Langdon reclined back onto the silk-draped bed and rested against the massive mahogany headboard. Waiting for Serena to appear was always interesting and this visit promised to be no exception. Madame Frie’s girls attracted men from all over the city of London, the brothel infamous for catering to the most exotic of tastes. The sounds that seeped through the walls were often recognizable grunts of pleasure and ecstasy. And then there were times when Langdon could not figure out just what sort of act could produce the noises he’d heard.

Presently, a gong featured prominently in Natasha’s room next door. An Asian motif, perhaps?

The door slowly opened and Serena appeared in the doorway. She struck a dramatic pose, her seductive stare stirring Langdon’s senses. “It is not polite to listen, Dorogoi.”

“Is that so?” Langdon asked, beckoning for her to come in.

Serena stepped across the threshold, her scarlet silk chemise and matching nightrail whispering with each step. She closed the door and padded across the thick Aubusson carpet. “Very impolite,” she assured him as she climbed up onto the bed. “You look tired—and troubled. This is not the man I know. Let me ease your mind.” She winked at him wickedly then reached for his cravat.

Langdon gently refused her offer, Serena’s observations pricking his worn patience. “That is not the nature of our relationship, but thank you for your concern.”

“You do know what Serena was trained for, yes?” she asked, her sarcasm only made more adorable by her thick accent.

Langdon smiled at his friend. Serena had supplied him with information for the past five years—and nothing more. They had never made love and they never would. “I respect you too much to ask such a thing of you. Besides, you might find me lacking and decide to never see me again.”

“Impossible,” she muttered, her gaze languishing on his nether regions.

Langdon reached inside the hidden pocket in his coat and produced a velvet pouch. “I believe this will cheer you up.”

Jewels made Serena happy. And Langdon liked to see her happy. She’d never spoken of her life before the brothel, but in his experience, one did not end up a prostitute unless something in their past had gone terribly wrong.

“You should not have,” Serena cooed as she took the offered gift and opened it. “But I am very glad you did!” She scooped up the emerald earrings and examined them in her hand. “They are my favorite, Dorogoi. Of course, this is not new information to you. And new information is what you need, is it not? Tell me, what can I give you?”

Langdon watched her clip one of the earrings to her right ear, the candlelight catching the jewel’s brilliance in fiery fashion. “Dr. Rupert Crowther. Do you know of him?”

“The King’s man, yes?” Serena asked, clipping the second earring on. “I do not think the doctor will be of much use to you, Dorogoi. He is dead.” She crawled across his legs and reached out for a handheld mirror that rested on the table next to the bed.

“I know. It is not the doctor that I want. It is his wife, Grace.”

Serena scooted back to her original position and held the mirror up to her face. “What would you want with a dead man’s wife?”

Langdon watched Serena as she admired the new baubles. “I want to get to her before the Kingsmen do. I want to save her life.”

Serena continued to look in the mirror, but her mind was clearly working. She held the weight of one of the dropped emeralds between two fingers as though trying to decide if the doctor’s wife for a pair of earrings was a fair trade.

“You will not harm her, Dorogoi? Give me your word.”

Langdon reached out and took the mirror from Serena, then held her tiny hand in his. “I give you my word. She will be safe, Serena.”

“No woman is safe in London,” she replied with wisdom that outmatched her years.

Langdon’s heart pinched at the sound of her voice. On several occasions in the past he’d offered to pay Serena’s way out of the city and set her up with a cottage on one of his properties. But she had refused and would never tell Langdon why, only that jewels were harder to come by in the country.

“Mrs. Crowther will be safe, Serena,” Langdon assured her. “If I get to her first.”

Serena fiddled with the earring as she thought, finally releasing the jewel and letting it slowly swing. “Do you know, I believe you should buy me another gift, my Dorogoi. There is a shop, Huntleys, on Bond Street. Give them my name—but do be discreet. Mrs. Crowther does not boast many friends, yet those she has are very loyal to her.”

“Thank you, Serena,” Langdon said, then released her hand and made to leave.

Serena put it on his chest and smiled. “Must you go? I think Natasha will be finished with the gong soon.”

“You are persistent,” Langdon praised her, then placed his feet on the floor and stood.

Serena rose up on her knees and placed her arms about Langdon’s neck. “Then be safe, Dorogoi. The Kingsmen are not to be trifled with.”

Grace watched Mrs. Templeton stoke the pitifully small fire. “I promise you, the moment we are able, we will leave this place.”

Mrs. Templeton attempted to hide her shivering with an exaggerated shrug of her shoulders. “We’ve a roof over our heads, my lady. That is all we need.”

