The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match Page 7

  Langdon sat up and reached for a biscuit, then stuffed the entirety of it into his mouth. He chewed and chewed, unsure of how to respond. The miracles that surround us. Indeed. Small and minute, one was showing itself now, at a time when Langdon did not know if he had the strength to answer its call.

  “And you,” Langdon finally replied. “How do you deal with the bad—the very lowest points in life, the ones that cause you to cry?”

  Lady Grace self-consciously touched her reddened cheek. “I was crying because I find myself in a difficult position. I can see where I want to be, but it will take everything I can manage to muster to get there. For as long as I can remember, I have dreamt of escaping this life—of securing the Templetons’ happiness. And now the opportunity is at hand, not only for a new life but also to avenge Timothy’s murder. And I find myself afraid. And resolute. And anxious. And determined. Such a mixture of extremes, which, you should know, is very foreign behavior for me. As for what I will do? I will move forward. That is the only way I will reach my dream.”

  Langdon pointedly looked around the room at the flowers, suddenly unable to gaze upon Lady Grace any longer. Niles had managed to get Langdon thinking. But Lady Grace had him believing—in life after Sophia. Possibly even love?

  His fascination with her was unparalleled in his experience. Not even Sophia had elicited this level of unexpected emotion.

  “And you, Mr. Clark. What will you do with the bad that life brings?” Lady Grace asked.

  Langdon abruptly stood. He was too close. Too warm. Too—everything. Suddenly he felt desperately uncomfortable. And he was never uncomfortable. He moved away from the fire and walked to the writing desk, taking one of the pink roses from the vase situated there. “That is a very good question.”

  What is the man up to? More important, what are you up to? Grace stared into her china cup and pondered the surprising situation. It was true enough that she saw no point in disliking Mr. Clark. The sooner they engineered the Kingsmen’s demise, the sooner she could escape from London and begin to build a new life for herself and the Templetons. Friction between them would only complicate their efforts—and, perhaps, even compromise the outcome.

  Still, her role did not require that she reveal anything more than that which would help in their shared quest. Why had she so flagrantly sought out consoling?

  Yet something within her grieved the need to deny the powerful tug of attraction he seemed to exert effortlessly with each glance, each smile, each moment she spent in his company. Despite the less than reputable basis of their alliance, she was drawn to him. Grace was no naïve debutante and had been a wife, yet the emotions that swept through her when she was with him were all new, disturbing and exciting. And potentially dangerous, she acknowledged with an inner sigh of regret.

  She had gone too long without attention. That had to be the answer.

  He’s a criminal, Grace. More attractive and charming than the doctor, but a criminal just the same.

  She studied Mr. Clark through the screen of her lashes, cataloguing his sensual features and steeling herself to remain unaffected. His hair was so black as to possess a bluish sheen in the right light. His umber eyes reflected a somberness that his full lips shared. His large, muscled frame overwhelmed Grace whenever he entered a room.

  He was beautiful. A beautiful criminal.

  But a criminal nonetheless. She’d best not forget who and what he was.

  Grace exhaled and carefully returned her cup and saucer to the tray, watching as the man hovered near the writing desk. Was he anxious to leave? “Now, Mr. Clark, was there something you wanted to discuss with me?”

  “Yes, actually.” He returned the flower to the vase and came to stand behind his chair. “Though I have yet to hear back concerning my request to meet with the King, I think it best if we make an appearance.”

  Grace considered the man’s words. Once she was seen on his arm, the Kingsmen would know exactly where she was, and with whom. Half of her felt relief at the prospect of not having to hide. And the other went cold with fear.

  “I’ve gone to great lengths to secure your safety, Lady Grace,” Mr. Clark reassured her.

  He looked beyond confident. He sounded completely convinced.

  Clearly, Grace did not radiate the same.

  She wanted desperately to believe his efforts were enough. “I do not doubt you, Mr. Clark. But you yourself know what an organization such as the Kingsmen will do in order to protect their interests.”

  “Which is why I am the ideal man for the job of protecting you, Lady Grace,” he pressed, his tone too low, too real for her comfort. “I know how the Kingsmen think.”

  “There are times when it is to one’s advantage to have a criminal on your side,” Grace replied, forcing a smile. “But I am afraid we have a more practical problem. The dress I wear is hardly suitable for an evening’s entertainment.”

  He looked relieved, and then he frowned. “I took the liberty of ordering a wardrobe for you—as your protector, I assumed such an action was in my purview. But now, as I sit in the midst of an army of flowers, I wonder if I was too enthusiastic.”

