The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match A Regency Rogues Novel (21 page)

Langdon scowled at Mitchell. He had a swift, strong urge to wipe the smirk off the other man’s face
with his fist. “Do not lie to me again. Or you will regret it. Do you understand?”

“I will do my best. But keeping promises is not my strong suit,” Mitchell replied, the smirk fading.

Langdon’s blood rose at the man’s continuing impertinence. “Is that right? Well, it is one of mine,” he said softly. “You’ve been warned.”

Mitchell ignored him. Without another word, he gestured for Langdon to follow and within a mere twenty or so steps, they reached the King’s box.

Mitchell knocked at the entrance and waited. The door opened and one of the four men Langdon had seen earlier appeared. “Mr. Mitchell,” the giant said by way of a greeting, his thick dockside drawl lingering in Langdon’s ears.

He was one of the largest men Langdon had ever seen. In fact, if he were someone prone to believing in fairy tales and such, Langdon suspected the giant would have played a starring role in one of the Grimms’ works.

The man looked at Langdon and grunted, clearly less than impressed.

“Thank you, Isle,” Mitchell replied, gesturing for the man to move. “Now let us pass.”

Isle continued to stare at Langdon. “Aye,” he eventually agreed, and moved aside.

“Isle?” Langdon asked as he followed Mitchell into the box. “An interesting name.”

Mitchell paused to watch the giant close and lock the door. “More descriptive than interesting. It is short for ‘island.’ Because he’s the size of one.”

“Mr. Mitchell is endlessly creative when it comes to christening our men. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Langdon waited for his eyes to adjust to the candlelight as he considered the Queen’s words. “Christening?”

The woman sat in profile, watching the festivities through a spyglass. Her features were hidden behind an intricate mask. “Yes, of course. Our men are born anew when they join the Kingsmen. Is this not common practice where you come from?”

“I am afraid not,” he answered, sure he was meant to be insulted by the lack of eye contact. “We are far too busy seeing to our success.”

That got her attention. The Queen instantly dropped the eyeglass in her lap and swiveled her head about to face him. “And are we to be properly introduced?” she demanded imperiously.

“My Queen, may I introduce Mr. Clark of Liverpool,” Mitchell began.

The Queen nodded, the tassel on her aubergine turban swaying.

“Mr. Clark, the Queen.”

Langdon bowed as if he stood before a real queen. “Your Grace.”

“Ah, you do have manners,” she exclaimed, disbelief coloring her tone. “And here I’d been taught to believe pirates are nothing more than savages.”

Langdon rose. “Pirates, Your Grace? Ah, you must be referring to the
India Queen
. Well, don’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.”

“Hemlock, move,” the Queen ordered the man on her left, ignoring Langdon’s teasing.

The man obeyed, unfolding his long, wiry frame and standing.

Langdon assumed from the man’s name he specialized
in poisoning people. Hemlock’s stained fingers and shifty gaze only deepened his belief.

“Come,” the Queen commanded, gesturing for Langdon to claim the seat vacated by Hemlock.

Langdon moved across the box, stealing a glance at the two unnamed men. Both stared straight ahead, their eyes lifeless in their identical faces.

“Tweedledee and Tweedledum, for obvious reasons,” she explained, holding up the eyeglass once more.

So Mitchell is the highest-ranking Kingsman in attendance, besides the Queen?

Langdon mentally filed away the telling fact and sat down next to the woman. “As I was saying, someone has been telling stories.”

“Do you not plan to plunder the Kingsmen? To take what is not yours?”

Now that he was close, Langdon could better see the Queen. She was older than he’d first guessed, perhaps in her fifties. The skin on her neck drooped slightly and her fair hands were wrinkled. Her high-necked muslin gown and cashmere wrap were of fine quality and her kidskin boots peeking out from beneath her hem looked to be brand-new. She sat with her spine rigid, her shoulders rolled back and straight.

