Langdon escorted Grace toward their box, his arm entwined with hers. The mask accentuated her intelligent eyes, turning them into mysterious pools of dark, shaded violet, while the golden velvet cloak she wore hid her curves from all.
Except for him. Every inch of Grace’s soft, supple body was catalogued in his mind for easy reference. The hollow at the base of her throat, the sensual weight of her breasts. Even the mole in the middle of her back—all there within reach, waiting for him to savor.
Niles walked just ahead of the couple. He glanced over his shoulder. “Are we ready, then?”
The question forced Langdon to rein in his wayward thoughts and focus on the Corinthian plan. It was essential that he not allow Grace’s presence to distract him. Otherwise, she would be in danger’s way. He nodded at Niles. “Ready. Be a good man and do not let Lady Grace out of your sight.”
Niles looked back at him, one eyebrow raised in surprise. “Do you question my abilities?”
“Not at all,” Langdon murmured in his friend’s ear, careful not to let Grace hear, “but I need to know that she’s safe.”
Niles’s eyes sharpened. “You have my word—”
“Gentlemen.”
Langdon straightened, slipping seamlessly into his role of criminal leader as Marcus Mitchell strode toward them. “Mr. Mitchell,” he said coolly.
“Good evening, Marcus.” Grace’s hold on Langdon’s hand loosened. “I’d hoped you would be in attendance this evening.”
“You flatter me, Lady Grace,” Mitchell replied, his tone too familiar for Langdon’s taste.
Langdon released Grace’s hand and placed his palm on the small of her back. “Mr. Davis will be dining with you,” he told her, easily cutting off the conversation between her and Mitchell. “I’ll return shortly.”
Grace smiled and allowed him to kiss her hand. “Do not be long.”
Langdon savored the feel of her delicate, gloved fingers beneath his lips, and then turned to Mitchell. “Shall we?”
“This way.” Mitchell smiled at Grace before turning and walking up the path toward the King’s box.
Langdon pretended to adjust his mask and scanned their surroundings as they wove their way through the crowd. Vauxhall Gardens had never held much interest for him. Now it possessed even less. The crowds of people would have presented a problem no matter the location. But in the dark, it was worse—although, he did take some comfort in the fact while the night put the Corinthians at a disadvantage, it did the same for the Kingsmen.
The orchestra, situated in a building of its own in the center of the Grove, struck up a cheery tune. Apparently inspired by the music—and, more important, by the champagne and ale—people began to clap in time and even a few cheered. The din of music, raised voices, and bawdy laughter filled the cool night air.
A woman staggered toward them down the path. Dressed as a fairy, her wings swayed behind her as she lifted up her skirts to keep from tripping. “Beg your pardon,” she said as she passed, her breath reeking of wine.
The savory smells of Vauxhall ham wafted from the kitchens, the aroma of roast chicken and freshly baked bread blended with the woman’s stench until Langdon’s nose twitched from the overwhelming combination.
“A friend of yours?” Langdon said dryly to Mitchell, tilting his chin toward the inebriated woman.
“The Kingsmen enjoy females and we are nothing if not predictable,” he replied over his shoulder. “And you? Surely a man of your standing does not make do with only Mrs. Crowther for entertainment?”
Anger flared and Langdon bit off a curse, reining in his urge to make Mitchell apologize for his words. What he wouldn’t do to give Grace his name and the protection it afforded. But he had a game to play tonight and he couldn’t let personal feelings interfere with solving the case.
“Mrs. Crowther is a name for a dour, beaten-down soul, wouldn’t you agree? While Grace …” He let his mind’s eye travel from her lovely eyes to her full, luscious mouth.
“We are in agreement—for once, Mr. Clark,” Mitchell replied, his face somber as he looked at Langdon. “Our Grace has never been a beaten-down soul—nor will she ever be.”
“No, I am certain that she will not,” Langdon answered, infusing his voice with a lightness he did not feel in the least.
“You are a lucky man,” Mitchell said, his voice hard. He looked ahead as they neared the King’s box. “And here we are, Clark.”
Langdon shifted his attention from Mitchell to the box. Four men and one woman sat within. The grim atmosphere looked to be the opposite of the crowd’s loud celebrating that reigned outside the King’s box. No one seemed to be engaged in conversation. In fact, they looked not to be acknowledging one another at all, their faces so stony they could have been awaiting the executioner.
“I see my reputation precedes me,” Langdon commented.
Mitchell halted and turned to face him. “In a manner of speaking, yes. Your business proposition piqued the King’s interest, of that you can be sure. Which is why you are about to meet the Queen.”
“The Queen? Not the King? You lied to my men.” Langdon’s mind quickly recalibrated the evening’s plan in light of the news. “You lied to me,” he said, his voice lethally cold.
“I did not know myself that he wouldn’t be here until this evening,” Mitchell countered. “But you should not be disheartened. No one meets the King until they’ve entertained the Queen—well, in theory anyway. I can’t recall the last time anyone made it as far as even this. Well done, Mr. Clark.”
Langdon scowled at Mitchell. He had a swift, strong urge to wipe the smirk off the other man’s face with his fist. “Do not lie to me again. Or you will regret it. Do you understand?”
“I will do my best. But keeping promises is not my strong suit,” Mitchell replied, the smirk fading.
Langdon’s blood rose at the man’s continuing impertinence. “Is that right? Well, it is one of mine,” he said softly. “You’ve been warned.”