  “But how?” Grace wondered aloud.

  His frown deepened. “I made a guess at your measurements.” His gaze held hers as he bluntly quoted numbers.

  “Oh.” Grace could think of nothing to say in response. The man had recited her exact measurements. A tingling of heat kissed the nape of her neck and she shivered. “Well, you absolutely had those correct; now let us see if you’ve any taste when it comes to fashion.”

  She slowly stood, heat prickling her skin beneath the concealment of her gown.

  “I believe this is where I leave. Until dinner, then,” Mr. Clark said before quickly walking from the room and closing the door behind him.

  “Until dinner,” Grace repeated to the closed door. He appeared. Disappeared. Asked questions. Changed topics.

  Despite Mr. Clark’s peculiar behavior, there was one constant: keeping up with the man would be a challenge.

  “I feel rather exposed.”

  The main room of the Four Horsemen literally vibrated with raucous laughter, the clink of champagne glasses, and dozens of competing conversations. Langdon could not be sure that he had heard Lady Grace correctly.

  He leaned in until his lips brushed the delicate outer curve of her ear. “I’m sorry?”

  She jerked, clearly startled, and caught her breath, her eyes round with surprise as she looked up at him.

  “Remember who you are and what I am to you,” he warned softly, beginning to question Lady Grace’s ability to follow through with the evening’s objective. Despite having been married, she seemed to have no familiarity with being touched by a man, not even in the most casual, innocent of contacts. “You are playing a part, as am I.”

  Her almost imperceptible nod conveyed she understood his warning.

  “I feel rather exposed,” she murmured so only he could hear, her fingers fiercely gripping his arm and giving away her tension. “I have been hiding from the Kingsmen in one way or another for the last ten years. And now here I am, presenting myself on a platter. And all but asking them to eat me alive.”

  Langdon covered her gloved hand with his and pulled her closer, tucking her protectively against his side. “You are safe with me,” he assured her. “It is important that the Kingsmen see you, here in London, and under my protection.”

  A drunken man seated at the faro table suddenly laughed, releasing a seemingly endless string of brays. Lady Grace watched the man as she fidgeted with the swath of netting covering her face, the ridiculous display of laughter making her smile.

  “Tell me, is the gown to your liking?” Langdon asked, relieved at her distraction and wanting to keep her from focusing on the danger inherent in their visit to this particular gaming den. He strolled forward, slowly drawing Lady Grace with him deeper into the club.

  She peered down at the neckline of her deep green silk gown, its design cons
tructed to blatantly cup her breasts and cling to her curves. “The fabric is sumptuous and I daresay it could not have fit any better even if the seamstress had taken my measurements herself. But the bodice will take some getting used to, I believe.”

  Langdon knew there was no possibility he would ever grow accustomed to seeing Grace in gowns as sensuous as the green silk. He glanced at the neckline and felt the urge to stroke his fingers over the soft fabric and farther, where gown met soft pale skin.

  His voice was lower, rougher, when he replied. “I gave the dressmaker very little information, but I would be surprised if she did not deduce for herself the nature of our relationship. Such necklines—”

  Lady Grace stifled a laugh, her nerves appearing to dissipate somewhat. “Mr. Clark, that was my weak attempt at humor. It is true that I am rather more exposed than I am accustomed to being. But that seems to be the theme of my life these days. Eyes on mine, Mr. Clark.”

  Langdon jerked his head up, realizing he’d been staring at her breasts and wondering if her nipples were pale pink or dusky rose. Grace was proving a dangerous distraction. “I apologize.”

  Lady Grace gripped his arm tightly and leaned in, affording him an even more intimate view. “Do stop apologizing, Mr. Clark. We have been spotted. Far right of the room, near the bar. He goes by the name of Moth. Lower rank than the doctor, but high enough to have the ear of someone who would be worth our time.”

  Her voice was soft; she seemed to barely breathe the words but they were laced with conviction and fear.

  Langdon kissed the nape of Lady Grace’s neck, noting the slight tremor running through her. “Remember, this is what we came here to do,” he whispered in her ear. “Prove to me that I was not wrong to bring you here this evening. Remain calm. I have twelve men in the hall and another twelve outside.”

  The muscles in her jaw clenched momentarily, then all at once the tremors abated and her features assumed an unconcerned expression, even faintly bored. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  Langdon led Lady Grace to the vingt-et-un table and gestured for her to take a seat.

