The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match Read online

  Grace turned and sat down on the narrow ledge, then leaned back and reached out with her right hand for a brick mortared in place in the far right corner.

  Mrs. Templeton held on to Grace’s left hand, her strong, stocky body acting as an anchor. “No matter where we hide, you will require at least one change of clothing, my lady. And you cannot be expected to sleep on the coarse linens you find in a roadside inn. And what about your special tea? Hmmm? We will not be able to visit Master Chow’s shop and you are nearly out of leaves.”

  Grace picked at the failing mortar around the brick with her index finger, closing her eyes as the chalky material flew from her efforts and dusted her face. “We will not require extra clothing, Mrs. Templeton. I plan on hiding us within the 9th Street’s territory and I assure you one does not change for dinner in that section of London.”

  “Ninth Street?” her friend repeated with disbelief. “You could not find a more dangerous part of London, my lady—outside of St. Giles, that is. Bit like going from the frying pan into the fire, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Grace finished with the deteriorating mortar and brushed off her face. Opening her eyes, she grasped the brick with her fingers and pulled hard. “Which is precisely the point. If we’ve any luck at all, they will not think to look for me there.”

  The brick scraped along its neighbors and finally came free. Grace set it down on the sill then placed her hand in the space left behind. Her fingers grasped a coarse sack first. She tightened her hold and yanked. “In this bag is nearly enough coin for all three of us to leave London. Is your niece Rosie still employed by Huntleys in Bond Street?”

  Mrs. Templeton nodded and took the bag with her free hand.

  “We will take piece work from her as it becomes available,” Grace explained, leaning out the open window once more. “And if my calculations are correct, we shall be in Devon before the new year.”

  She reached up once more and searched the hiding place, her fingers coming to rest on a second sack. This one was quite a bit smaller than the first. Made of the finest silk, with embroidered doves encircling the top, the bag was as familiar to Grace as her own face.

  “And, if necessary, we shall sell this.”

  She grasped the bag and easily removed it from the hole. “Here,” she prompted Mrs. Templeton, handing the silk bag to her friend then picking up the brick and returning it to its place.

  “Never say such a thing,” Mrs. Templeton breathed, pulling Grace back into the room. “It was your mother’s, my lady.”

  The cook released Grace’s hand and stood back, loosening the cords of the pouch and lifting a silver necklace from it. “When we first met, you wore this every day.”

  Grace had done many things differently when she first came to 3 Bedford Street. She’d still been nothing more than an optimistic, foolish girl, full of hope for her future despite all that had transpired. Yes, hers had been a childhood filled with the unpleasant effects of a father too fond of drink and gambling. And it was true he’d offered her up in a game of cards after spending every last coin he had, only to lose.

  Still, Grace had held tight to her hope, believing the doctor could be a kind, caring man underneath his cold, leering facade.

  She’d been proven wrong, of course, many times. The worst of which was when the doctor had stolen her mother’s necklace and lost it gambling. He’d known what the keepsake had meant to her. It had been a gift given to her mother the year she’d come out. Each girl who’d attended Mrs. Van Allen’s charm and grace classes had received one, all twelve of the necklaces alike save for the initials engraved upon the back of the heart-shaped pendant. Grace could see the empty spot on the dresser in her mind’s eye—the one where she’d laid the necklace every night as she readied for bed.

  The doctor had not even bothered to lie about stealing it. And that was when Grace had lost all hope for what her life should be and embraced the reality of what it was. She’d built a makeshift family with the Templetons and young Timothy and bided her time, saving every last coin she could get her hands on and waiting for the day there was enough to fund their escape to Devon.

  After the theft, when Grace refused to accompany her husband to any social engagements or even leave the house with him, the doctor attempted to convince Grace of the depth of his regret by winning the necklace back. But he had been too late. Grace could not even look at the memento once it had been tainted by deceit.