The steady plunk-plunk of raindrops as they fell into the bucket from the leak in the dismal building’s roof tempted Grace to argue. Instead, she turned her attention to the delicate silk shift on her lap. “Thank heavens for Rosie,” she said, holding up the sewing project to inspect the tiny, perfectly set row of stitches. “Two more months of seamstress work and we will have saved sufficient funds to leave London.”

And disappear. Grace had dreamt of little else since her forced marriage to Rupert Crowther. And why wouldn’t she? Her lackluster upbringing had been eclipsed in sadness by her marriage to the doctor. With each year her life had become more difficult and dangerous.

At the time of her marriage, some whispered she’d deserved what she had received. Grace knew she’d been a foolish girl, taking for granted all that she had in comparison to so many others. When her father had gambled her away to the doctor, she’d felt anger, even rage.

And fear. No one, no matter how foolish they’d been, deserved to be wagered in a card game.

No one deserved to be lost.

The quick stab of pain from the prick of her needle roused Grace from her pointless contemplation. She squinted as the candle’s dim flame quivered in the night air that seeped through the ill-fitting window frame. Finding no blood, she continued her sewing, her stitches fine and detailed, creating delicate embroidered flowers on the white silk.

Ten years had passed. Grace no longer actively hated her father for what he’d done. Such an intense emotion required too much of her. And even worse, contemplation insisted that she accept her plight as something never-ending. Unchangeable. Doomed.

Grace would be damned to perdition before she ever again allowed another person to decide her fate. She’d bided her time, hiding household funds from the doctor, and planning for the moment she could escape from London for the countryside, the Templetons and young Timothy in tow.

Grace pricked her finger again and swore indelicately under her breath. She could not think about Timothy. Not now that the Kingsmen had changed the game. That they’d killed the doctor did not surprise her. It had been bound to happen. But what possible reason did they have for wanting to kill an innocent boy? And in pursuit of her? Why?

A low, soft knock sounded at the door.

The two women froze in alarm.

“Should I wake Mr. Templeton?” Mrs. Templeton asked, her voice tense.

Grace set aside the sewing and rose from her chair, giving her companion what she hoped was a look of reassurance. “I know he stays awake all night and keeps watch over us. Let him sleep now. It is only Rosie at the door, I am sure of it. She forgot to take the finished work with her when she dropped off the new batch earlier.”

“It is just the two of us, then.” Mrs. Templeton used the fireplace poker to help her stand.

“I’ll let Rosie in. You must rest,” Grace instructed gently, gesturing for the older woman to reclaim her seat.

Mrs. Templeton bent to lean the poker against the chipped stone fireplace before wrapping her woolen shawl more tightly about her shoulders. “I’ve already made the effort and am up now. Let me see if we’ve any tea for the dear girl.”

Grace stood aside and allowed Mrs. Templeton to leave the drawing room first, then followed, turning right toward the entry while the cook turned left and disappeared down the short hall. She picked up the completed sewing repairs from a scarred table and reached for the door handle, the brown-paper-wrapped parcel, neatly tied with a string, in her free hand.

“I am sorry you had to return, Rosie,” Grace began as she pulled the thin wooden door open. “I am sure I do not know what I was thinking when I forgot to—” She broke off, eyes widening in shock and surprise.

A large man, a stranger, stood on the threshold, his broad physique outlined by the poorly lit hallway that cast his face in shadow.

“Mrs. Grace Crowther?”

His deep voice was refined and polite, deferential, even. No one had spoken to her in such a manner, with just that touch of respect and inquiry, for a very long time. Grace nearly let herself ignore the peal of alarm bells sounding in her head.

“You must have the wrong residence, sir,” Grace replied, her senses returning. She moved to shut the door but the man placed his boot in the way and pushed solidly on the wood.

Instantly, fear raced through her and Grace kicked him in the knee and threw her weight against the door, widening her stance to push with all her strength.

He bit off a curse at the solid contact with his knee and pushed back, inexorably gaining ground.

Grace slid across the scarred wood floor, staggering backward, off balance.

“I apologize, Lady Grace.” The stranger stepped fully into the entryway, closing the door behind him. “That was not how I wished for us to meet.”

Grace batted his large hand away and opened her mouth to scream.

He hauled her up by her shoulders and clamped his fingers over her mouth, muffling her shriek. “You are making it quite difficult for me to remain a gentleman, my lady.”

Grace needed for him to stop calling her a lady. Her heart pounded frantically, her breath catching as she struggled to pull in air. She planted her palms against his chest and shoved, desperate to gain some distance from his imposing build. The expensive wool superfine of his coat and the rough silk of his waistcoat were barely remembered textures under her fingertips. The heavy male muscles beneath the elegant gentleman’s clothing went rock hard and he froze. The air surrounding Grace was suddenly fraught with tension, heated and dangerous. She focused her attention on his expertly tied cravat, wondering frantically if it would be suitable for choking.

