The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match A Regency Rogues Novel (14 page)

“Now, now, boys,” Langdon said, grinning at Mitchell. “No need to fight. After all, we’ll soon be one big happy family.”

“What do you mean, ‘one big happy family’?” Mitchell asked, confusion clouding his brow.

Langdon reviewed the information in his mind, needing to get every last detail right. The King would not fall for a plan he could see through. “You see, Mitchell, I’ve outgrown Liverpool. It was an ideal town for me to learn my trade and build my business,
but it is time for me to move on. That’s why me and the boys will be coming to London—permanently.”

“That still does not explain your inference that the Kingsmen will in some way be joining with your gang,” Mitchell pressed.

“As you know, the Kingsmen currently rule London,” Langdon continued, rubbing his hands together to thwart off the cold. “Which presents a problem. Therefore, your King will have to agree to join forces with me.”

“And what’s in it for him?” the thug with the bat asked.

“The Wicked Widow.”

Mitchell narrowed his eyes. “I am afraid I do not understand.”

“Do not try to pretend the King isn’t anxious to get his hands on the doctor’s wife,” Langdon replied smoothly. “The King does as I say and the Widow is his to do with as he pleases. Otherwise, I dismantle the Kingsmen from the top down. I believe we’ll start with the East India Company. An important partnership to the Kingsmen, wouldn’t you agree? I would hate for there to be a falling-out between your organization and the Company. But these things do happen.”

The bat-wielding thug charged Langdon and got off one solid swing of his weapon before Mitchell and the other man pulled him off.

“You see, even
he
understands what’s at stake,” Langdon said, swiping at the blood near his temple.

“I am expected to believe Mrs. Crowther possesses information so sensitive, the King would align himself
with you in order to keep her quiet?” Mitchell asked.

Langdon accepted Niles’s proffered handkerchief. “Well, if you will not believe me, perhaps you should ask your leader.”

“He’s telling the truth, Mitchell,” the thug with the gun said, his nerves twitching in his voice. “Came down from the man himself. Find the doctor’s widow at all cost.”

Mitchell held up his hand. “Enough, Jones.” He returned his attention to Langdon. “Obviously the King must be made aware of your … offer.”

“Of course,” Langdon agreed, dabbing at the wound on his forehead. “I am feeling generous of late. You have five days before I cut the King out of London completely. And every twenty-four hours that pass without an answer means something bad will happen to your business interests, Mr. Mitchell.”

The man laughed out loud at Langdon’s words. “You cannot be serious!”

“Deadly so.”

“Lady Grace?”

Grace excitedly swung about at the distinctive, deep male tone. “Mr. Clark?”

“There, we know each other’s names,” he replied. “Now for my next question: what are you doing out of bed at this hour?”

Grace raised her candle and stepped forward, examining Mr. Clark’s features including a fresh cut and growing bruise on his temple. “I could not sleep. And when I cannot sleep, I walk,” she said, distracted by the injury.

“I see. Where is Midge?” he asked, looking down the darkened corridor.

“Here, sir,” Midge answered as he appeared from the drawing room. “She said she couldn’t pace properly with me chasing after her. So I have been skulking instead.”

Grace smiled at the guard. “You are a good man, Midge, for putting up with me. And you, Mr. Clark,” she said, frowning with concern at the wound on his temple, “how were you injured?”

He touched his fingers to his temple and winced. “Midge, you may go.”

“Yes, sir.” The guard nodded a good night, turned on his heel, and disappeared down the hall.

“Are you in pain?” Grace asked, holding her candle high to inspect the wound. “A bat?”

He gritted his teeth, his jaw visibly hardening. “How on earth did you know?”

“The doctor saw patients at the house,” Grace explained as she stood on tiptoe and gently pushed his hair aside for a better view. “Often I acted as his assistant, of sorts. It is unbelievable what you men are willing to do to one another.”

The feel of his hair against her fingers as she held it out of the way was unexpected. It was soft, like silk. Grace had admired his dark locks before, but never imagined they would be so seductively soft. Like a satin ribbon teasing her skin.

“Will I live?” he asked.

His lips, mere inches from hers, moved in a whisper of sound before returning to a measured frown.

“Barely,” she told him. “Come, I will see to the wound.”

“No, that’s quite all right,” he argued, stepping back. “I’ve plenty of experience with such things.”

Grace truly wanted to tend to his wound. But more than that, she wanted to see Mr. Clark. She had missed him.

“But do you know how to relieve the headache?”

“I never said I was suffering from a headache,” he countered, looking skeptical, then added, “but if I were, would you know how to relieve it?”

Grace desired the man’s company, but she would not beg. “You will never know if we continue to stand here arguing.”

“Lead the way,” he replied reluctantly, rubbing his temples.

Grace turned toward the staircase, looking back over her shoulder to make sure he was following. Mr. Clark was quite close behind her, the masculine smell of leather and faint, spicy male cologne teasing her nose. She ascended to the upper floor then walked to her room.

She opened her door and walked in. “Go sit by the fire. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

He obliged as Grace moved about the room, lighting more candles and collecting the things she would need.

She joined him and set her supplies on the cherry-wood table.

“Do you always travel with medicinal supplies, Lady Grace?” he asked, inspecting the contents of her small kit.