  And that was when the doctor had revealed who he really was. Grace had outlived her usefulness as his exquisite accessory. The verbal barrage of insults and slights that had intermittently tainted their marriage then began in earnest, leaving Grace no choice but to hide from her husband within their home.

  She was a different person now. Much more strong and capable. Able to see situations and people for what they truly were. The world was a cold place. And so was Grace’s heart.

  Grace stood up and turned to push the window shut. “We are moving forward, Mrs. Templeton. Not looking back—never looking back.” She latched the lock and looked out the window, realizing it would be the final time she took in the view from 3 Bedford Street.

  “If you will not agree to bring anything else, then let us be gone from this wicked place,” the cook urged, gently placing the delicate silk purse inside the larger sack and tying a knot.

  Grace turned back and nodded, catching the homely painting from the corner of her eye. She walked to it and took it down from the wall.

  “You cannot mean to take that painting?” Mrs. Templeton asked. “Truth be told, I never did care for it.”

  Grace held the picture low then put her foot through the canvas, satisfaction blooming in her chest at the sound of the hills and glens ripping beyond repair.

  She was scared—more so than she’d ever been before. Grace decided fear was a good thing, at least for now. It would keep her running, and hopefully out of the Kingsmen’s reach. “I never cared for it, either.”

  “And you believe he is telling the truth?”

  Langdon contemplated Henry Prescott, Viscount Carmichael’s question as he surveyed the comfortable furnishings of the library in the Young Corinthians Club. He and Carmichael occupied two leather chairs set against the west wall. Ribbons of fragrant cigar smoke hung heavily in the air, enwreathing pairs and small groups of men as they discussed the day’s news or, more likely, Corinthian business.

  The club was comprised of agents and non-agents alike, but all men valued their privacy, making the premises ideal for such conversation.

  “I do not have a choice, do I?” Langdon finally replied, all too aware of the frustration revealed in his tone. “I apologize, Carmichael. I am not myself these days.”

  Lord Carmichael took a slow sip of his brandy and swallowed, his keen gaze fixed on Langdon. “I would have to agree with you. But tell me, is it the Kingsmen, Stonecliffe? Or are other concerns troubling you?”

  Lord Carmichael had known Langdon since he was a boy. He and Langdon’s father had been dear friends and part of a closely knit group of families that included Sophia’s parents. There was not a chance Carmichael misunderstood Langdon’s statement, which meant he’d purposefully brought up the topic of Sophia.

  “The Kingsmen, of course,” Langdon said shortly, tamping down his frustration. “Surely you are as anxious as I am to move forward with the case. And Topper’s information is all we have.”

  “I do wonder, though, if it is possible to separate the two—that is, the Kingsmen from Sophia.” Carmichael took a second measured sip of the amber-colored liquid. His sharp gaze pinned Langdon.

  Langdon stared at the man. He blinked, his mind racing to adjust. He couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Carmichael’s careful and painfully precise lectures to the men he led were the stuff of legend.

  A legend Langdon could never have dreamt he would be written into. He’d always had the ability to spot those agents who’d one day find themselves staring across a desk at Carmichael. Their tra
nsgressions were varied and too many to count. Arrogance. Impatience. An inability to listen. A refusal to follow certain rules. What the sins all had in common was their ability to endanger both the men committing them and their fellow agents.

  And Langdon fell prey to not one. It was not bravado nor competitiveness that drove him. But honor. And a strict moral code. The other men had often referred to him as the model Corinthian.

  And now? he wondered, as he struggled to look his mentor in the eyes. What drives you? Now that you’ve reaped the bleak rewards of an honorable life?

  He knew he should appreciate the older man’s interest, but he could muster nothing more than embarrassment. “I promise you, Carmichael, I am as committed as ever—no, that is wrong,” he amended grimly. “I am more committed than ever to finding Lady Afton’s killer. Of that you can be sure.”

  “Is that the wisest course of action, Stonecliffe?” Carmichael asked, finishing his drink. “Even if Sophia was not the love of your life—”

  “With all due respect, Carmichael, I do not think you are in any position to suggest that I did not love Sophia,” Langdon interrupted, his clipped words revealing more than he would have preferred.