All of these things could be learned or bought with money. After all, dance masters, modistes—anyone required to make a lady into a lady, really—had to make money to survive.

But something about the Queen told Langdon she wasn’t a street urchin who’d rose from nothing and paid her way to gentility. Instinct told him she’d been born a lady; he’d stake his life on it.

“Mine is a business proposition, Your Grace,” Langdon answered her, accepting a glass of wine from Hemlock. “Not a hostile siege.”

The Queen lifted a glass that rested on a small table next to her. “Stealing what rightfully belongs to someone else is not hostile?”

He had to admire the woman’s skill with treachery. She needed to know how many details about the Company delivery Langdon had managed to procure.

“Oh yes, that,” Langdon replied with casual charm. “Necessary and wasteful, but hardly what I would call hostile.”

The Queen took a slow sip of her wine, her sharp, dark eyes watching Langdon over the rim of her glass.

She returned it to the table with a snap and pursed her lips in derision. “I see. And the Widow Crowther?” she asked, raising her chin haughtily. “What does she make of her part in all of this?”

Langdon swirled the wine in his cup slowly. He’d yet to drink. Nor did he plan to. Poison was all too easily disguised in wine. “It is a touch premature to be speaking of such things, wouldn’t you agree? I was disappointed that you missed my deadline.”

The Queen visibly paled at his condescending tone.

“Tell me, Your Grace, how much longer will we play this game?” Langdon asked purposely, stripping his voice down to nothing more than danger and intent. “I would hate to miss the famous Vauxhall ham.”

The Queen took up her spyglass again and turned to the crowd beyond. “We’ve yet to even speak of terms, Mr. Clark.”

“I’ll not discuss terms with you.”

“Because I am a woman?” the Queen asked, her hands visibly tightening as she held the spyglass aloft once more.

Langdon handed the untouched glass of wine back to Hemlock and stood. “No, not because you are a woman. Because you are not the King.”

He strode toward the door, his gaze cold, lethal, as he purposely looked at each of the four men as he passed. “This situation appears to be quite difficult for you to address, my Queen. Therefore, I will allow you two days to respond before I find it necessary to teach you a second lesson. Good evening.”

Grace had never been able to understand why everyone fussed over the Vauxhall ham. She speared a piece from her plate and placed it in her mouth. Thin, salty, and ridiculously expensive.

A footman appeared in their box and began to douse the candles.

“Did anyone ask you to do that?” Mr. Davis snarled, standing up from his seat next to Grace.

“It is for the fireworks, my lord,” the young man explained, staring at his boots.

“Leave them. Go. Now,” Mr. Davis ordered the footman just as the colorful display began.

“Mr. Davis,” Grace said, gesturing for him to reclaim his seat. “Come, or you will miss the show.”

“I am not here for the fireworks, my lady,” Mr. Davis replied, reluctantly returning to his seat.

“You yourself said we outman the Kingsmen three to one. I do not know about you, but I rather like those numbers,” Grace reassured him.

The first of the fireworks exploded across the darkened sky, streaks of light racing against one another. Though she’d never had the opportunity to view a fireworks spectacle, Grace had always assumed it would be entertaining. And if the opening sequence
was a promise of things to come, her assumption had been correct.

“Oh,” Grace murmured, more impressed than she’d hoped to be. “It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

Mr. Davis humphed with disapproval. “Considering it is akin to setting coin on fire for entertainment? Yes, I suppose it is.”

The shape of a flying horse appeared overhead in shades of gold and blue. A unified “ooh” of awe rose from the dinner boxes and Grace smiled. “Come now, surely a flying horse in the sky is impressive—even to you, Mr. Davis.”

The horse slowly melted just as a woodland rabbit hopped across the stars. Suddenly the outline of a large hawk appeared. In pursuit, its wings were fully extended and his beak parted as he swooped down toward the rabbit. His claws dropped and he scooped the helpless animal up in his powerful talons.

