The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match A Regency Rogues Novel (26 page)

Luckily, the King had relayed, not one person had been injured.

Serendipity crumpled the letter in her hand. People were dispensable. Easily bought, easily sold. While furnishings, fine food, bricks, and mortar? Those took time. And effort.

But especially money.

Mr. Clark had cost her all three.

Mr. Clark had cost her quite a bit more, actually. Serendipity could count on one hand the number of restful nights she’d experienced since his arrival in London.

He plagued her mind with his machinations and scheming. Why would one man—one unimportant, common man from Liverpool—think he had any right to her kingdom?

It was beyond comprehension, Serendipity realized. As was the idea that Mr. Clark clearly believed she would release everything she’d built because he said so.

The audacity! The nerve. His hubris would be his downfall, Serendipity felt sure. Stealing the East India Company’s shipment was something she could almost admire. Indeed, given the same situation, Serendipity would have more than likely made the very same move. It had cost her dearly, the Company men demanding their required payments for the Kingsmen’s protection be cut in half. And she had not been pleased.

But the Four Horsemen? Serendipity had seen to
the gambling hell herself, taking special delight in overseeing the project. Not one pathetic excuse for a man who darkened its door would have done so if they’d known of her connection to the hell, simply because the establishment was owned by a woman. And still, they spent their money as if they could not get enough of the very things Serendipity had chosen so carefully in order to entice them. To ensnare them.

It began to rain outside, darkening Serendipity’s mood further. She moved away from the window and walked down the main hall of her townhome, taking note of the priceless art that lined the walls—pieces by the Masters and a handful of more modern work carefully arranged to highlight exquisite artistry. She savored the softness supplied beneath her feet by the finest of Aubusson runners in peach and blue tones that covered the floors. Stopping in front of the entryway to the drawing room, Serendipity cast an approving eye over the luxurious settee and matching chairs, the silk wallpaper and flawless oaken tables. Breathtaking crystal candlesticks adorned the large marble fireplace, along with a pair of busts depicting Aristotle and Plato.

“My lady, you are bleeding.”

Serendipity looked back to where the voice came from. Her maid stood nearby, concern creasing her features.

“I am?” the Queen asked, following the maid’s gaze. Blood dripped from Serendipity’s closed fist. She unclenched her fingers and discovered several scoring marks in the flesh of her palm from her own nails.

“I am,” Serendipity said again, this time with anger. “Go at once and fetch a length of linen for me,” she commanded.

The maid bobbed a bow then scurried toward the servants’ stairs.

Serendipity looked at the letter from the King, now crumpled and stained. The words “Mr. Clark” stood out from the rest of the smudged missive. She curled her bloody fingers into a tight fist around the paper once again and swore under her breath.

Mr. Clark intended to take everything away from her. Without the Kingsmen, Serendipity would lose her home and everything inside of it, including the artwork and furnishings, the busts and crystal candlesticks. Next would be her standing within the ton—something she felt sure her peers would gleefully applaud. And finally, she feared, the last scintilla of sanity she possessed. All of her work, her careful planning. The sacrifice and years spent hiding behind that imbecile Adolphus Beaufort. Going without the respect and recognition she fully deserved. And everything without the man she loved.

Her vision narrowed and all Serendipity saw was Mr. Clark. He was responsible for everything that was not right in her life. Why had she not recognized it before? Mr. Clark had to be dealt with severely and with finality. He could not be allowed to go on living and reaping Serendipity’s rewards.

He would remain alive, but she would ensure his life was hell on earth. Seemed a much more fitting punishment for his crime.

The Kingsmen did business with a prison-ship captain by the name of Mr. Croy. The man operated
under unattainable quotas put forth by his company. And when he needed men to fill the cells on his ship, he consulted the Kingsmen. It would not be difficult to arrange passage for Mr. Clark on Mr. Croy’s ship. Every last man aboard claimed innocence, therefore his own cries of injustice would be ignored by crew and captain alike.

