The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match A Regency Rogues Novel (8 page)

“Is that so? Even the bit about pining? Does not sound like Carmichael.”

“No, not the bit about pining, Niles,” Langdon admitted reluctantly. “But the rest? Verbatim, if I am remembering the conversation correctly.”

“Well, there is a first time for everything, I suppose.”

Langdon looked up at the ceiling where a spider was busily constructing its web. “If I am not meant for marriage, then what?”

“How the bloody hell am I supposed to know?” Niles replied. “This is where a woman would suggest self-reflection—”

“Stop right there,” Langdon commanded his friend.
He could not take any more thinking on his feelings. It had become a frustrating habit of late.

“Lucky for you, I am not a woman,” Niles continued despite the directive. “I say forget everything that happened in the last three months—no, make it six, just to be safe. And if you cannot manage that on your own, drink until you can.”

Lady Grace’s door suddenly flew open and an ancient man appeared before them, the pan from earlier that evening gripped in his gnarled fingers.

“Mr. Clark, I presume,” the man said as he stood on the threshold.

“Best wait on the drinking,” Niles said quietly to Langdon. “At least until tomorrow.”

“I never was a drinking man,” Langdon answered his friend, then bowed to Mr. Templeton. “I am. And you must be Mr. Templeton. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I wanted to personally ensure Lady Grace’s safety until the morning, when all three of you will be escorted to my home.”

Mr. Templeton narrowed his eyes and screwed up his mouth as he considered Langdon.

“Mr. Templeton, do step away from the door.”

Lady Grace joined the man, Mrs. Templeton close behind. “Here now, give me the pan. You should be in bed.”

“I will be watching you, Mr. Clark,” Mr. Templeton warned Langdon as Lady Grace pried the pan from his fingers. “One wrong move and you will be sorry for it.”

Mrs. Templeton took her husband’s arm in hers and steered him back inside, leaving Lady Grace. And the pan.

“As you can see, Mr. Templeton is brave beyond his capabilities,” she explained, wearily glancing down the hallway of the derelict building.

“I rather hope I am just like him when I reach such an advanced age,” Langdon answered, genuinely impressed by the man’s actions.

“As do I,” Lady Grace agreed, offering Langdon a small but sincere smile. She stared at the pan for a moment as if words failed her, then looked up again. “Good night, Mr. Clark.”

“Lady Grace.”

“I do not believe we have been—”

Niles’s words were lost under the squeak of the warped wooden door meeting the frame.

“—introduced.”

“Next time,” Langdon assured his friend, then leaned back against the wall once more.

Niles looked at the door, then at Langdon. “Well, if you are not a drinking man, might I suggest Lady Grace? I suspect the woman could make a man forget a lifetime of regrets.”

“What are you talking about?” Langdon asked, considering the spider’s progress.

Niles sighed loudly. “I believe your exact words were, ‘If I am not meant for marriage, then what?’ Perhaps Lady Grace has some inkling as to how you might make it through these trying times.”

“The woman’s future was lost in a card game by her father,” Langdon countered, offended by the suggestion. “She endured ten years of marriage to a degenerate member of the Kingsmen. I will not be the next man in line to use Lady Grace.”

Niles playfully punched Langdon’s arm. “I am a
bloody bastard, true enough. But you must know I did not mean for you to ‘use’ Lady Grace. You are a good man. She is a woman who deserves thoughtful, considered attention. The distraction may be mutually beneficial. That is all.”

“She is key to this investigation,” Langdon argued, Niles’s explanation repeating in his head.

“Still playing by the rules, are we?” Niles asked, referring to the strict Corinthian code that forbade agents from involving themselves with any individual involved in a case.

Langdon grit his teeth. “Carmichael threatened to take the Afton case from me. He is concerned the situation with Sophia will inhibit my ability to focus. So, yes, I will be playing by the rules. Every last one.”

“Pity, that,” Niles replied, crossing one ankle over the other.

