The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match A Regency Rogues Novel (4 page)

Eventually, she realized there was every reason to loathe the picture. As she’d noted immediately, the artist lacked any real talent. And when one considered it hung on the wall of her prison cell? If not for her father’s betrayal, she would never have come to reside at 3 Bedford Street. Lord Danvers had been a poor father, true enough. His constant state of inebriation had made any sort of meaningful connection with the man impossible. Grace could have lived with that. But when he’d gambled her away to Dr. Crowther in a game of chance? Grace’s father ceased to exist altogether.

If not for Lord Danvers’ betrayal, she never would
have darkened the door of the doctor’s home, and Grace would have been spared the sight of the poorly executed painting.

“Honestly? I have no idea what he might want with me,” Grace finally replied, fear shadowing her soul momentarily.

Mrs. Templeton flew past her en route to the wardrobe. Grace reached out and grasped the dear woman’s elbow.

“And I’ve no intention of ever finding out,” she added, forcing the woman to stand still. “Now, we need take only the essentials, Mrs. Templeton. Leave everything else.”

Two days had passed since the doctor’s and Timothy’s brutal killings. Grace had ushered Mrs. Templeton out of the house and directly to the Dolphin Pub, where they had located Mr. Templeton. They’d been moving about the city for forty-eight hours, only now daring to return to the townhouse.

Mrs. Templeton gave Grace a pained look. “You cannot leave with only the clothes on your back, my lady. It isn’t proper.”

“Isn’t it?” Grace asked, pulling the woman toward the window. “Then it is in keeping with the entirety of my tenure here. Besides, I want nothing that will remind me of my time with the doctor.”

She unlocked the window and pushed up on its painted frame until the edge came level with her eyes. “Help me, will you?”

Grace turned and sat down on the narrow ledge, then leaned back and reached out with her right hand for a brick mortared in place in the far right corner.

Mrs. Templeton held on to Grace’s left hand, her
strong, stocky body acting as an anchor. “No matter where we hide, you will require at least one change of clothing, my lady. And you cannot be expected to sleep on the coarse linens you find in a roadside inn. And what about your special tea? Hmmm? We will not be able to visit Master Chow’s shop and you are nearly out of leaves.”

Grace picked at the failing mortar around the brick with her index finger, closing her eyes as the chalky material flew from her efforts and dusted her face. “We will not require extra clothing, Mrs. Templeton. I plan on hiding us within the 9th Street’s territory and I assure you one does not change for dinner in that section of London.”

“Ninth Street?” her friend repeated with disbelief. “You could not find a more dangerous part of London, my lady—outside of St. Giles, that is. Bit like going from the frying pan into the fire, wouldn’t you agree?”

Grace finished with the deteriorating mortar and brushed off her face. Opening her eyes, she grasped the brick with her fingers and pulled hard. “Which is precisely the point. If we’ve any luck at all, they will not think to look for me there.”

The brick scraped along its neighbors and finally came free. Grace set it down on the sill then placed her hand in the space left behind. Her fingers grasped a coarse sack first. She tightened her hold and yanked. “In this bag is nearly enough coin for all three of us to leave London. Is your niece Rosie still employed by Huntleys in Bond Street?”

Mrs. Templeton nodded and took the bag with her free hand.

“We will take piece work from her as it becomes available,” Grace explained, leaning out the open window once more. “And if my calculations are correct, we shall be in Devon before the new year.”

She reached up once more and searched the hiding place, her fingers coming to rest on a second sack. This one was quite a bit smaller than the first. Made of the finest silk, with embroidered doves encircling the top, the bag was as familiar to Grace as her own face.

“And, if necessary, we shall sell this.”

She grasped the bag and easily removed it from the hole. “Here,” she prompted Mrs. Templeton, handing the silk bag to her friend then picking up the brick and returning it to its place.

“Never say such a thing,” Mrs. Templeton breathed, pulling Grace back into the room. “It was your mother’s, my lady.”

The cook released Grace’s hand and stood back, loosening the cords of the pouch and lifting a silver necklace from it. “When we first met, you wore this every day.”

Grace had done many things differently when she first came to 3 Bedford Street. She’d still been nothing more than an optimistic, foolish girl, full of hope for her future despite all that had transpired. Yes, hers had been a childhood filled with the unpleasant effects of a father too fond of drink and gambling. And it was true he’d offered her up in a game of cards after spending every last coin he had, only to lose.

Still, Grace had held tight to her hope, believing the doctor could be a kind, caring man underneath his cold, leering facade.

She’d been proven wrong, of course, many times. The worst of which was when the doctor had stolen her mother’s necklace and lost it gambling. He’d known what the keepsake had meant to her. It had been a gift given to her mother the year she’d come out. Each girl who’d attended Mrs. Van Allen’s charm and grace classes had received one, all twelve of the necklaces alike save for the initials engraved upon the back of the heart-shaped pendant. Grace could see the empty spot on the dresser in her mind’s eye—the one where she’d laid the necklace every night as she readied for bed.

The doctor had not even bothered to lie about stealing it. And that was when Grace had lost all hope for what her life
should
be and embraced the reality of what it was. She’d built a makeshift family with the Templetons and young Timothy and bided her time, saving every last coin she could get her hands on and waiting for the day there was enough to fund their escape to Devon.

After the theft, when Grace refused to accompany her husband to any social engagements or even leave the house with him, the doctor attempted to convince Grace of the depth of his regret by winning the necklace back. But he had been too late. Grace could not even look at the memento once it had been tainted by deceit.

