The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match Page 12

  “He’s right, you know,” Langdon told his friend, eyeing the red mark on his cheek. “You are always telling the new recruits to ne—”

  Niles spit into a brass basin at his feet. “Not you, too. It is your bloody fault the boy had the opportunity in the first place. You, in the combat room? Why, an agent is more likely to see the ghost of King Henry VIII scrounging about for scraps in here than find you kicking about.”

  “You summoned me, remember?” Langdon asked, smirking. “And I am quite glad you did. Can’t remember the last time someone managed to best you. And a new recruit? Even better.”

  Niles narrowed his eyes at Langdon as he snapped up a length of linen from a nearby chair. “I summoned you to the Club, Stonecliffe. Which, in your case, historically meant your office. Or Carmichael’s. Or even the floor above—and always with a newspaper in hand. But never the combat room. You are lucky boxing does not agree with you. Otherwise I might have felt obligated to teach you a thing or twelve.”

  Langdon cleared his throat. “And what if I said boxing does have its appeal?”

  “I’d say about bloody time, old chap.”

  Niles swiped at his sweaty forehead with the linen then threw it on the back of the chair. “Come on, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.” He put up his fists in a classic boxer’s stance.

  Langdon stripped off his cravat, shrugged out of his coat and vest, rolled up his sleeves, and ducked between the ropes to join Niles. He raised his fists, mimicking his friend’s position. He knew enough of the sport to protect himself from the uneducated jabs and punches thrown by most opponents. But Niles was not most opponents. The man was known throughout the Corinthians for his boxing prowess.

  Langdon hoped his friend was in fine fighting form. He needed to hit something—anything. Or better yet, be hit. Whatever might erase the memory of kissing Lady Grace.

  Niles suddenly dropped his hands and stepped back warily. “This is too good to be true. What are you playing at?”

  “Nothing, I swear,” Langdon answered honestly.

  Niles stared him down, his eyes narrowing as he watched Langdon closely. He raised his fists again, apparently satisfied with what he saw. “All right, then. Glad you’ve come around to seeing the virtues of pounding another man to a pulp.” He shifted back and forth, grinning with anticipation.

  Langdon tried to follow Niles’s movements but the near-dancing motion made him self-conscious. “Why did you ask me to come to the Club?”

  “Oh, did not I tell you? A letter came—from the King.”

  Langdon stopped moving and lowered his hands, frowning blackly. “When were you going to tell me?”

  Niles tapped Langdon’s unprotected chin with a right hook. “Well, why else do you suppose I summoned you?”

  Langdon rubbed his jaw. “Hilarious. What did the letter say?”

  “Put your fists up or I’ll hit you,” Niles ordered.

  Langdon obeyed and began the ridiculous dance once again. “There. Now, the letter.”

  “You, my dear sir, have been invited to a masked ball. Along with your lady.”

  Langdon stared at Niles’s mouth, sure he’d heard wrong.

  Niles took advantage of the momentary lapse in attention and hit Langdon.

  “Blast,” Langdon ground out, bringing his fists closer to his face. “You must be joking.”

  “Oh, I never joke about a masked ball, my friend,” Niles replied with mock sincerity. “And this masked ball? This one is to be held at Vauxhall.”

  Impossible, Langdon thought. “How are we to guarantee the safety of Lady Grace in a setting as public and crowded as Vauxhall? And with everyone in disguise, no less?”

  “I rather think that is the point,” Niles answered sarcastically.

  Langdon suddenly remembered why he was there. He needed an outlet—he needed to hit something. Even if the frustration and pent-up tension had begun with Grace, Niles’s face would do just fine. “And even more reason for you to have told me at once.”

  “Really, Stonecliffe, have you learned nothing during the course of our friendship?” Niles gestured for Langdon to lower his fists a touch. “Of course I know the location is a logistical nightmare. But they would not budge on their terms. I knew you’d find the situation less than ideal but I couldn’t figure a way around it.”

  Langdon followed Niles’s suggestion and dropped his fists an inch or two, only to be slapped on the temple. “Do you mean to tell me you feared I would be disappointed in you?” He lunged at his friend and tried to pay him back with a blow to the stomach.

