The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match A Regency Rogues Novel (12 page)

Langdon slipped down the hallway that led to the club kitchens, looking behind him to verify he was alone before he triggered the hidden entryway to the Corinthian offices. The door slid open and he passed through, reaching to reverse the action and waiting to hear the click of the hinges.

Then he walked down the corridor toward the room where case information was stored.

“You are late.”

Langdon stopped and backed up three steps, pushing open the door of Carmichael’s office to step inside. “I am?”

“You are never late,” his superior noted, straightening a sheaf of papers he’d been reviewing. “Trouble?”

Langdon chafed at the very thought. He needed Carmichael to believe in his ability and commitment to the case.

“Did we not agree on one o’clock?” he asked, looking at the large marble-based clock centered on a carved mahogany table against the far wall.

The brass hands pointed to half past one.

“Precisely,” Carmichael confirmed, frowning. “News?”

Langdon nodded grimly. “We made contact,” he said succinctly, wanting to waste no more of his superior’s time.

“Were they expecting you?”

Langdon dropped into a chair facing Carmichael’s desk and slumped slightly. “Yes—though I do not know that I would say ‘expecting.’ Perhaps ‘prepared’ is a better description.”

“Either way, a good sign,” Carmichael commented, resting his elbows on the broad oak desk. “Who received you?”

“A Mr. Marcus Mitchell. Mid-rank, I believe. And an acquaintance of Lady Grace’s.”

Carmichael tapped his fingers on the desktop in a rapid, absentminded tattoo. “An acquaintance, you say?”

“A lawyer,” Langdon further explained. “Apparently, he got into a spot of trouble and found himself indebted to the Kingsmen. He has paid off the money, but proven himself too useful to be let go.”

Carmichael continued to tap as he mulled over the information. “And his relationship with Lady Grace?”

“She assures me it is of a purely platonic nature,” Langdon replied. “But from what I saw this evening, Mr. Mitchell would have preferred it to be otherwise.”

“And continues to do so?”

“If I had to guess, yes.”

Carmichael stopped tapping the desk. “If? Stonecliffe, it is your job to assess and make a calculated guess. Is something wrong?”

“Tell me, would we have so thoroughly manipulated
Sophia, given the opportunity?” Langdon asked, barely sustaining a respectful tone. “The answer is, of course, no. How is Lady Grace any different from Sophia?”

His superior pushed back his chair and rose. “Rather off course, but I will answer your question regardless. You are correct,” he began, walking around the desk to a side table. He unstopped a carafe of brandy and poured two glasses half-full. “Even if we had known of Sophia’s involvement in the search for her mother’s killer, we would not have used her in any capacity. We certainly would not have used her as bait to draw the guilty party out of hiding.”

Carmichael handed Langdon a glass and reclaimed his seat. “Lady Grace, through no fault of her own, is not in the same position as Sophia. And she never will be again. The Corinthians cannot change the truth—you cannot alter the past. The most we can do for her is aid in her eventual escape from a life she never deserved.”

Langdon took a long swallow of the mellow brandy, letting it slide down his throat as he considered Carmichael’s words. “Cruel and heartless, but practical, I’ll give you that.”

“Practicality has always been your bread and butter, Stonecliffe,” his superior replied.

“True enough,” Langdon agreed, taking a second sip. “Perhaps it is Lady Grace’s background? Paying prostitutes and washerwomen for their help seemed far more palatable compared to what I am asked to do now.”

“So you find fault with our methods because she is of the nobility.”

“Of course not,” Langdon said automatically.

“Then it is because you find her faultless. Whereas, prostitutes and washerwomen are not?” Carmichael asked, setting his glass down with the contents barely tasted. “You opened Pandora’s box, not me, Stonecliffe.”

Langdon considered downing his own brandy and then claiming Carmichael’s. “They are blameless as well—in many cases.”

“I am afraid I do not understand.”

Langdon emptied his glass with no time spent slowly savoring the excellent liquor, something he normally would not do, and stared into the cut crystal. “I will be honest with you, Carmichael. I do not know that I understand, either.”

This was all new to him. If Langdon met Carmichael’s gaze, he would see doubt. Not that he knew so firsthand, but because he had borne witness to such conversations, purposely been present to echo what Carmichael always told the agents who wavered.

Was that it, then? Was he questioning the methods used by the Young Corinthians? Even more, having doubts about his place within the organization? He knew that Carmichael was considering the same at that very moment.

What was happening to him?

“I trust you, Stonecliffe,” Carmichael said. “I
want
to believe you are more than prepared to handle this case. But the man I see before me is not the same man—”

Langdon could not listen to any more. “I’ve never failed you before and I am not about to start now,” he ground out, setting his glass down and standing. He
forced himself to slow his breathing. Flexed his fingers on each hand, balled them into fists, then spread them open, laying them flat. “I will alert you when I hear from the Kingsmen.”

“You are not yourself, Stonecliffe.”

“Tell me something I do not already know,” Langdon muttered under his breath.

As superiors went, Adolphus Beaufort could have been worse. Marcus Mitchell eyed the man through the doorway that presently separated them. The King looked to be threatening his guest, the telltale bulging veins at his temples almost glowing hot with anger. He did not yell, but spoke in a quiet, controlled tone that seemed to be tightening the guest’s already tense frame.