Mitchell ignored him. Without another word, he gestured for Langdon to follow and within a mere twenty or so steps, they reached the King’s box.
Mitchell knocked at the entrance and waited. The door opened and one of the four men Langdon had seen earlier appeared. “Mr. Mitchell,” the giant said by way of a greeting, his thick dockside drawl lingering in Langdon’s ears.
He was one of the largest men Langdon had ever seen. In fact, if he were someone prone to believing in fairy tales and such, Langdon suspected the giant would have played a starring role in one of the Grimms’ works.
The man looked at Langdon and grunted, clearly less than impressed.
“Thank you, Isle,” Mitchell replied, gesturing for the man to move. “Now let us pass.”
Isle continued to stare at Langdon. “Aye,” he eventually agreed, and moved aside.
“Isle?” Langdon asked as he followed Mitchell into the box. “An interesting name.”
Mitchell paused to watch the giant close and lock the door. “More descriptive than interesting. It is short for ‘island.’ Because he’s the size of one.”
“Mr. Mitchell is endlessly creative when it comes to christening our men. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Langdon waited for his eyes to adjust to the candlelight as he considered the Queen’s words. “Christening?”
The woman sat in profile, watching the festivities through a spyglass. Her features were hidden behind an intricate mask. “Yes, of course. Our men are born anew when they join the Kingsmen. Is this not common practice where you come from?”
“I am afraid not,” he answered, sure he was meant to be insulted by the lack of eye contact. “We are far too busy seeing to our success.”
That got her attention. The Queen instantly dropped the eyeglass in her lap and swiveled her head about to face him. “And are we to be properly introduced?” she demanded imperiously.
“My Queen, may I introduce Mr. Clark of Liverpool,” Mitchell began.
The Queen nodded, the tassel on her aubergine turban swaying.
“Mr. Clark, the Queen.”
Langdon bowed as if he stood before a real queen. “Your Grace.”
“Ah, you do have manners,” she exclaimed, disbelief coloring her tone. “And here I’d been taught to believe pirates are nothing more than savages.”
Langdon rose. “Pirates, Your Grace? Ah, you must be referring to the India Queen. Well, don’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.”
“Hemlock, move,” the Queen ordered the man on her left, ignoring Langdon’s teasing.
The man obeyed, unfolding his long, wiry frame and standing.
Langdon assumed from the man’s name he specialized in poisoning people. Hemlock’s stained fingers and shifty gaze only deepened his belief.
“Come,” the Queen commanded, gesturing for Langdon to claim the seat vacated by Hemlock.
Langdon moved across the box, stealing a glance at the two unnamed men. Both stared straight ahead, their eyes lifeless in their identical faces.
“Tweedledee and Tweedledum, for obvious reasons,” she explained, holding up the eyeglass once more.
So Mitchell is the highest-ranking Kingsman in attendance, besides the Queen?
Langdon mentally filed away the telling fact and sat down next to the woman. “As I was saying, someone has been telling stories.”
“Do you not plan to plunder the Kingsmen? To take what is not yours?”
Now that he was close, Langdon could better see the Queen. She was older than he’d first guessed, perhaps in her fifties. The skin on her neck drooped slightly and her fair hands were wrinkled. Her high-necked muslin gown and cashmere wrap were of fine quality and her kidskin boots peeking out from beneath her hem looked to be brand-new. She sat with her spine rigid, her shoulders rolled back and straight.
All of these things could be learned or bought with money. After all, dance masters, modistes—anyone required to make a lady into a lady, really—had to make money to survive.
But something about the Queen told Langdon she wasn’t a street urchin who’d rose from nothing and paid her way to gentility. Instinct told him she’d been born a lady; he’d stake his life on it.
“Mine is a business proposition, Your Grace,” Langdon answered her, accepting a glass of wine from Hemlock. “Not a hostile siege.”
The Queen lifted a glass that rested on a small table next to her. “Stealing what rightfully belongs to someone else is not hostile?”
He had to admire the woman’s skill with treachery. She needed to know how many details about the Company delivery Langdon had managed to procure.
“Oh yes, that,” Langdon replied with casual charm. “Necessary and wasteful, but hardly what I would call hostile.”
The Queen took a slow sip of her wine, her sharp, dark eyes watching Langdon over the rim of her glass.
She returned it to the table with a snap and pursed her lips in derision. “I see. And the Widow Crowther?” she asked, raising her chin haughtily. “What does she make of her part in all of this?”
Langdon swirled the wine in his cup slowly. He’d yet to drink. Nor did he plan to. Poison was all too easily disguised in wine. “It is a touch premature to be speaking of such things, wouldn’t you agree? I was disappointed that you missed my deadline.”
The Queen visibly paled at his condescending tone.
“Tell me, Your Grace, how much longer will we play this game?” Langdon asked purposely, stripping his voice down to nothing more than danger and intent. “I would hate to miss the famous Vauxhall ham.”
The Queen took up her spyglass again and turned to the crowd beyond. “We’ve yet to even speak of terms, Mr. Clark.”
“I’ll not discuss terms with you.”
“Because I am a woman?” the Queen asked, her hands visibly tightening as she held the spyglass aloft once more.
Langdon handed the untouched glass of wine back to Hemlock and stood. “No, not because you are a woman. Because you are not the King.”
He strode toward the door, his gaze cold, lethal, as he purposely looked at each of the four men as he passed. “This situation appears to be quite difficult for you to address, my Queen. Therefore, I will allow you two days to respond before I find it necessary to teach you a second lesson. Good evening.”