The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match A Regency Rogues Novel (15 page)

Langdon knew he should be relieved she was not outraged by his behavior. Taking such liberties was not what a true gentleman would do.

Then why did he only want more?

“Yes,” he finally replied, deciding he needed to do the opposite of what his gut craved. At least for the time being—and always in the company of Lady Grace.

“The Kingsmen made contact,” he began, reclaiming his chair. “They suggested a meeting at the Four Horsemen. I insisted on the wharf, which your man Marcus reluctantly agreed to.”

“And the King?” Lady Grace asked, her eyes narrowing with interest.

Langdon shook his head. “Only Marcus and two of his men.”

“Ah, Brutus was there,” she confirmed with a nod. “That’s where the bat comes into play. He’s as stupid as they come, but exceptionally talented with that bat.”

Langdon gingerly fingered his wound. “You do not have to convince me. Thankfully Marcus called him off.”

Grace’s brow furrowed. “They must want you alive.”

“Well, I did not go empty-handed,” Langdon explained. “My best man accompanied me, with ten more lying in wait, in case there was trouble.”

“All of this is because of me. What is it that they think I know?” she wondered aloud. “I’ve gone through every last scrap of information I gathered over the years. Nothing stands out. I’ll keep trying, though. And we’ll push harder.”

Langdon fought the urge to growl with disapproval. As Carmichael had told him, the ends would justify the means.

They had to.

“Well, actually, I have begun to work on that,” he said, dreading the words to follow. “I’ve offered you to the King in exchange for a partnership and gave them twenty-four hours to respond. If they fail to meet the deadline, I’ll steal the East India Company’s latest shipment—in the name of the Kingsmen. Every day that passes, I told them, they lose something that is integral to their business. And on the fifth day I’ve threatened to remove the King entirely from the equation.”

Grace eyed him skeptically. “And how, exactly, did you convince Marcus of this? The Kingsmen have been threatened by rival gangs in the past—gangs that no longer exist.”

“Other gangs did not have my connections,” Langdon explained, his faculties beginning to fire as they should. “I planted a man inside the Company months ago. Not only has he gleaned valuable information, he’s floated false facts concerning the Kingsmen. The Company has suspected for some time that the gang is cheating them. And if the King does not comply, I’ll give them the final push they need to go after the Kingsmen.”

“You’d force them out in the open,” Grace said, raising one eyebrow in approval. “You’ll need to be careful, though. Along with the Kingsmen will come their anonymous partners—some of whom hold high positions within the ton. They’d do anything to keep their good names from being tarnished.”

“Let us hope it does not come to that,” Langdon answered.

“Yes, of course,” Grace agreed.

The two fell silent, the only sound in the room coming from the crackle of the fire.

Langdon’s head began to throb in earnest. “It is late,” he noted, abruptly standing.

Grace nodded, but remained seated. “Good night, Mr. Clark.”

Langdon paused awkwardly, knowing he should go but feeling as if there was something more to say.

Giant ass, indeed
.

“Good night,” he replied, and turned to go.

Lady Serendipity Theodora Hatch had not always been insane. There was a time—long, long ago—when she’d been quite normal, actually.

She looked about the Bentleys’ ballroom and sighed as she watched the debutantes dance with their eligible young men. Serendipity could recall every last detail surrounding the evening she’d gone mad.

A liveried waiter paused with a tray of filled champagne flutes. Serendipity eyed him with contempt and waved him off.

Her dress that long ago night had possessed a sash of the most spectacular shade of blue. Matching diamond hairpins, given to her by a favorite aunt, had twinkled in her lush mahogany hair. And her mama had allowed her to wear a hint of rouge upon her cheeks.

Serendipity had walked into the Filburns’ ball sure
that he would see her, and her alone. He would propose that evening. She felt it in her bones. Mama had suggested Serendipity should not be overly hopeful of the possibility. “After all,” she’d warned, “he has not spoken with your father. Perhaps you should consider Lord Pinehurst or Lord Bates. Both men have asked for Papa’s blessing, unlike
him
.”

Serendipity would hear none of it. She’d danced and laughed the enchanted night away, only growing concerned as guests began to leave. She’d been a bold girl in those days. Sanity makes everything that much easier, she supposed. Serendipity had sought him out on the terrace. He was smoking with a few of his friends, discussing something wholly masculine and of no interest to her. She’d asked the other men to leave.

And they had. Then she’d asked him why he’d not proposed to her that evening.

And he told her he hadn’t because he was not going to ask for her hand in marriage—ever.

She was a charming, lovely girl, he’d assured her. But he had no plans to marry.

Serendipity had not begged him to reconsider, though she’d wanted to. A girl had her pride, after all.

Half-lost in the memories, Serendipity continued to watch the dance floor, purposefully ignoring Lady Herbert as the silly woman attempted to gain her attention.

People always speak of suffering broken hearts when disappointed in love, she mused with scorn. Serendipity’s heart remained intact, solid as ice and heavy as ore. But her mind had shattered like thin,
cheap glass that night and she hadn’t managed to repair it since.

“Lady Serendipity,” Lady Herbert said with overwhelming enthusiasm. “You are looking well this evening.”

She sighed. Enduring such company was the price Serendipity was required to pay for catching a glimpse of him. It seemed rather high at times. There were days when she hated him for forcing her into such a degrading position, suffering fools so that she might be near him.