  Niles effortlessly avoided Langdon’s attempt by shifting to the right. “You must know that everyone fears disappointing you, Stonecliffe. You are a bloody paragon around here—just below Carmichael on the saints list, I believe.”

  “Paragon? Please,” Langdon growled with disgust. No one was further from sainthood than he.

  “Come now, modesty is absolutely overvalued, in my opinion,” Niles assured him as he landed a light blow to Langdon’s gut. “You are a superb agent—that goes without saying. The real issue is your decency, your … I don’t know, humanity? It all sounds a bit glossy for my taste, but there it is. You, my friend, are a first-rate human being. A rare breed these days.”

  The churning tension in Langdon’s gut spun into full-blown rejection and outrage. “Take it back,” he said through his teeth.

  “I won’t,” Niles said, tapping Langdon on the temple once again. “It is the truth and you know it.”

  “Take. It. Back,” Langdon snarled. He’d had enough of such testaments on his behalf. Sophia and his brother would no doubt also be willing to relate their own angelic view of him to anyone who asked. Carmichael, too. And Grace? She believed him to be the most perfect of all.

  Darkness flooded his senses, edged with red, roaring in his ears until he heard nothing else but the echo of words from his family and friends.

  “You are the heir this family has waited generations for,” his absentee father exclaimed.

  “I am not worthy of you—nor is anyone else, I fear. You are the most honorable man on earth,” Sophia promised.

  “No brother could ever compare. More than that—no man could,” Nicholas praised.

  “I can think of only one man capable of succeeding me as the leader of the Young Corinthians. That man is you,” Carmichael pronounced. Langdon lashed out, slamming his fist squarely into Niles’s face.

  The sight of his friend lying on the floor, blood running from his broken nose, finally silenced the voices in Langdon’s head. “What have I done?” Aghast, he bent over Niles.

  “You’ve broken my bloody nose,” Niles answered, sitting up. “You are really not yourself today. What is wrong, Stonecliffe?”

  “Nothing. Everything,” Langdon growled in frustration. “Come, we have a ship to loot.”

  “They’re beautiful, my lady. Now, tell me, what do you do with them?”

  Mrs. Templeton stood on the opposite side of Grace’s bed. A colorful array of chemises, drawers, nightrails, and robes had arrived that morning from Madame Fontaine’s shop. They now lay spread out across the bed, the jewel tones and silken fabric all but begging to be caressed.

  “Well, a man’s mistress would wear them to please her protector,” Grace answered, picking up a gossamer ice-blue nightrail.

  Mrs. Templeton’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “But they’d be hidden beneath her skirts.”

  “Not when her dress is removed, Mrs. Templeton,” Grace further elaborated, stifling a laugh when the older woman smiled with sudden insight and her brows arched in amusement.

  “Ah, now I see.” She smiled as she lifted a ravishing robe in deep umber trimmed in wide bands of cream lace and held it to her own body. “Is it my color, then?”

  Grace could no longer hold back. She burst into laughter, delighted when Mrs. Templeton joined her. “Oh yes, Mrs. Templeton. It is quite becoming.”

  That only made Mrs. Templeton laugh harder. She sli
d the flimsy pieces aside and settled herself on the counterpane, next to the rainbow of silk and lace. “I tell you, Mr. Templeton wouldn’t know what to do with something such as this—nor would I, to be honest. What will you do with them?”

  That, Grace recognized, was a very good question. “Well, Imogen brought me to Madame Fontaine’s shop specifically to purchase these items. It would have seemed very odd if I’d not ordered a few.”

  “A few, yes,” Mrs. Templeton answered, busying herself by beginning to fold the lingerie. “But the delivery boy told Midge there would be three more boxes coming next week.”

  Three? Good Lord, Grace thought, she must have ordered more than she realized. “You know that I normally eschew such frivolous purchases—especially anything of such an intimate nature.”

  “Yes, of course, my lady. You did not want to encourage the doctor. But the doctor is dead now.”

