The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match A Regency Rogues Novel (29 page)

“Did she get the best of you, Mitchell?” Crow shouted, a sharp, broken laugh punctuating his joke. The rest of the Kingsmen joined in, a chorus of rude, rough chortles ricocheting off the growing wind.

“Please, Grace, do not ask this of me,” Marcus said, shoving her ahead of him. “I want nothing more than for you to have the justice you deserve. But if it means endangering your life? Let us leave, right now. We will find a cottage in the wilds of Devon and never think on London again.”

Grace tucked her chin and looked down, fearful Crow might see the concern creasing her forehead. “You know we cannot, Marcus—I cannot. I must see this through. With or without you.”

Marcus quickened his step and came to walk beside her. He nodded, a small, sad smile forming on his lips. “I would have regretted not having asked, Grace. And I fear I am overburdened with regrets. Could not fit one more in my pocket if I tried.”

Marcus looked again at the prison ship, then back at Grace. “And if the King is not on board? What then? I cannot guarantee your safety. Even if he is, there is no telling whether he will question you and keep you alive or question you and have you killed.”

“Not odds I would have wished for,” Grace answered honestly. “But I can live with them for the chance to take down the Kingsmen. Can you?”

Marcus scanned their surroundings, his brow furrowing as his eyes settled on the prison ship. “I do hope that man of yours is as trustworthy as you believe him to be.”

“He will come, Marcus. That I would be willing to bet my life on.”

“You already have,” he replied grimly, then grabbed her hand in his and set off for the
Resurrection
.

Langdon was frantic. Enraged. Terrified. And he had been from the moment Midge had tracked him down at the Young Corinthians Club. Grace had been lured to Mr. Mitchell’s apartment with the promise of information, that much Mrs. Templeton could attest to. And by the time Midge had forced his way upstairs and broken down Mitchell’s door, Grace was gone, a letter from the King requesting the honor of Langdon’s presence aboard the
Resurrection
left in her place. Carmichael had promised to send all the men he could to the
Resurrection
and Langdon had left.

“Faster,” he urged his horse, the chestnut snorting with effort as he flew through the empty streets of London.

Langdon had once gone aboard the
Resurrection
’s sister ship, the
Providence
, to interrogate a prisoner being held there. What he remembered most about the visit was the smell. Desperation, mixed with sickness and a heaping dose of hopelessness, had joined the Thames’s fetid stench to create one of the most memorable and miserable smells he’d ever had the bad fortune to encounter.

Even now, as Langdon raced toward the prison ship, with Niles following closely behind, he could swear the rancid odors tickled at his nostrils. Or perhaps it was the stink of his own fear.

Niles brought his horse even with Langdon’s and shouted, “It will do no good if the horse dies beneath you!”

Langdon looked down at his mount’s neck and shoulders, where sweat darkened the chestnut hide but, thank God, he could see no foam as of yet. “I will capture the King tonight. Not kill a horse. I promise you that.”

The two riders and their mounts pounded recklessly through dark streets, the bay’s and chestnut’s hooves slipping on the wet paving stones as they raced down Hastings Street.

Bent low over the chestnut’s neck, a hunk of his mount’s mane clenched in one fist, leather reins in the other, Langdon looked straight ahead, hardly aware of the dangerous pace. Truth was, he’d been hardly aware of most everything since Midge had told him of Grace’s abduction. More and more questions piled up in his mind. Did Marcus force her to go with him? Would he offer her up to the King? Or could the man be trusted and it was Grace who was risking her own life to capture the King?

He urged the gelding on at an even faster clip. God Almighty, but Langdon would kill the King himself if anything happened to Grace.

His nerves jolted with every last pebble and pothole the horse’s hooves encountered. He should have listened to Grace when she’d come to him with Imogen’s information. He should have ordered Niles to
look into the rumor more seriously. He should have investigated the threat himself.

He should have done so many things differently. Langdon yelled, catching Niles’s attention, and pointed toward Highchester Street. The two horses took the turn without slowing, wheeling in unison as if they were in harness.

Regrets would do him no good now, Langdon knew. All he could focus on was what came next.

Saving Grace—no matter the cost.

The wharf came into view, and with it the briny reek from the Thames. Langdon pulled up the gelding, slowing him to a trot, and scanned the river beyond, searching for the
Resurrection
.

“There,” Niles said, pointing down the wharf toward the hulking ship that rested west of where they stood.

“What the hell is it doing there? Why isn’t it anchored further out in the river?” Langdon couldn’t believe his eyes.

“It is supposed to be,” Niles said, his voice hard. “I’m sure the location fits snugly into the Kingsmen’s plan. We should wait for the rest of our men.”

Langdon looked at his friend as though the man had sprouted a third eye. “There is no way in hell I am waiting. If you would prefer to, by all means do so. But I’ll be boarding the
Resurrection
now.”

“I was required by Corinthian code to suggest such a thing,” Niles explained, nudging his horse into a walk. “Of course I bloody well knew you’d refuse. Would have been disappointed if you had not,” he added over his shoulder.

Langdon’s heart warmed at his friend’s loyalty.
“God knows I would not want to disappoint you.” He caught up with Niles and the two settled their mounts into a brisk walk.

“And as much as I love a martyr, you must know our current predicament is not your fault.”