Serendipity had been on Mr. Croy’s hulking ship once. It was indeed hell on earth. And when she told Mr. Clark of the Widow Crowther’s painful death, his slow, tortuous journey to Australia would be the end of him.

Grace plucked a strawberry from one of many trays laid out before her and maneuvered it beneath the netting of her heavy, concealing hat. She bit into the juicy fruit, savoring the sweet, slightly tart taste.

“Well, at least one of us was good and thoroughly bedded last night.”

Imogen’s outrageous statement found Grace almost choking on her bite. She swallowed the tangy flesh and furtively glanced about her. Thankfully, only a few others had come to Hyde Park to enjoy the appearance of the sun. While Grace and Imogen relaxed by the banks of the Serpentine and feasted on the gourmet picnic, a handful of ladies strolled the many man-made paths that cut through the large green space, presumably discussing the latest
en dits
rather than Grace’s possible night of passion.

“Come now, you are not going to deny it, are you?”
Imogen prodded, waggling her eyebrows in comedic fashion.

Grace popped the last bite of strawberry into her mouth and chewed slowly—either to buy herself some time or to torture Imogen, she could not say.

“And what led you to such an assumption?” she finally asked, widening her eyes and pretending innocence.

Imogen sighed and pursed her Cupid’s bow lips. “Please, my lady. Recognizing such things is nothing more than a trick of the trade. Now, stop stalling and tell me all about it. Did you attempt the magic carpet ride? Where your leg wraps about his—”

“Imogen,” Grace hissed, tickled by her friend’s bravado though she tried not to be. “I did not mean to insult you, Imogen,” she assured her friend. “It is only that I would prefer to keep some of our discussions more private than a public park allows. Do you understand?”

Imogen rolled her eyes in true Imogen fashion. “Oh, all right. Does this mean we will not be discussing any gossip, either?”

“I am reserved, Imogen, not cruel,” Grace answered, with a decidedly wicked wink.

“Oh well, that
is
good news.” Imogen beckoned her closer and waited while Grace scooted over. “You’ve forgotten your parasol.”

Grace looked at the sunshade lying alone just on the edge of the blue wool blanket. “No, actually, I did not.”

Imogen frowned and leaned in until their shoulders touched and her parasol shielded both from the sun. “There. Now, would you like to go first or shall I?”

In truth, Grace had very little to share in the way of gossip. Mrs. Templeton always told her any news she had gathered throughout the day, but it was hardly titillating. The latest to-do involved a deliveryman who had possessed the temerity to suggest the house could make do with substandard potatoes.

Grace looked at Imogen. The woman’s expression was jubilant, clearly delighted at the very idea of a fine bit of juicy gossip.

The tale of the potatoes would not satisfy. “Why don’t you start?” Grace suggested, sure she would remember something interesting by the time Imogen had finished.

“Well,” her friend began, drawing out her L’s for added effect. “Last night, poor Kirby fell asleep while waiting for me to change into Madame Fontaine’s latest creation. He has been rather preoccupied lately, so I was not overly surprised.”

“And who is your Kirby, again?” Grace asked, holding her hand out beyond the parasol’s protective boundary of shade.

Imogen smiled widely. “Lord Cuthbert. An absolute dolt in the bedroom, but very sweet, and rich as they come. Now, where were we?”

Grace’s fingers flexed in the sun’s heat and she sighed. “Um, Kirby was asleep.”

“Yes, of course,” Imogen replied. “How silly of me. Well, I am rather used to being awake and active well into the wee hours. And try as I might, I could not fall asleep. And so, as I am wont to do in such circumstances, I wandered down to the kitchens in search of a little something to eat. And who should be there?”

Grace had grown bolder. The lower half of her arm now brazenly defied Imogen’s circle of shade.

“Are you not going to guess?”

Grace roused herself from the sun’s relaxing effects. “The cook?”

