The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match A Regency Rogues Novel (24 page)

Langdon stood right outside the entrance to Niles’s drawing room and listened to the man while he played the violin. Langdon had returned home from his meeting with Carmichael and been informed that Grace had gone to bed early, blaming a headache. The Corinthian who’d delivered news of the Kingsmen’s failure to provide any communication had arrived just after dawn, and Langdon had departed for Niles’s apartment shortly after that. He’d been desperate to interrupt Grace’s sleep and steal a kiss before leaving, but had not wanted to disturb her.

“I had no idea you played the violin,” Langdon said to Niles as he walked into the man’s drawing room. “And so well. Really, keeping such talent a secret truly is a crime.”

The bow screeched across the violin’s strings as Niles stopped playing. “Why did Strout not announce you?”

“Because I paid him. And promised to bring him into my service should you fire him.”

“Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you, Stonecliffe?” Niles said accusingly, walking over to retrieve his violin case. “Leaving me to my own devices. Really,
man. First you physically attack me, and now this?”

Langdon chuckled as he watched his friend settle the instrument into its case before snapping the lid latches closed. “How is your nose, by the way?”

“Still broken, thank you very much,” Niles replied dryly. “And in the interest of saving myself any further injury, let us discuss why you are here.” He placed the case on the floor then claimed a chair for himself. “I would hate to once again be the victim of your mercurial temperament.”

“It was an accident,” Langdon explained as he walked across the room and sat next to Niles. “And besides, I am the one who sought you out this time. Not the other way around.”

His friend rolled his eyes. “Details. Nothing more than details. Now, tell me, what news have you?”

“Another twenty-four hours have passed and the Kingsmen have failed to make contact. It is time to burn down the Four Horsemen.”

“The popular gaming hell?” Niles asked, crossing one leg over the other. “Seems likely we would run the risk of injuring civilians.”

“True, there are very few hours when the building is empty, which is why we will need to be quick,” Langdon explained. “We’ve a man on the inside who will search all three floors for anyone present, then unlock the main door and let us in.”

Niles carefully considered the information. “I see. And you are certain the Four Horsemen is a worthy target?”

“Yes,” Langdon replied confidently. “Our man took a look at the books. Between the rigged games,
marked-up pricing for the inferior alcohol, and the prostitutes, the Kingsmen are earning nearly five hundred percent more than what they put into the hell each year.”

Niles emitted a low whistle of appreciation. “Who says crime does not pay?”

Langdon chuckled as he flexed his fingers.

Niles propped his elbow on the arm of his chair and rested his chin in his hand. “Though I fear it makes us appear an old married couple, I know what you are doing there, with your hands. What is bothering you?”

Langdon looked down at his hands, now balled into fists. “I am concerned for Grace’s safety. With each attack, we anger the Kingsmen more. What if the King—”

Niles held up one hand, urging Langdon to stop. “We are prepared for any eventuality—you know that better than I. She is unharmed, Stonecliffe, and will remain so. We knew going in that Vauxhall would be a difficult location to manage. Aylworth House is not Vauxhall. Hell, you’ve enough agents guarding the premises and surrounding grounds, we might as well move the whole of Corinthian operations there.”

“The Afton case is one of the Corinthians’ most important,” Langdon countered, Niles’s comment putting his back up. “Do not forget there were many other agents who were either killed or lost family members in the aftermath.”

“Easy, my friend,” Niles said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I am well aware what solving the Afton case means to the Young Corinthians. What I
find more important is what Lady Grace has come to mean to you.”

Langdon’s hackles lowered. “What are you suggesting?”

“Do you remember when we first met?” Niles asked, lowering his hands. “We were paired up for the better part of our training period—which I’ll never forgive Carmichael for, by the way.”

“Yes,” Langdon replied. “You were rather full of yourself then—still are, actually. When I introduced myself, you said, ‘Your name is of no consequence. But your motive is. Tell me why you are here.’ ”

Niles smiled wryly. “Yes, well, as you mentioned, I was rather full of myself. But do you recall what your answer was?”

“ ‘I am here to solve the Afton case,’ ” Langdon answered, picturing himself and Niles as the young men they were then.

“Because?”

They’d trained that day until they dropped, then dragged themselves to the room they shared at the Corinthian facility outside London. When Langdon had introduced himself to Niles he’d intended to shake the man’s hand then collapse onto his bunk and sleep until forced to do otherwise.

The man’s question had caught him unprepared. And he’d answered without even thinking upon it.

“Because it is my job,” Langdon replied. “You reprimanded me for such reasoning. A man’s calling was not his job. It had to be his love—his very life. Otherwise, he dishonored the effort and himself.”

“God, I was rather an ass, wasn’t I?” Niles asked.
“And you never forgave me for it—would not even allow me to speak of it.”

“You questioned my motivation without knowing a single thing about me,” Langdon countered.

Niles shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll give you that. Which was why I then set out to learn the truth for myself. You four—Sophia, Carrington, Bourne, and you—all of you had more than enough reason to pursue the Afton case. Though, and I say this with the deepest respect, yours was not quite as much of an emotional one as the other three’s.”