Grace pulled the table closer so that the candlelight illuminated his wound. “It must seem strange to you, I suppose. But yes, I do. You never know when you’ll need them.”

“I wouldn’t say strange,” Mr. Clark answered, settling into the wingback chair and letting his head rest against the cushion. “I would say sad, though. No woman should ever have cause to consider such things.”

“You are rather considerate of women, for a criminal,” Grace said. She collected the basin of water and linen towel she’d requested before retiring for the evening and focused on wetting the length of fabric. “I’ll have that explanation now. I am assuming it has something to do with the Kingsmen?”

He looked at her, hesitating for a moment, his eyes dark and unreadable behind the thick screen of his lashes. “Keeping you informed is part of our bargain, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mr. Clark, it is,” Grace confirmed, wringing out the fabric and pressing it to his forehead. “I cannot help you if I do not know what is going on.”

He sat perfectly still as Grace carefully washed the dried blood from around the wound, though even her gentlest touch was clearly painful. “Yes, of course. Let me see …”

Grace rinsed out the linen, the basin water turning pinkish with blood, and wrung the cloth free of excess water.

She leaned over and dabbed at the wound. “I’ll need you to move your head for me,” she told him, then gently grasped his chin and tilted it to the left. “There, now I can see what we are dealing with.”

His nearness pleased her and she wanted more. But Grace sensed he didn’t feel the same and was holding back.

She released his chin and leaned closer in order to inspect the wound.

He inhaled sharply, his body tensing beneath her gaze.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, reaching out to trace the skin surrounding the wound.

He exhaled but the tightness beneath her hands remained. “Does what hurt?”

“The wound, naturally,” Grace replied, savoring the feel of his skin as she examined the injury.

“Yes, but it is the headache that’s bothering me most,” he answered, his voice rough.

Grace straightened and stepped back. “Tell me what is troubling you, then. Tension only adds to the ache.”

“I know we are partners of sorts in this,” he said, his shoulders visibly easing as he relaxed into the chair once again. “But it feels wrong to expose you to danger—as though I am using you without any regard for your safety.”

The man’s thoughtfulness warmed Grace’s soul. Mr. Clark was not like any of the Kingsmen she’d known. “I suppose you are using me—but I am doing the same to you. Do not forget, once we are finished with the Kingsmen, you’ll be funding my new life.”

“I do not like it,” he confessed in a low tone, closing his eyes.

Grace couldn’t help herself. She smoothed the back of her hand along his high cheekbone. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that criminals are not supposed to have a conscience?”

She’d meant to make the man laugh with her witty observation, but it fell flat, probably because she herself was near tears, touched by his tender concern.

He leaned into her caress. “You’ve no idea what a bloody curse my conscience is to me. No idea at all.”

Grace had known the power to be found in affecting someone with a glance or a smile. She’d practiced such naïve seduction as a debutante, giddy and filled with butterflies when the victim fell under her spell.

This was altogether different. Butterflies did not flit back and forth in her belly. No, from the feel of it, a tiger prowled within her, inspiring fear—and need.

He opened his eyes.

Grace suddenly realized that she’d leaned in further and was staring at him, much too close.

“Grace.”

His honesty touched her and urged her on. She swallowed hard, attempting to stifle her reply. It was no use.

“Do not ever regret those parts of you that are good, Mr. Clark,” Grace whispered, lost in his eyes. “They’re what separate you from men like my husband.”

At that very moment, Grace felt she’d never expressed anything more important in her life. She needed him to understand. She needed, desperately, to touch him more intimately.

Grace continued to hold his gaze as she closed what little space existed between them and pressed her lips tentatively to his. For one brief moment, he went perfectly still. Then he responded to her touch with careful coaxing, returning her kiss while asking for more.

Her mouth was innocent, and Langdon reined in the urge to plunder, content for the moment with the press of her sweet lips on his. He cast off all other thoughts, including his conscience, which told him he shouldn’t do this.

Her tongue shyly touched his and Langdon initiated an age-old dance meant to coax one’s lover that much closer to surrender.

He wanted to reach out, place his hands on the curve of her waist, and pull her in until she rested on his lap. He wanted to breathe in her delicate floral
scent as he tasted her skin and tested its silken softness.

He was aching, tired, frustrated, and unsure—everything he’d never been nor thought he would ever be.

Carmichael and Niles had only reinforced his own conviction that something was very wrong with him.

Lady Grace seemed intent on convincing him otherwise.

She pressed her hands to his cheeks and jaw, cradling his face in her palms.

The swift surge of emotion shocked him into awareness.

What the hell was he thinking? He couldn’t, shouldn’t be doing this. He was risking the little he had left in life, for what? A moment’s pleasure?

He broke the kiss and quickly rose from the chair, forcing a safe distance between them. “I apologize, Lady Grace. I should not have taken advantage of you in such a manner,” he said stiffly.

She turned to see to her supplies. “A moment of weakness—on both our parts, apparently.”

Langdon was an ass. He almost felt sorry for Grace. It could not be easy, dealing with him in such a state.

He watched as she finished repacking her supplies and took a seat.

She attempted to appear unaffected by the kiss, but her breathing was too shallow, too fast.

Langdon could still feel her lips on his. Taste her on his tongue.

“Now, are you going to tell me what happened to your face?” Lady Grace asked, folding her hands in her lap.