“No, thank heavens,” Imogen replied with a shudder. “That woman hates me. But I did take your advice and managed to befriend a kitchen girl, Maisy. Charming young thing and pretty as a picture—which is where our story begins.”

Grace could not help but think that Imogen had missed out on a splendid stage career. Every conversation was a performance, and this one was no exception.

“Do continue,” Grace prodded her friend, reaching for a biscuit.

Imogen cleared her throat, signaling her performance was about to resume. “Well, it seems our Maisy has an admirer. Actually, I believe she has many. But there is one in particular who has caused quite a stir within the circle of servants.”

“Not up to snuff?” Grace ventured a guess. She nibbled on her biscuit and awaited Imogen’s disclosure.

“Worse,” Imogen answered, gesturing for Grace to pass her a biscuit. “Apparently he is a member of the Kingsmen, the most dangerous gang in all of London.”

At the mention of the Kingsmen, Grace’s skin went cold. “The Kingsmen, you say?”

“Yes, that’s right. I narrowly escaped a brush with them when I first arrived here,” Imogen answered, then took a bite of her biscuit.

Grace finished her own, chewing slowly as she willed herself not to react emotionally. “Is that right?”

“Yes, but that is not the story I am telling today,” Imogen answered while brushing stray crumbs from her skirts. “Now, Maisy’s admirer is apparently young and handsome—and charming, too, but aren’t they all? So when she saw the boy at the market, she allowed him to walk her home.”

Grace had to admit the situation sounded entirely innocent despite the young man being linked to the Kingsmen. She relaxed slightly and rolled her shoulders to ease her tension.

“Aren’t you going to ask what happened then?” Imogen demanded, ever the showman.

“I thought you had come to the end of the story,” Grace explained, reaching for a second biscuit.

Imogen caught Grace’s elbow and pulled her back. “What kind of story would that be?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Grace countered, focused on the biscuit tray.

Imogen rolled her eyes. “The young man turned out to be quite loquacious and kept Maisy talking long after she should have gone to bed. But, as I mentioned before, he was handsome and charming, so she stayed and listened to his dangerous tales of life within the Kingsmen. Until he told her something Maisy knew could get her in trouble.”

Grace forgot about the second biscuit and focused more intently on her friend’s words. “What was that?”

Imogen glanced about them, then leaned closer, her voice dropping to just above a whisper. “Apparently a powerful gang from outside London has threatened
to overthrow the Kingsmen and take everything,” Imogen explained with great enthusiasm. “This young man told Maisy he heard the King was out of his mind with anger. So angry, in fact, that he’s going to double-cross the gang’s leader and trap him in one of those prison ships bound for Australia.”

“What do you mean?” Grace pressed, her heart beginning to race.

Imogen smiled with satisfaction, clearly pleased with Grace’s piqued interest. “The Kingsmen have their fingers in every sort of unsavory business there is, including prison ships. Captains are issued a quota, and if they do not meet this quota, they do not get paid. The Kingsmen supply the numbers needed in exchange for money.”

“But surely this man will protest,” Grace countered vehemently. “You cannot punish a person for something they did not do.”

Imogen patted Grace’s shoulder. “It is terrible, I know. But it happens every day. This man will only be one in a sea of men claiming their innocence. I imagine the crews of these prison ships no longer bother to listen.”

Grace could hear the loud pounding of her heartbeat in her ears, the drumming drowning out everything except for one thought: she had to tell Langdon.

“Do you know, I believe the sun is a bit too much for me today,” she told Imogen, leaning on her friend’s arm for support.

Imogen gasped and placed her palm on Grace’s forehead. “I told you, did I not? And now you are burning up. Baylor!” she called to the footman who stood at a respectful distance from the two.

The poor man sprinted toward them and fell down on one knee in front of Imogen. “Yes, miss, how may I help?”

“Have the driver bring the carriage at once, please.”

“At once” didn’t seem fast enough to Grace. She wondered if the Hills Crossing men watching from nearby would allow her the use of one of their horses.