, his arm entwined with hers. The mask accentuated her intelligent eyes, turning them into mysterious pools of dark, shaded violet, while the golden velvet cloak she wore hid her curves from all.

  Except for him. Every inch of Grace’s soft, supple body was catalogued in his mind for easy reference. The hollow at the base of her throat, the sensual weight of her breasts. Even the mole in the middle of her back—all there within reach, waiting for him to savor.

  Niles walked just ahead of the couple. He glanced over his shoulder. “Are we ready, then?”

  The question forced Langdon to rein in his wayward thoughts and focus on the Corinthian plan. It was essential that he not allow Grace’s presence to distract him. Otherwise, she would be in danger’s way. He nodded at Niles. “Ready. Be a good man and do not let Lady Grace out of your sight.”

  Niles looked back at him, one eyebrow raised in surprise. “Do you question my abilities?”

  “Not at all,” Langdon murmured in his friend’s ear, careful not to let Grace hear, “but I need to know that she’s safe.”

  Niles’s eyes sharpened. “You have my word—”

  “Gentlemen.”

  Langdon straightened, slipping seamlessly into his role of criminal leader as Marcus Mitchell strode toward them. “Mr. Mitchell,” he said coolly.

  “Good evening, Marcus.” Grace’s hold on Langdon’s hand loosened. “I’d hoped you would be in attendance this evening.”

  “You flatter me, Lady Grace,” Mitchell replied, his tone too familiar for Langdon’s taste.

  Langdon released Grace’s hand and placed his palm on the small of her back. “Mr. Davis will be dining with you,” he told her, easily cutting off the conversation between her and Mitchell. “I’ll return shortly.”

  Grace smiled and allowed him to kiss her hand. “Do not be long.”

  Langdon savored the feel of her delicate, gloved fingers beneath his lips, and then turned to Mitchell. “Shall we?”

  “This way.” Mitchell smiled at Grace before turning and walking up the path toward the King’s box.

  Langdon pretended to adjust his mask and scanned their surroundings as they wove their way through the crowd. Vauxhall Gardens had never held much interest for him. Now it possessed even less. The crowds of people would have presented a problem no matter the location. But in the dark, it was worse—although, he did take some comfort in the fact while the night put the Corinthians at a disadvantage, it did the same for the Kingsmen.

  The orchestra, situated in a building of its own in the center of the Grove, struck up a cheery tune. Apparently inspired by the music—and, more important, by the champagne and ale—people began to clap in time and even a few cheered. The din of music, raised voices, and bawdy laughter filled the cool night air.

  A woman staggered toward them down the path. Dressed as a fairy, her wings swayed behind her as she lifted up her skirts to keep from tripping. “Beg your pardon,” she said as she passed, her breath reeking of wine.

  The savory smells of Vauxhall ham wafted from the kitchens, the aroma of roast chicken and freshly baked bread blended with the woman’s stench until Langdon’s nose twitched from the overwhelming combination.

  “A friend of yours?” Langdon said dryly to Mitchell, tilting his chin toward the inebriated woman.

  “The Kingsmen enjoy females and we are nothing if not predictable,” he replied over his shoulder. “And you? Surely a man of your standing does not make do with only Mrs. Crowther for entertainment?”

  Anger flared and Langdon bit off a curse, reining in his urge to make Mitchell apologize for his words. What he wouldn’t do to give Grace his name and the protection it afforded. But he had a game to play tonight and he couldn’t let personal feelings interfere with solving the case.

  “Mrs. Crowther is a name for a dour, beaten-down soul, wouldn’t you agree? While Grace …” He let his mind’s eye travel from her lovely eyes to her full, luscious mouth.

  “We are in agreement—for once, Mr. Clark,” Mitchell replied, his face somber as he looked at Langdon. “Our Grace has never been a beaten-down soul—nor will she ever be.”

  “No, I am certain that she will not,” Langdon answered, infusing his voice with a lightness he did not feel in the least.

  “You are a lucky man,” Mitchell said, his voice hard. He looked ahead as they neared the King’s box. “And here we are, Clark.”

  Langdon shifted his attention from Mitchell to the box. Four men and one woman sat within. The grim atmosphere looked to be the opposite of the crowd’s loud celebrating that reigned outside the King’s box. No one seemed to be engaged in conversation. In fact, they looked not to be acknowledging one another at all, their faces so stony they could have been awaiting the executioner.

  “I see my reputation precedes me,” Langdon commented.

  Mitchell halted and turned to face him. “In a manner of speaking, yes. Your business proposition piqued the King’s interest, of that you can be sure. Which is why you are about to meet the Queen.”

 
; “The Queen? Not the King? You lied to my men.” Langdon’s mind quickly recalibrated the evening’s plan in light of the news. “You lied to me,” he said, his voice lethally cold.

  “I did not know myself that he wouldn’t be here until this evening,” Mitchell countered. “But you should not be disheartened. No one meets the King until they’ve entertained the Queen—well, in theory anyway. I can’t recall the last time anyone made it as far as even this. Well done, Mr. Clark.”

  Langdon scowled at Mitchell. He had a swift, strong urge to wipe the smirk off the other man’s face with his fist. “Do not lie to me again. Or you will regret it. Do you understand?”

  “I will do my best. But keeping promises is not my strong suit,” Mitchell replied, the smirk fading.

  Langdon’s blood rose at the man’s continuing impertinence. “Is that right? Well, it is one of mine,” he said softly. “You’ve been warned.”

  Mitchell ignored him. Without another word, he gestured for Langdon to follow and within a mere twenty or so steps, they reached the King’s box.

  Mitchell knocked at the entrance and waited. The door opened and one of the four men Langdon had seen earlier appeared. “Mr. Mitchell,” the giant said by way of a greeting, his thick dockside drawl lingering in Langdon’s ears.

  He was one of the largest men Langdon had ever seen. In fact, if he were someone prone to believing in fairy tales and such, Langdon suspected the giant would have played a starring role in one of the Grimms’ works.

  The man looked at Langdon and grunted, clearly less than impressed.

  “Thank you, Isle,” Mitchell replied, gesturing for the man to move. “Now let us pass.”

  Isle continued to stare at Langdon. “Aye,” he eventually agreed, and moved aside.

  “Isle?” Langdon asked as he followed Mitchell into the box. “An interesting name.”

  Mitchell paused to watch the giant close and lock the door. “More descriptive than interesting. It is short for ‘island.’ Because he’s the size of one.”

  “Mr. Mitchell is endlessly creative when it comes to christening our men. Wouldn’t you agree?”