  Grace held the ice-blue garment against her, the soft silk beneath her fingertips pure pleasure to her long-denied love of feminine garments. Could the answer be that she simply desired to once again own pretty things? Indulging in wearing silk and lace underclothing and nightrails wasn’t a crime, after all.

  “I am sorry, my lady,” Mrs. Templeton rushed to add, placing the umber robe in the growing stack of folded garments. “It is none of my business what you buy nor what you wear.”

  Or was it more? Grace wondered, distracted. Was her undeniable attraction to Mr. Clark fueling a desire to feel more feminine?

  “Have I upset you?”

  Mrs. Templeton’s question startled Grace. “Oh, my dear Mrs. Templeton, nothing you could ever do would upset me, I assure you.”

  “Then what troubles you, my lady?” the woman pressed, pausing to pick up a pair of ivory silk drawers edged in rose ribbon. “I know your face as well as my own. Your mind is working at something, and it weighs on you.”

  “Is it wrong to want, Mrs. Templeton?” Grace asked, pushing the lingerie aside and sitting down next to her on the bed.

  Mrs. Templeton studied Grace with a practical, sympathetic eye. “You know it is not, my lady. Wouldn’t be human if you did not want things. And especially you, married to that monster for so many years. He did not allow you one comfort, out of spite, that one.”

  “I know you are right. Spending so long living without makes it difficult to move forward with, if that makes any sense.”

  Grace’s life with the doctor had taught her how to survive with only the most base of necessities—physically and emotionally. And after a time she’d learned to almost relish her lifestyle because she knew it pained the doctor to see her derive even the minutest amount of pleasure from her life with him.

  “Come, now.” Mrs. Templeton patted Grace’s hand. “Tell me what this is really all about.”

  “Am I that transparent?” Grace asked wryly, taking the dear woman’s hand in hers.

  “To me you are,” she answered, squeezing Grace’s hand. “Though perhaps not to others.”

  Grace had never lied to Mrs. Templeton. Honesty was intrinsic to their bond, and she could not, would not, offend her friend by lying now. The problem lay in the very fact that answering her question truthfully might do just that. “I asked you if it was wrong to want. And you answered in relation to things. But what of people? A person. Is it wrong to want someone?”

  “Are we speaking strictly biblically, my lady?”

  “No,” Grace answered, adding, “though I will not lie. Passion does come into play.”

  Mrs. Templeton’s gaze did not waver as she looked at Grace. “And would you be speaking of Mr. Clark?” she asked calmly.

  “I would,” Grace replied in a whisper, suddenly feeling quite ashamed. “Have I disappointed you?”

  The woman’s steel gray eyebrows lowered and she frowned in confusion. “How could you ever disappoint me?”

  “He is a criminal, Mrs. Templeton—some would say no better than the doctor,” Grace explained, finding it difficult to meet the woman’s gaze.

  “Ah, is that your worry?” she asked, her brow smoothing once more. “Mr. Clark is a criminal, that much is true. And yes, he holds that one fact in common with the doctor. But that is where those two men part ways. Mr. Clark may be a cunning criminal, but he’s not a monster. I never dreamt I would see the day that I’d make a distinction between the two, but there it is.”

  “He breaks the law,” Grace offered, feeling overly vulnerable now that she’d confided her feelings.

  “Would it interest you to know that I’ve broken the law—as has Mr. Templeton?”

  “What?” Grace looked at the woman skeptically. “When?”

  “When we lost our positions with Lady Deerfield,” she replied, looking into her lap as if remembering. “Neither of us could find a job—no one wanted a pair of broken-down servants. So there were times our meals were pinched from street vendors. Once, a warm coat went missing from a tailor’s shop so Mr. Templeton would not freeze to death. And there’s more. I am not proud of what I’ve done, but I’ll tell you this, I’ll do it again if the need arises,” she said staunchly.

  “You did what you had to. There is no shame in that—”

  “And how do you know Mr. Clark does not act for the very same reason?” Mrs. Templeton interrupted.

  Grace could not accept the comparison. “You and Mr. Templeton were thrown out on the streets for the crime of aging. Do you believe Mr. Clark suffered cruelty at the hands of fate? Is that what drove him to become the leader of a criminal organization—one that could be even more dangerous than the Kingsmen, for all we know?”