Marcus was not afraid of the King. He probably should be—and most certainly had been back when the gang had seen to his debt and made him their own. But somewhere along the way Marcus had lost the ability to care what happened to him, or when. Until he had met Grace.

And then everything had changed.

The man with the King hastily pushed his chair back, the screech of wood grating over wood rousing Marcus from his thoughts.

“You’ll have it by midnight tomorrow,” he heard the man say to the King.

Marcus watched the man scuttle from the King’s office into the room where he waited. He was careful to avoid eye contact with the poor bastard. The last
thing Marcus needed was to feel pity for him. The first rule of the Kingsmen: feel nothing.

“Mitchell,” the King called.

Marcus stood and brushed a speck of lint from his dark blue coat. Then he adjusted his cuffs until they lay just as they should.

“Do not keep the boss waitin’.”

Marcus looked at Four Fingers, the man who’d addressed him so rudely, and offered him a charming smile. “Wouldn’t want to go before the King with my suit out of sorts, now, would I?”

“I’ll show you out of sorts if you do not haul your educated ass in there right now,” Four Fingers growled, the severely deep wrinkles on his forehead extending back to his bald pate.

Marcus adjusted his cuffs once more then strolled toward the King’s office. “It is true what they say, then; losing a digit has made you quite cross.”

The squat thug lunged, a string of curses spilling from his thick lips as he narrowly missed wringing the life from Marcus’s neck.

Marcus slammed the office door shut and crossed to the King’s desk.

“He’ll catch you one of these days,” the man warned Marcus.

“I like my chances,” he replied, waiting to sit until the King told him to.

There were times when the man instructed you to take your seat before beginning the conversation. And there were others when he made you stand for nearly the entire meeting.

Marcus noted, not for the first time, how appearing before Henry Tudor or William the Confessor must
have been quite similar to what he endured each week. Only this king did not wear a ring, nor require his subjects to kiss it.

At least, not yet.

“Take your seat, Mitchell.”

Ah, the sire speaks
.

Marcus obeyed, sketching a half bow before sitting.

“Your talent is, at times, the only reason I keep you alive,” the King said, frowning at the comical move. “You know that, don’t you?”

“That and my natural charm, of course,” Marcus replied, amused by the man’s displeasure.

Marcus had considered cutting off one of his hands. The Kingsmen valued him for his skill and accuracy with a gun. And if he could no longer shoot?

“Careful,” the King told him, his temples beginning to throb.

Marcus had ultimately decided not to maim himself. The gang had taken everything from him. Why give them his hand as well?

Marcus bowed in surrender. “Say no more.”

“Well, get on with it,” the King said impatiently. “Tell me about this Mr. Clark. Moth said he had the nerve to bring Crowther’s widow with him?”

Marcus casually rested his elbows on the chair arms. “Ah, yes, Mr. Clark from Liverpool. Well, to begin with, the man has superior taste in clothing.”

“The important bits, Mitchell.”

The prominent veins in the King’s temples visibly throbbed. Good, Marcus thought. Perhaps he’d erupt in a rage and throw Marcus out before the subject of Grace came up again.

“He came unarmed—rather daring, don’t you think?”

“And his men?” the King asked impatiently.

Marcus shook his head. “Several inside the Four Horsemen. And several more on the street. Nothing showy, though.”

“Ballsy bastard,” the King swore.

“My sentiments exactly,” Marcus agreed.

The King leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Moth said he gave you a card of some sort.”

Dammit
, Marcus thought. He was not ready to share the address. Grace’s predicament had him pondering the situation, considering possible alternative actions, and Marcus preferred to move forward only after deciding on the exact path he would take. Giving the King Mr. Clark’s address might hinder his plan.

Or it might not.

“Really, I do not know why you are bothering to ask me anything. Moth seems to have already told you everything you need to know. Quite the accomplished young man, Moth.”

The throbbing in the King’s temples picked up speed. “The card, Mitchell.”

Marcus had no choice. He reached into his vest pocket and produced the card, the address listed upon it already safely stored in his memory. “Rather nice address, that.” He reached across the desk and set the paste card in front of the King.

“Have our boys take a look at the house,” the man ordered, picking up the card and staring at it. “I want to know how many men he has with him. When they eat, sleep, relieve themselves. And keep an eye on our
Mr. Clark. Anything odd and you come straight to me, all right?”

Marcus had already done everything the King had listed, except, of course, for coming to him. Mr. Clark had brought an army with him to London. But he would not share this with the King. Sending the boys off to do the King’s bidding would buy Marcus some time.

“Will do,” Marcus said. “With pleasure.”

“Go,” the King commanded. “I am sick of the sight of you.”

Marcus clutched at his heart, but was careful not to waste his opportunity to escape. He stood and turned to leave.

“And do not think I’ve forgotten about the Widow,” the King added. “Now that we know where she is, it should be a simple enough task to kill her.”

Marcus continued to stare at the door. “I have the feeling Mr. Clark would be rather displeased if the Widow Crowther was to turn up dead.”

“Mr. Clark’s presence in London does not change our plans.”

We shall see
.

Grace sat in the sunny back garden of Aylworth House. Her eyes were closed. There was a light breeze that occasionally carried snippets of sounds to her, of the servants inside the home and Mr. Clark’s men standing watch on the grounds. She had no idea what time it was nor how long she’d been sitting on the stone bench. And she did not care.