The situation was what it was. “On a purely practical level, I am in charge of this investigation. Therefore, any missteps are to be attributed to me and me alone.”

“Did you kill Lady Afton?” Niles asked simply. “Are you responsible for Grace being gambled away to the highest bidder?”

“Of course not, you imbe—”

“Therefore, on a purely practical level, our current situation—which stems from a hundred different decisions that had nothing to do with you—is not your fault,” Niles said, then patted his horse’s neck. “Damn, but it feels good to be right.”

“I cannot lose her now, Niles. Not when I’ve just found her.”

“You will not lose her, Langdon,” Niles said with certainty. “Not now. Not ever. So, let us cease with the self-pity and devise a plan. And by ‘us,’ I mean you. Put that enormous brain to good use.”

“A plan, then?” Langdon breathed deeply, pushed every ounce of fear from his mind, and considered Niles’s words. “Whether Marcus took Grace by force or she went willingly, they are on that ship. The battle will be fought aboard the
Resurrection
.” He focused intently on the ship’s dark bulk, wondering where was the most likely place on board for the Kingsmen to hold her.

“And if Marcus was not knowingly part of her abduction?” Niles asked.

Langdon knew Grace was capable of much more than anyone knew—even herself. Still, when pitted against a criminal mastermind who had managed to go undetected for decades? God, he wanted to believe it was possible that she was alive on board the
Resurrection
. He needed to believe. Otherwise …

“I do not know, Niles,” Langdon admitted, though it killed him to do so. “Get me on board that ship. Then we shall see.”

“No plan, then. I like it. I like it very much.”

“Is that Crowther’s whore?”

Grace flinched as the man halted their progress down the ship’s stairs, but said nothing. She bit her tongue until she could taste blood.

“It is, Comstock.” Marcus gestured for him to move aside. “And I will be sure to tell the King she was delayed by your curiosity.”

Comstock snarled but did as he was told, stepping out of their path.

“Last cabin on the left,” Crow muttered as Marcus led Grace past him and farther down into the prison ship.

Grace stared straight ahead, keeping her eyes focused on the narrow stairwell as they descended. The noise grew exponentially with each tread, as did the stench. She breathed through her mouth as they reached the ship’s lower deck.

“I must admit, this is not as terrible as I would have
expected,” Grace whispered as Marcus pushed her against the wall in order to avoid a pair of Kingsmen running the other way.

He plucked her forward by the shoulders and set off again. “The prisoners are kept on the deck below us. That is the area we need to avoid.”

“I will try to remember that,” Grace said, ducking behind Marcus’s shoulder when a Kingsmen she knew appeared in the corridor.

“Well blow me down,” the squat, surly man exclaimed as he came closer.

Grace knew the man only as Four Fingers. Her husband had never bothered with his associates’ real names—something to do with Kingsmen protocol.

“The doctor’s wife?” Four Fingers asked, holding his hand up, palm out, in a silent command to halt.

“And here I’d believed up to this point you were stupid,” Marcus replied coldly, his knife clearly visible in his rock-steady grip. “Now move. We need to see the King.”

Four Fingers growled low in his throat. Grace watched the struggle between hatred and common sense playing out in the man’s eyes.

Eventually, common sense won and he stepped aside, making room for them to pass. “I’ll come lookin’ for you, Marcus. After we find what the King’s wanting.”

“You do that,” Marcus replied, not bothering to even look back.

Four Fingers reached over and grasped a lock of Grace’s hair that had come undone. “You, too, Mrs. Crowther.”

His sharp tug on her hair was painful, but then he
released her, disappearing down the narrow steps to the level below.

“How much farther?” Grace asked, a shiver creeping up her spine.

“Not far at all.”

Marcus suddenly stopped and Grace bumped into his back. She peered around his shoulder and discovered they had reached the end of the hall. Crow stood just ahead of them, along with another Kingsmen, who looked to be guarding a door.

“ ’Bout time she was caught,” the guard said to Marcus, then gave Grace a black look.

Marcus reached behind him, caught Grace’s hands and pulled her forward to stand next to him. “Insightful as always. Now open the door,” he instructed impatiently. “Or should I?”

The guard pounded his fist against the heavy wood portal three times. “Marcus to see you. And he’s brought Crowther’s wife with him.”

A chair scraping against wood flooring could be heard from within the cabin. Footsteps sounded next. With each heavy tread, Grace willed herself to remain calm. Yes, she was about to see the man responsible for causing incomprehensible pain and misery to so many people. But crumpling before the man would do no one any good. It was time for Grace to play her part.

She locked her knees and straightened her spine.

A key rattled in the door’s lock. The hinges squeaked with effort as the heavy oak swung inward. And there stood a man.

“You are late.”

Marcus sighed with disgust, then shoved Grace into
the chamber and followed after her. “I believe this shall more than make up for my tardiness.”

Grace tripped on her skirts and fell forward. She landed on her knees, the rough wooden flooring biting at her skin.

“No need to injure her just yet,” the King said, grabbing Grace’s elbow and yanking her up. “Have a seat, Mrs. Crowther.”

He pushed her down into a chair against the wall of the chamber, then walked to a desk opposite and tossed the keys at Marcus. “Close the door and lock it.”

Grace’s gaze followed her friend as he shut the door. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the roles they both must play, as he placed the key in the hole and turned it. She sent up a prayer when he turned back toward her and eyed her with contempt.