  “It sounds to me as if you are the one who is disappointed in your own feelings for Mr. Clark.”

  Mrs. Templeton had done this before in their conversations, Grace reflected. Her friend knew better than to tell Grace what to do, so she made her work for the truth, pushing till it revealed itself.

  Grace pondered and then sighed. “I believed myself to be more intelligent,” she said finally.

  “Is it stupid to be drawn to another?” Mrs. Templeton asked. “I suppose it is. Mr. Templeton tries my patience on a daily basis—has since the day we first met. But I wouldn’t have life without him.”

  “You are confusing me, Mrs. Templeton,” Grace said. “Is it foolhardy for me to be attracted to Mr. Clark, or is it not?”

  The dear woman patted Grace’s hand again. “I can’t answer that question, my lady. You’ve boiled it down until there’s meat and there’s bones. But that’s not life. Right or wrong is not a simple thing.”

  Throughout her years with the doctor Grace had learned to control her emotions, to view life and its unpredictable and callous nature with calm and practicality. Mr. Clark robbed her of this particularly useful talent. She was finding it exceedingly difficult to treat him with any common sense at all.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about him. She lay awake at night, restless, aching and needing … something. She was very much afraid that what she needed was him and she had no idea what to do about it. Her time with him, of necessity, would be brief, for as soon as he’d either taken over or wiped out the Kingsmen, he would no longer need her, and their relationship would come to an end. She would retire to the country with the Templetons and he would remain in London. She thought it unlikely their paths would cross again.

  “I will say that it does my heart good to know the doctor did not ruin you for love, though,” Mrs. Templeton added. “Mr. Templeton and I were afraid you wouldn’t be able to bear having a man so close again.”

  “Yes, well, I suspect Mr. Clark does not feel the same for me,” Grace admitted reluctantly.

  Mrs. Templeton sighed. “Than he is not the man for you. There is a whole world out there, my lady.”

  But Grace did not want the whole world. She wanted Mr. Clark.

  “If you do not pull your bloody head out of your ass, I will do it for you,” Niles threatened Langdon. “Give in, already. Before I suffer a second broken bone. Your cowardly way
s are doing no one any good.”

  They stood upon the India Queen’s deck as she made her way slowly up the Thames toward the dock. Darkness cloaked their arrival and the waterway was eerily silent. The Corinthians had boarded the ship at Weymouth and replaced the East India Company men with their own hired crew. “My head is not in my ass,” Langdon countered. “But my fist will be in your face if you do not leave off.”

  Niles smiled widely, his teeth a brief flash of white in the inky night. “Sensitive subject?”

  “Cowardly ways?” Langdon asked incredulously.

  Niles shrugged off Langdon’s displeasure. “You heard me. And you know I am right. You cannot be the man you were before, but you’re afraid to move forward. Lady Grace represents a different future than you’d imagined. And that scares you.”

  Langdon breathed in a draft of salty sea air. Niles was right. He clapped his friend on the back. “When did you become so wise?”

  “Oh, I always have been,” Niles answered, gesturing to the docks as they came into view. “But my wisdom intimidated you.”

  Langdon smiled. “Is that right?”

  “Completely understandable, of course.”

  The East India Company owned a line of docks along the Thames, just down from Clarence Street and the Mayberry district beyond. Langdon chuckled at his friend’s verbal jab as he considered the upcoming attack.

  The Corinthians around the two men moved into place as the Company’s dock drew near.

  “I might just hand you over to the Kingsmen myself,” Langdon threatened Niles while his friend pulled a knife from within his boot and tested the blade.

  As the ship adjusted its speed in preparation to dock, Langdon suddenly felt very thankful for his friend. “Shall I ruin everything and say thank you for forcing me to see the fault in my thinking? And for nagging me until I did?” he asked Niles, unsheathing his knife and testing the weight of it.

  Niles pretended to slit his own throat. “God, no. We are men, Stonecliffe. Save your pretty words for Lady Grace.”

  “Very well,” Langdon replied, clapping his friend on the back once more.