In fact, there were times when she wanted to kill him. But Serendipity wasn’t a stupid woman. To kill the only man she’d ever loved would defeat the purpose of remaining devoted to him for so many years. And so, she’d killed others in his place. The deaths relieved the tension and she’d found them a convenient way to ease the stress of unfulfilled dreams.

“You are too kind, Wilhelmina,” Serendipity finally responded, aware she’d taken a touch too long, but caring little.

Several men sauntered into the room, not bothering to wait for the majordomo to announce them. And there he was, right in the middle of the pack of young lords, indulging their antics while remaining wholly above them. They looked even younger next to his seasoned, experienced character.

Women adored him and men revered him.

But Serendipity was the only one who truly loved him, she thought smugly.

“I did not see you at Lady Pickwick’s garden party,” Lady Herbert said congenially.

Serendipity knew what the woman was up to. Ever
since Serendipity’s father had died and left his entailed estate to a distant cousin, the ton had made a habit of attempting to discover how, precisely, she paid her way.

She’d never married, of course. And the distant cousin was a tightfisted penny-pincher. Gossips spread rumors that a mysterious male benefactor had come to her rescue.

Little did the idiots know Serendipity had not required rescuing. She’d built her business brick by brick, employing many but trusting few.

And along the way, she’d donated to charitable causes and dropped enough coin the length of London to ensure even those within the highest echelons of the ton could not ostracize her—though Serendipity was quite sure they would like nothing else.

Lady Herbert wanted to know if Serendipity had been invited to Lady Pickwick’s party because the fat, over-rouged woman had nothing better to do with her time.

It disgusted Serendipity.

But torturing her with a prolonged pause was the tiniest bit enjoyable.

“That’s because I was not there, Wilhelmina,” Serendipity replied, eyeing the woman with a condescending glare. “I had a previous engagement in Kent.”

It was a lie, of course. Serendipity had been forced to miss the garden party due to an issue with her business. But she’d overheard Lady Filburn bragging to Lady Morrow about having received an invitation to Lord Carstair’s house party, which occurred on the same day as Lady Pickwick’s garden party.

“In Kent, you say,” Wilhelmina asked, her skin slowly warming to a spring green, if Serendipity was correct.

“Envious?” she countered, failing to supply an answer.

Wilhelmina furrowed her heavy brow as if she did not understand. “Why would I be envious of your trip to Kent? I understand the weather is most unpredictable in that part of the country—especially during the spring.”

“Oh, quite the contrary, I assure you,” Serendipity replied with relish. “I can’t remember the weather ever having cooperated in such a glorious fashion. You really should have been there.”

A footman approached the two, a silver tray with a single, sealed note resting on its gleaming surface. “For you, my lady,” he said to Serendipity, holding the tray out to her.

“Well, I will leave you to your correspondence,” Lady Herbert said, clearly knowing when she’d been beaten and thankful for the opportunity to make her escape.

“Thank you,” Serendipity answered, taking the letter in her hands and ripping it open.

Wilhelmina nodded then scuttled away.

The footman remained.

“Go,” Serendipity ordered, anxious to read the missive in private.

The man remained. “I am to accompany you to your carriage should you agree to the meeting.”

Serendipity captured the impertinent man with a critical eye. Was he one of hers? “Well, give me a touch of space, you idiot,” she hissed.

The footman took three steps back and waited.

Serendipity read the short letter, which requested she leave directly to attend an urgent meeting. Annoyed, she looked up from the letter and once again at her true love. Would this have been the night he realized life was nothing more than a string of mundane interactions without her?

She read the letter once more then crumpled it in her hand. Now she would never know.

“Come,” she ordered the footman, shoving the letter into her reticule as she stalked toward the stairs, the weight of her position—made heavier by male incompetence—ever so slightly bowing her normally erect, even regal, carriage.

“I adore the cut of your gown,” Imogen complimented Grace as their barouche rolled along Regent Street. “But the bonnet seems a bit much. Actually, more than a bit—even for me. And your entourage, though discreet, smacks of arrogance.”

Grace smiled. Not that anyone but her was aware of her amusement since her entire head and most of her neck were encased in a swath of black netting. Grosgrain ribbons were tied in a jaunty bow beneath her chin, anchoring the bonnet in place against a slight breeze. The playful gusts ruffled skirts and bonnet ribbons on strolling shoppers up and down the exclusive row of shops. “Mr. Clark can be quite protective.”

Grace knew the bonnet looked ridiculous as did Mr. Clark’s men trailing behind her. Nevertheless, she would have done anything within reason—or not, actually—to get away from Aylworth House. She’d followed her instincts and pursued Mr. Clark, only to be rebuffed. She was humiliated, but more than that, she was disappointed. She’d thought for certain there was a connection between them.

“Well, you do have a flair for the dramatic, I’ll give you that,” Imogen replied, arching one perfectly
plucked brow as she discreetly looked behind, to where a number of gang members followed. “I don’t know that there will be room for all the men in Madame Fontaine’s, though.”

Grace pulled her cashmere shawl more tightly about her shoulders and pictured Mr. Clark’s men squeezing into the modiste’s shop, thankful for the distraction. “I believe you are right, Imogen.”

“Remember, it is Mademoiselle Louise, if you please,” Imogen playfully whispered as the barouche drew smoothly to a stop. “Mademoiselle Louise LaRue.”