  Carmichael held his glass aloft to signal a waiting servant. “You are absolutely correct, Stonecliffe.” He paused while the liveried footman took the glass from his hand and departed. “Though I did not say you did not love Sophia. What I suggested was that you were not in love with her. Two very different things.”

  “Is there a difference?” Langdon challenged, straightening his blasted cravat, which refused to lay as it should. “And even if there is, what is done is done. There is no denying …”

  Carmichael’s questions had laid open feelings that were still raw—and made Langdon further aware of the subtle, sneaking changes in himself. A rumpled appearance was out of character for him, but it was easily remedied. What Carmichael hinted at—that Langdon’s ability to do his job may have been compromised? That would be the end of him.

  “There is no denying that the two are in love,” Carmichael finished for him.

  “This conversation is not necessary,” Langdon assured his superior, tugging at his too-tight cravat one more time. “It is work that will set me right. I am sure of it.”

  Carmichael methodically twisted the gold signet ring on his left hand. “You are rattled—and rightly so. Any man in your position would be. But you are a Corinthian and this case is important to many people.”

  Langdon’s fingers tightened around his glass. “It is all I have left, Carmichael,” he answered with brutal truthfulness. He flicked a quick glance around the room, relieved when no one appeared to be paying any attention to their quiet conversation. “You cannot assign me elsewhere. Lady Afton’s murderer has always been mine to find. Even though Sophia married Nicholas, not me, that has not changed.”

  Carmichael studied Langdon, his gaze somber as he clearly considered his words. “And if, for whatever reason, you are unable to continue with the investigation,” he asked, “I have your word you will willingly give the case over to another agent?”

  “You have my word.”

  Langdon was not lying. But he knew in his bones he would be the one to solve the case—or die in the attempt.

  “Very well,” Carmichael replied, releasing the ring. “Tell me exactly what Topper revealed.”

  Langdon mentally lowered his hackles and cleared his throat. “According to Topper, the Kingsmen are nervous. The Bishop’s capture forced the gang to realize they are vulnerable. So they’ve sent a message to all who would consider betraying them by eliminating a key advisor to the King. Oddly enough, the man is not anyone we are familiar with, nor is he a highranking member of the gang. He is a doctor.”

  “A doctor?” Carmichael asked, puzzled.

  “Yes, one Robert Crowther. Apparently a distant relative to someone within the peerage.”

  “And husband to Lady Grace Audley,” Carmichael added, disapproval coloring his tone and pinching his features.

  “Audley?” Langdon repeated, letting the name linger on his tongue as he waited for some spark of recognition. “Yes, now I remember. Lord Danvers’s child, correct? I remember hearing rumors about the wastrel gambling his daughter away in a game of cards while I was on the Continent. Are you telling me Crowther was the very man Danvers wagered?”

  Carmichael nodded. “I am. The shame and sorrow killed her mother. And Lord Danvers perished in a riding accident no more than six months after. No one within the ton has seen nor heard from Lady Grace since.”

  “Something we have in common with the London underbelly, apparently,” Langdon replied, searching his mind for a mental image of Lady Grace but drawing a blank. “According to Topper, Lady Grace vanished from Crowther’s house at the time of the doctor’s death. The Kingsmen are intent on finding her.”

  “Then we must find her first,” Carmichael said with deadly certainty.

  “Precisely.”

  Langdon reclined back onto the silk-draped bed and rested against the massive mahogany headboard. Waiting for Serena to appear was always interesting and this visit promised to be no exception. Madame Frie’s girls attracted men from all over the city of London, the brothel infamous for catering to the most exotic of tastes. The sounds that seeped through the walls were often recognizable grunts of pleasure and ecstasy. And then there were times when Langdon could not figure out just what sort of act could produce the noises he’d heard.