“What are you saying, Niles?” Langdon asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Lady Afton was a mother to the three. Only a surrogate one to Dash and Bourne, but still, the only mother they could claim in any real sense. As for you? Whether you wanted a closer relationship with the woman I cannot say. But if I had to guess, I would say no. You were stronger than your friends, more independent. You had to be—you are the eldest son, heir to an earldom. Which means, from the time you could walk you understood what it meant to be the firstborn son. To manage the lands, marry the right girl, and protect the family name. You understood your job and accepted it—even relished it. But it was never something that consumed you. It was not your calling.”

“It is true enough that I did not require Lady Afton’s attention in the same way as the others,” Langdon responded, his patience fraying, “but that does not mean I wanted to solve the case any less than they did.”

Niles nodded as he uncrossed his legs. “That is precisely
my point, Stonecliffe. You
wanted
to solve Lady Afton’s death. The others? They
needed
to. Needed it more than air, from what I understand.”

“Get to the point,” Langdon ground out.

“You have finally found your calling. The something you need more than air is Lady Grace.”

The sentence was short and simple. Less than twenty words, no more. And it held the truth of Langdon’s universe.

He did not know what to say. So he sat there, staring at his friend, and breathed. Just breathed.

“Do not think this means you may abandon me,” Niles added in a menacing tone. “Capturing Lady Afton’s killer may not be your purpose in life, but it is still integral to who you are.”

“And absolutely necessary to Grace’s happiness,” Langdon added, his instinctive response only proving Niles’s theory. “The same man responsible for the death of Lady Afton is to be blamed for Timothy’s death, too.”

“Yes, yes, that as well,” Niles agreed with little enthusiasm. “Now, let us hammer out this plan so you and Lady Grace may get on with your happy ending, shall we?”

“There you are.”

Grace startled at the sound of Langdon’s voice and the accompanying click of his bedchamber door closing. “I missed you today,” she told him.

“And I, you,” he answered, the flickering light from his candlestick coming closer to where she lay, his bed linens pulled up and tucked beneath her chin. “The plans of men never do come together as quickly as one would prefer.”

He set the candlestick down on the fireplace mantel and ran both hands through his hair in a weary gesture.

“Will you join me now?” Grace asked, needing the weight of him against her.

Langdon turned and looked at her, a rakish smile playing on his lips. “You did miss me, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but …” She was going to cry. Though she’d practiced the conversation most of the day and well into the quickly disappearing night, she knew the telltale signs. The pressure behind her eyes began to build. A lump the size of Sisyphus’s burden lodged in her throat. Grace bit her tongue and met his gaze, willing herself to remain calm.

“Grace?” he asked, his smile fading and a confused
frown lowering his eyebrows. He strode toward her, knelt down next to the bed, and gently stroked her cheek, his fingers gentle as he studied her face. “What is wrong? Please, tell me, and I will make it right.”

Grace reached up and took his hand in hers. She kissed his fingers as though she would never feel them pressed against her again. “Undress and get into bed. Then I will tell you what is on my mind—and in my heart.”

Langdon rose and shed his clothing, unwinding the cravat from his neck and tossing it on the floor. He quickly shrugged out of his coat and linen shirt, then set to work on his boots and breeches.

Grace caught sight of his perfect form for only a brief moment. All sinewy muscles and sculpted bone, Langdon’s body made her ache with need. She closed her eyes and waited for him to join her.

Cold air brushed her back as he lifted the blankets and slipped into bed beside her. He wrapped his arm about her waist, his palm on her belly, fingers spread over her nightrail, and pulled her toward him until she nestled against his bare, warm, hard body.

“Now tell me. What has upset you?” he asked, his chin resting in the curve where neck met shoulder.

Grace melted against him, allowing his heat to warm them both. “Do you love me?”

“Why are you asking—”

“I am aware this is hardly the right way to go about asking such a question,” Grace interrupted him, afraid she would lose her courage and instead allow his closeness to lull her into a sense of security. “But I need to know.”

Langdon exhaled, a deep sigh filling the quiet room.
“I do love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone else—so much so that it scares me. So much so, in fact, that I want to leave everything behind except you. You, Grace. I love you.”

“And what does that mean?” Grace pressed, pushing her hope far back into the recesses of her heart.

Langdon nudged her onto her back and he leaned over her. “Precisely that. I will gladly give up my old life if it means a new one with you in it.”

“That is what I both hoped for and feared,” Grace whispered, unable to stave off the tears any longer. “I cannot stay in London and you cannot come to the country unless you relinquish your position. And I will not be the reason your dreams are unfulfilled. You would grow to resent me, Langdon. I would rather we part in love than stay together in eventual anger and hatred.”

In one swift movement, Langdon straddled her, his knees on the mattress next to her hips. “Are you saying that you love me?” He planted his large, capable hands beside her temples and bent to press a soft kiss against her mouth.

“I do,” Grace breathed, then turned her head and kissed the inside of his wrist. “Which is why I cannot allow you to come with me.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth, then trailed kisses from her chin to her temples. “What would change your mind?”

Langdon’s question struck Grace as somewhat odd. “Nothing short of no longer loving you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Langdon, please do not make this any more difficult than it already is,” Grace pleaded, kissing his
wrist tenderly once more before turning to look at him.