Grace squeaked in surprise, as did many of the other women around her. Thankfully, the creators of the light show brought the image to a thrilling end before the impending carnage.

“I must admit, I found that impressive,” Mr. Davis commented, his eyes now fixed on the display high above.

“That is very male of you,” Grace said, glad for Mr. Davis’s presence. The rest of the box was absolutely filled to bursting by Langdon’s men, including Midge. She liked Midge, but he, much like the rest of their party, was not the loquacious type. Grace was too practical to react to such treatment in a sensitive manner. She understood that the men had a job to do. And talking to her was not one of their duties.

Mr. Davis, on the other hand, while nowhere near chatty, was at least willing and able to carry on a conversation.

He puffed out his chest and clapped his fist against his coat in a comical gesture. “Well, I am a man, my lady. And this display,” he gestured at the night sky, “involves loud explosions and marauding hawks. Both are decidedly male interests.”

Grace laughed and looked up at the dark sky just as a gathering of fairies in pinks and lavenders floated away. “Surely you are comfortable enough in your manhood to admit when something more tender, such as fairies, tickles your fancy?”

Before he could reply to her teasing comment, a loud crash directly behind them startled Grace. Davis pushed Grace to the floor. “Stay right here. Do not move until I tell you it is safe to do so.”

Long strides carried him across the box and the wall of Langdon’s men parted, quickly closing behind him, and he disappeared from Grace’s view.

Every inch of Grace’s body and brain screamed for her to run away. She pressed her back against the wall of the box. Dealing with the doctor had been fertile ground for training her how to deal with dangerous circumstances, though her preferred method had always been to hide.

Grace fumbled with her skirts and slipped her knife from its sheath. She braced for the yells and screams that would surely accompany the attack. Men never fought without the horror of the battle being expressed in as many different ways as was possible. The smell of sweat and urine. The sight of torn flesh and broken bone. The sounds were the worst of all.
You could close your eyes and bury your nose in your wrap. And try to block out the horrific sounds by covering your ears with your hands. It never worked, really. Men’s violent efforts and ensuing pain were far too strong to be muffled.

Grace braced herself for the terrifying sounds—but none came. Instead, she heard the low scuffle of boots on the plank floor. Straining, she then heard the wet suck of a knife being withdrawn from flesh. And finally a man’s last whispered gasp for life, air dragging against his windpipe, desperate for working organs that would guarantee its usefulness.

The group of men parted and Davis emerged, stalking toward her, followed by two of Langdon’s men. One of them took her hand and pulled her to her feet while another took a stance behind her. The three formed a protective circle around Grace, blocking her from the rest of the men.

“What is it? What’s happening?” She went up on tiptoe but couldn’t see past her guardians’ broad bulk.

“Stay down, my lady,” Davis urged, his large frame easily blocking Grace.

Determined to know what threatened her, she ducked and peered around his upper arm. The sky lit up with another burst of fireworks, illuminating the scene just beyond. Midge stood with his back to Grace, a man lying silent and unnaturally still at his feet. Just behind the two, more of Langdon’s men appeared to be securing the back panel of the dinner box.

The outer door of the box slammed open, drawing the attention of all within.

“Where is Lady Grace?” Langdon’s deep voice was hard, demanding an answer.

“Here,” Grace called out. The agents around her stepped back and she saw past them to the doorway. “I am here.”

Langdon strode toward her, his men clearing a path, moving out of his way. “Are you all right?” he asked, controlled fury lacing his tone.

“She’s safe,” Davis answered.

Langdon reached her and cradled her face in his hands. His fierce gaze scanned her pale features in an all-encompassing sweep. “Lady Grace?”

“I am unharmed,” she answered, a tremor building within her as she looked into his eyes. “I promise.”

The tremble transformed into violent shaking and Grace collapsed against him.

With a muttered curse, he instantly gathered her in his arms.

“I cannot stop shivering,” Grace muttered between her chattering teeth. He was blessedly warm and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing closer.