  Presently, a gong featured prominently in Natasha’s room next door. An Asian motif, perhaps?

  The door slowly opened and Serena appeared in the doorway. She struck a dramatic pose, her seductive stare stirring Langdon’s senses. “It is not polite to listen, Dorogoi.”

  “Is that so?” Langdon asked, beckoning for her to come in.

  Serena stepped across the threshold, her scarlet silk chemise and matching nightrail whispering with each step. She closed the door and padded across the thick Aubusson carpet. “Very impolite,” she assured him as she climbed up onto the bed. “You look tired—and troubled. This is not the man I know. Let me ease your mind.” She winked at him wickedly then reached for his cravat.

  Langdon gently refused her offer, Serena’s observations pricking his worn patience. “That is not the nature of our relationship, but thank you for your concern.”

  “You do know what Serena was trained for, yes?” she asked, her sarcasm only made more adorable by her thick accent.

  Langdon smiled at his friend. Serena had supplied him with information for the past five years—and nothing more. They had never made love and they never would. “I respect you too much to ask such a thing of you. Besides, you might find me lacking and decide to never see me again.”

  “Impossible,” she muttered, her gaze languishing on his nether regions.

  Langdon reached inside the hidden pocket in his coat and produced a velvet pouch. “I believe this will cheer you up.”

  Jewels made Serena happy. And Langdon liked to see her happy. She’d never spoken of her life before the brothel, but in his experience, one did not end up a prostitute unless something in their past had gone terribly wrong.

  “You should not have,” Serena cooed as she took the offered gift and opened it. “But I am very glad you did!” She scooped up the emerald earrings and examined them in her hand. “They are my favorite, Dorogoi. Of course, this is not new information to you. And new information is what you need, is it not? Tell me, what can I give you?”

  Langdon watched her clip one of the earrings to her right ear, the candlelight catching the jewel’s brilliance in fiery fashion. “Dr. Rupert Crowther. Do you know of him?”

  “The King’s man, yes?” Serena asked, clipping the second earring on. “I do not think the doctor will be of much use to you, Dorogoi. He is dead.” She crawled across his legs and reached out for a handheld mirror that rested on the table next to the bed.

  “I know. It is not the doctor that I want. It is his w
ife, Grace.”

  Serena scooted back to her original position and held the mirror up to her face. “What would you want with a dead man’s wife?”

  Langdon watched Serena as she admired the new baubles. “I want to get to her before the Kingsmen do. I want to save her life.”

  Serena continued to look in the mirror, but her mind was clearly working. She held the weight of one of the dropped emeralds between two fingers as though trying to decide if the doctor’s wife for a pair of earrings was a fair trade.

  “You will not harm her, Dorogoi? Give me your word.”

  Langdon reached out and took the mirror from Serena, then held her tiny hand in his. “I give you my word. She will be safe, Serena.”

  “No woman is safe in London,” she replied with wisdom that outmatched her years.

  Langdon’s heart pinched at the sound of her voice. On several occasions in the past he’d offered to pay Serena’s way out of the city and set her up with a cottage on one of his properties. But she had refused and would never tell Langdon why, only that jewels were harder to come by in the country.

  “Mrs. Crowther will be safe, Serena,” Langdon assured her. “If I get to her first.”

  Serena fiddled with the earring as she thought, finally releasing the jewel and letting it slowly swing. “Do you know, I believe you should buy me another gift, my Dorogoi. There is a shop, Huntleys, on Bond Street. Give them my name—but do be discreet. Mrs. Crowther does not boast many friends, yet those she has are very loyal to her.”

  “Thank you, Serena,” Langdon said, then released her hand and made to leave.

  Serena put it on his chest and smiled. “Must you go? I think Natasha will be finished with the gong soon.”

  “You are persistent,” Langdon praised her, then placed his feet on the floor and stood.

  Serena rose up on her knees and placed her arms about Langdon’s neck. “Then be safe, Dorogoi. The Kingsmen are not to be trifled with.”