Unable to free herself, she bit down on his middle finger until she tasted the faint copper flavor of blood.

The man grunted with surprise, but his hand remained. “I have no interest in harming you, but you must promise me you will not scream if I remove my hand,” he ordered implacably, adding, “and never bite me again.”

Grace’s cheeks flushed at his words. In her world, biting a man was nothing more than one of many weapons in a woman’s arsenal. Even a doctor’s wife could not rely on the decency of the male sex—in fact, assuming every last man had dishonorable intentions made for a far less surprising life.

This man, though … This man … Grace’s gaze moved higher, until her eyes met his. They were beautiful eyes. Fringed with thick lashes, they were a warm, deep umber that soothed her frantic nerves. His gaze was intent, focused on hers with an alert awareness that reflected sharp intelligence. But she sensed no corruption of character there and she abruptly realized that while his hold was immovable, it was also careful, as if he didn’t want to hurt her.

This man was not with the Kingsmen. The sudden conviction flooded Grace.

He did not have to be a Kingsmen to be dangerous, her head replied, flattening any hope that might have been building in her chest.

Nevertheless, Grace nodded in reply to his earlier statement, signaling her agreement to not scream.

The man studied her face, his dark brows lowering as he did so. “I hope you are not lying to me. I cannot abide lying.”

He slowly lifted his hand from her mouth and released her, stepping back until there was a respectable distance between them.

“Your name, sir?” Grace pressed her fingertips to her lips in an attempt to erase the feel of his hand against her mouth. She could still taste him, a not unpleasant combination of soap and a hint of salt.

He took a handkerchief from an interior pocket of his unbuttoned, caped greatcoat and offered it to Grace. “Clark.”

No one within St. Giles was stupid enough to answer such a question honestly. “And now, your true name?” Grace accepted the pristine white cloth and blotted her lips. The cloth held the scent of his cologne and she breathed in the faint odor of citrus and sandalwood.

“That is my real name.”

Mrs. Templeton appeared at the end of the hall, hidden from the stranger’s view, a heavy pan clutched in her hands. Grace waved the hanky, her gaze fastened on the man before her even as she signaled the older woman to stay where she was.

“I do not believe you, but I’ll not allow you to waste one minute more of my time than is absolutely necessary,” Grace answered, frowning at him. “Now, tell me what you have come for, Mr. Clark. ”

He conceded their uncomfortable situation with a lifting of his chin. “Sadly, most of what I propose will not be to your liking. Still, in return I offer you your freedom—and your companions’ as well,” he said, turning to look down the hall, his gaze fixed unerringly at the place where Mrs. Templeton hid. “Do come out of the dark, woman. I have business with your mistress, but it concerns you, too.”

Mrs. Templeton captured the man with a cold stare as she walked toward him. “Is that right? Perhaps I will wake my husband. You can tell the three of us why we should listen to what you have to say rather than braining you with this pan,” she replied, raising the heavy cast-iron weapon with obvious intent.

“I understand your trepidation. But before you do away with me, first hear what I have to say, please. Then decide.” The stranger gestured toward the drab sitting room. “Shall we sit?”

Mrs. Templeton lowered the pan as she moved to Grace’s side. “He seems polite enough,” she proclaimed, rolling her shoulders back with false confidence.

Grace knew they had no choice in the matter, but she grudgingly appreciated the intimidating man’s sensitivity in dealing with her companion. “I agree,” she said, taking Mrs. Templeton’s arm and leading her toward the warmth of the fire. “We will listen to your proposal, sir.”

Grace took the heavy pan from Mrs. Templeton and waited while the older woman carefully lowered herself to the chair.

“Now, Mr.…” Grace paused, eyeing the stranger as he surveyed the room. “Clark.”

The pan was heavy in Grace’s hand. Still, she held on to the makeshift weapon, though she suspected it would be of little use against Mr. Clark. He wore the clothes of a gentleman, but the muscles that flexed beneath his breeches and linen shirt must surely belong to a man who undertook some sort of physical labor.

He removed his greatcoat and crossed the room to Mrs. Templeton. “If I may?” he asked, and then proceeded to tuck the warm wool about her without waiting for her answer.

As he bent to his work, Grace cast a critical eye across his wide shoulders and lean back, looking lower to where his waist tapered then gave way to a finely formed backside.

Grace gripped the pan tighter, her knuckles aching from the effort. “Now, Mr. Clark,” she said firmly, watching as he stood upright and turned around. “If you will have a seat?”

“Once you are seated, my lady,” he replied, and waited.

“I am no longer a lady, Mr. Clark,” Grace told him. “And I will stand.”