Langdon knew he should not ask Niles to explain himself, but he could not resist. “Why?”

“You’ve done so all your life and look where it has gotten you,” Niles answered simply. “Just once, wouldn’t you like to do what you
want
to do, rather than what you should? Aren’t you the least bit curious to see where such thinking might take you?”

“And what if they are one and the same?” Langdon asked, irritated by his friend’s question.

Niles sighed again. “Then you really are a bloody saint and there is no hope for the rest of us.”

“I have waited over half my life to catch Lady Afton’s killer,” Langdon ground out.

“The same amount of time you spent thinking Sophia would be your wife. Plans change. Priorities shift. And people disappoint you. You asked me what
was next for you. I think the sooner you accept life for the impressive wreck of contradictions it is, the sooner you will have your answer. Don’t let anyone keep you down, Langdon. Not Sophia and Nicholas, nor Carmichael or even me. And for the love of all that is holy, do not use this fork in the road as an excuse. You are too brave a man to let life go.”

Langdon pushed off from the wall and turned to face Niles, unsure of what to say. “Did all of that … insightfulness really just come out of your mouth?”

“Well, it didn’t come from the prostitute down the hall, if that’s what you are wondering,” Niles replied sarcastically, uncrossing his ankles. “I’m off to check in with Jones downstairs. You stay here and think, why don’t you?”

Langdon watched as his friend took the stairs two at a time.

Impressive wreck of contradictions
. At least Langdon could agree with that.

“I told you so,” Mrs. Templeton whispered vehemently to Grace as they were quickly ushered through the servants’ entrance of Mr. Clark’s elegant London home. “And why would we not enter through the front door? Being treated like you are inferior and you’ve only just arrived. And disguised in such a costume, no less!”

Grace looked down at the voluminous folds of her black silk mourning gown through the thick netting of her bonnet. The ensemble had arrived with the carriage that very morning along with a letter from Mr.
Clark, who had been relieved by another of his men by the time Grace awoke. In it, he had explained his desire to keep her true identity a secret from any outside the Kingsmen and those associated with the gang. The Widow Crowther would be known to the King. Lady Grace Audley did not need to be revealed to anyone within the ton or those connected to the peerage, such as servants, deliverymen, or—God help them—an actual lord or lady.

“We must trust that Mr. Clark knows what he is doing,” Grace urged Mrs. Templeton as a portly man appeared in the entryway.

“Welcome to Aylworth House. I am the butler, Yates,” the man said, his round spectacles matching his frame.

Mr. Templeton cleared his throat and took a step forward. “Mr. Templeton, Yates. If you would show the ladies to their rooms, I will have a look about the facilities, if you do not mind?”

If Yates wondered at Mr. Templeton’s unusual request, one could not tell from his placid demeanor. The butler simply nodded in understanding, then turned to the women. “Of course. Shall we?”

Mr. Templeton pointed his forefinger at a footman who sat at the servants’ table polishing a silver candlestick. “You there, you are meant to stand when the lady of the house is in your presence, are you not?”

Startled, the young man shoved back his chair with alacrity and stood, the silver candleholder and cloth still in his hands.

Mrs. Templeton rolled her eyes and sniffed at the footman’s impertinence.

Mr. Templeton grunted his approval of the lad’s
change of attitude and patted his wife’s arm. “Leave them to me. You go on up now and rest.”

“Yes, Yates, please show us to our rooms.” Grace smiled briefly at the butler, anxious for a few quiet moments to herself. She and Mrs. Templeton followed him up the stairs and onto the ground floor, where Grace involuntarily gaped at her surroundings.

She knew very little about a mistress’s life, having only overheard whispered gossip between her mother and friends concerning Lord So-and-so’s piece of muslin. A kept woman could expect jewels and dresses, even a cozy, well-afforded townhome, in exchange for her services.