And that was when the doctor had revealed who he really was. Grace had outlived her usefulness as his exquisite accessory. The verbal barrage of insults and slights that had intermittently tainted their marriage then began in earnest, leaving Grace no choice but to hide from her husband within their home.

She was a different person now. Much more strong and capable. Able to see situations and people for what they truly were. The world was a cold place. And so was Grace’s heart.

Grace stood up and turned to push the window shut. “We are moving forward, Mrs. Templeton. Not looking back—never looking back.” She latched the lock and looked out the window, realizing it would be the final time she took in the view from 3 Bedford Street.

“If you will not agree to bring anything else, then let us be gone from this wicked place,” the cook urged, gently placing the delicate silk purse inside the larger sack and tying a knot.

Grace turned back and nodded, catching the homely painting from the corner of her eye. She walked to it and took it down from the wall.

“You cannot mean to take that painting?” Mrs. Templeton asked. “Truth be told, I never did care for it.”

Grace held the picture low then put her foot through the canvas, satisfaction blooming in her chest at the sound of the hills and glens ripping beyond repair.

She was scared—more so than she’d ever been before. Grace decided fear was a good thing, at least for now. It would keep her running, and hopefully out of the Kingsmen’s reach. “I never cared for it, either.”

“And you believe he is telling the truth?”

Langdon contemplated Henry Prescott, Viscount Carmichael’s question as he surveyed the comfortable
furnishings of the library in the Young Corinthians Club. He and Carmichael occupied two leather chairs set against the west wall. Ribbons of fragrant cigar smoke hung heavily in the air, enwreathing pairs and small groups of men as they discussed the day’s news or, more likely, Corinthian business.

The club was comprised of agents and non-agents alike, but all men valued their privacy, making the premises ideal for such conversation.

“I do not have a choice, do I?” Langdon finally replied, all too aware of the frustration revealed in his tone. “I apologize, Carmichael. I am not myself these days.”

Lord Carmichael took a slow sip of his brandy and swallowed, his keen gaze fixed on Langdon. “I would have to agree with you. But tell me, is it the Kingsmen, Stonecliffe? Or are other concerns troubling you?”

Lord Carmichael had known Langdon since he was a boy. He and Langdon’s father had been dear friends and part of a closely knit group of families that included Sophia’s parents. There was not a chance Carmichael misunderstood Langdon’s statement, which meant he’d purposefully brought up the topic of Sophia.

“The Kingsmen, of course,” Langdon said shortly, tamping down his frustration. “Surely you are as anxious as I am to move forward with the case. And Topper’s information is all we have.”

“I do wonder, though, if it is possible to separate the two—that is, the Kingsmen from Sophia.” Carmichael took a second measured sip of the amber-colored liquid. His sharp gaze pinned Langdon.

Langdon stared at the man. He blinked, his mind racing to adjust. He couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Carmichael’s careful and painfully precise lectures to the men he led were the stuff of legend.

A legend Langdon could never have dreamt he would be written into. He’d always had the ability to spot those agents who’d one day find themselves staring across a desk at Carmichael. Their transgressions were varied and too many to count. Arrogance. Impatience. An inability to listen. A refusal to follow certain rules. What the sins all had in common was their ability to endanger both the men committing them and their fellow agents.

And Langdon fell prey to not one. It was not bravado nor competitiveness that drove him. But honor. And a strict moral code. The other men had often referred to him as the model Corinthian.

And now?
he wondered, as he struggled to look his mentor in the eyes.
What drives you? Now that you’ve reaped the bleak rewards of an honorable life?

He knew he should appreciate the older man’s interest, but he could muster nothing more than embarrassment. “I promise you, Carmichael, I am as committed as ever—no, that is wrong,” he amended grimly. “I am
more
committed than ever to finding Lady Afton’s killer. Of that you can be sure.”

“Is that the wisest course of action, Stonecliffe?” Carmichael asked, finishing his drink. “Even if Sophia was not the love of your life—”

“With all due respect, Carmichael, I do not think you are in any position to suggest that I did not love
Sophia,” Langdon interrupted, his clipped words revealing more than he would have preferred.

Carmichael held his glass aloft to signal a waiting servant. “You are absolutely correct, Stonecliffe.” He paused while the liveried footman took the glass from his hand and departed. “Though I did not say you did not love Sophia. What I suggested was that you were not
in
love with her. Two very different things.”

“Is there a difference?” Langdon challenged, straightening his blasted cravat, which refused to lay as it should. “And even if there is, what is done is done. There is no denying …”

Carmichael’s questions had laid open feelings that were still raw—and made Langdon further aware of the subtle, sneaking changes in himself. A rumpled appearance was out of character for him, but it was easily remedied. What Carmichael hinted at—that Langdon’s ability to do his job may have been compromised? That would be the end of him.

“There is no denying that the two are
in
love,” Carmichael finished for him.

“This conversation is not necessary,” Langdon assured his superior, tugging at his too-tight cravat one more time. “It is work that will set me right. I am sure of it.”

Carmichael methodically twisted the gold signet ring on his left hand. “You are rattled—and rightly so. Any man in your position would be. But you are a Corinthian and this case is important to many people.”

Langdon’s fingers tightened around his glass. “It is all I have left, Carmichael,” he answered with brutal truthfulness. He flicked a quick glance around the
room, relieved when no one appeared to be paying any attention to their quiet conversation. “You cannot assign me elsewhere. Lady Afton’s murderer has always been mine to find. Even though Sophia married Nicholas, not me, that has not changed.”

Carmichael studied Langdon, his gaze somber as he clearly considered his words. “And if, for whatever reason, you are unable to continue with the investigation,” he asked, “I have your word you will willingly give the case over to another agent?”

“You have my word.”