  “My favorite game, Mr. Clark,” she drawled, offering him a coquettish smile and fluttering her lashes. “You know me so well.”

  The table immediately took notice of the two, the men openly ogling Lady Grace’s breasts. Langdon claimed the chair next to her and with slow deliberation gave each man a deadly, threatening glance, staking his claim. The men shifted, cleared their throats, and immediately looked away.

  “My dear Widow Crowther,” Langdon purposely spoke loud enough for the table’s occupants to hear, “if I had to hazard a guess, one thousand days and nights in your company would no more tell me everything there is to know of you than an afternoon.”

  One of the men twitched when Langdon mentioned her name. He stared at her for a moment before he threw down his cards and informed the table he was in need of a drink. A moment later, Langdon saw him join Moth at the bar, where he stood chatting with another man.

  The dealer began the round, the cards gliding across the felt surface with ease. Langdon watched Lady Grace pick hers up and neatly fan them out in her hand, stealing a glance at the three men talking at the bar.

  “I do believe I am going to win,” Lady Grace commented casually, offering Langdon a sly smile.

  “Is that so?” he replied, retrieving his own hand from the table. He examined the cards and frowned with theatrical flair. “I do believe you are right.”

  The man seated farthest from Langdon dropped two cards and waited for the dealer to take them, his free hand fumbling with a pile of coins.

  It was obvious from his nervous fingering that he held nothing of note. Langdon never had the patience for such establishments. Most men gave themselves away to anyone willing to pay attention. And if they did not, then Langdon risked losing his own money. Might as well bury it in the ground for all the good such entertainment provided.

  The three men had finished their discussion at the bar; the man who had left the table only moments before was now working his way around the perimeter of the room, stopping behind Langdon.

  “If you will, it is my turn to bid,” Langdon said over his shoulder. “I will be with you in a moment.”

  He carefully considered his hand, then lay all his cards facedown. “Not this round, I am afraid.”

  The man tapped him on the shoulder. Langdon held up his hand.

  “Not until the Widow Crowther plays her hand.”

  Lady Grace’s knee pressed against Langdon’s under the table. “I have no need for new cards, dealer.”

  The man nodded, and then advised all to show their hands.

  Lady Grace was the last to lay down her cards, revealing the winning hand. “I told you I was going to win,” she said to Langdon, her laughter a melodious sound that underlined her satisfaction.

  “You always do, dear Widow,” Langdon replied, pushing his chair back and standing. “Will you join us?”

  He held out his hand.

  “Only you,” the man commanded.

  “I am afraid that is not how this works,” Langdon said, taking Lady Grace’s hand as she stood. He turned and looked the man up and down, then smiled. He knew the curve of his lips was not reflected in his eyes. “Apologize to the Widow for being rude. Then take us to your boss.”

  The man made no movement, just stared into Langdon’s eyes.

  It could go either way. But in Langdon’s experience, it was always best to establish dominance. Made it far easier to maintain control as the case played out.

  Of course, such behavior could also get you killed.

  Grace squeezed Mr. Clark’s hand and held her breath. She was not acquainted with this particular thug, but he looked to be very much like all the others. In other words, unpredictable.

  The man grunted then turned, gesturing for them both to follow him.

  Mr. Clark politely allowed Grace to go first, his warm hand settling possessively on the small of her back.

  She shivered involuntarily at the intimate touch.

  They approached Moth, and Grace recognized another of the three. Marcus Mitchell looked their way and saw her, surprise shadowing his eyes for a split second before he turned his attention once again to his companions.

  Grace’s heartbeat calmed slightly at the sight of Marcus. They were friends, or something of the sort. No one affiliated with the Kingsmen gang could claim a true friend. Trusting someone enough to build a lasting acquaintance was far too dangerous in the Seven Dials.

  Still, outside of Mr. and Mrs. Templeton and Timothy, Marcus was as close to a friend as she’d had in the last ten years. They’d first met when he had come to the house in need of the doctor’s services. Her husband had enlisted Grace in helping to stitch up a nasty cut the man had received in a fight.

  While Dr. Crowther had gone in search of supplies, the two filled the awkward silence with conversation. Grace learned that Marcus had not come to the Kingsmen of his own accord. He was counting the days until he had paid off a debt he owed to the gang and then he would leave the city, bound for America, where he would be able to practice law without the threat of retaliation and a damaged reputation lingering in the air.

  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.”