But this was no cozy townhome. The carriage windows had been covered by curtains, so Grace could not say where, precisely, they were within the city. Still, from the interior she had to assume it was one of the best, if not the best, of locations.

The large entry hall boasted white and black tiling laid out in a chessboard fashion, every last square sparkling in the sunlight peeking through the mullioned windows that graced each side of the front door. A gilded mirror hung on the wall, accompanied by a handful of landscape paintings, artfully arranged. All, much to Grace’s surprise, to her liking.

The highly polished oak staircase ascended to the first floor as if suspended, the intricate and expensive detailing on the rail consisting of scrollwork and Grecian-inspired motifs.

And at every doorway, one of Mr. Clark’s men stood, staring straight ahead, his face devoid of emotion, his demeanor detached.

Grace forced her mouth to close and mounted the
second staircase. Clearly, Mr. Clark was a man of some importance in Liverpool—with the funds and men to make his London plans succeed. This should have soothed her. So why did her chest tighten with nervousness?

“Mr. Clark informed me that he will be joining us for dinner,” the man told Grace in a quiet, kind tone.

She chose to put the information far from her mind for the time being and instead focused on the man’s amiability. “Thank you, Yates.”

“You are most welcome …” The man paused, his discomfort palpable.

The trio reached the landing and walked to the first door on the right, Yates indicating they had arrived at their destination.

“Grace, Yates,” Grace offered, giving the man her name. “Call me Grace.”

The butler cringed at the suggestion to use her first name only. To his credit, he merely nodded in reply. “Here is your room,
Grace
,” he said, the effort turning his cheeks a soft red. “Mrs. Templeton, you and your husband are right across the hall. I will send Mr. Templeton up once he’s finished below stairs.”

Mrs. Templeton made to wave the man off, obviously planning to join Grace in her room.

“I am going to rest, Mrs. Templeton,” Grace said before her friend could refuse the butler. “Would you wake me when it is time to dress for dinner?”

Mrs. Templeton eyed Grace with concern. “All right, my lady. Should I fetch your favorite tea?”

Grace felt a rush of emotion clog her throat. When she’d first employed Mrs. Templeton, the dear woman
had insisted on having Jasmine tea in the house despite its being one of the most expensive teas to purchase. At first, Grace enjoyed the very fact that her husband would disapprove of the costly tea. Eventually, when her flash and fury of anger and betrayal burned down to steady embers of bitterness and patience, Grace worried the money spent on the restorative tea should have gone to her stash of coins—the very money that would one day take her away from the doctor.

But Mrs. Templeton would not hear of it. She knew without ever having to ask that Grace’s nerves were soothed by the tea. And that alone was worth the price.

“Yes, Mrs. Templeton, that would be most welcome,” Grace answered, smiling at her friend. “But let us both rest first. Perhaps an hour from now?”

Mrs. Templeton returned Grace’s smile, the sheer pleasure of being useful showing in her eyes. “An hour it is.”

Then she turned to Yates. “Now, go on, Yates. My lady needs to rest,” she added with a firm nod before crossing the hall to her own room and disappearing within.

Yates looked lost. Being required to address the woman of the house by her first name had more than likely been enough to drive the man to drink, Grace imagined. And now Mrs. Templeton was giving him orders. Poor man.

“Will there be anything else, my lady?” he asked, a shaky recovery managed before Grace’s eyes.

“It is Grace, Yates—I insist,” she gently reminded
him. “And I believe I have everything I need. Thank you for your kindness.”

The man cleared his throat. “I am only doing my job,
Grace
.”

“No, that’s not true,” Grace replied, walking through the open door to her room. “Your job is to be a butler. Being kind and considerate to a woman in such a situation? That is not a man doing a job. That is a man being a decent human being. And men like you are hard to find, Yates.”

The butler cleared his throat again, though Grace caught a quick glimpse of a smile as it curved his lips. “Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places, my la—Grace.”

“Perhaps I have been, Yates,” Grace agreed, the knot in her stomach loosening a touch.