Grace smelled Imogen before hearing her. The woman’s lilac scent drifted on the chilled breeze and tickled her nose.
“It is not polite to sneak up on someone, Imogen,” Grace said, looking up from the book she was reading. She closed the leather-bound volume on her lap and turned in her seat to look at her friend.
Imogen pursed her lips and bustled across the garden, her puce muslin gown billowing about her ankles. “Whoever said I was reaching for polite?”
Grace laughed at the woman’s reply, mainly because she knew it was true. “Well, you have me there.”
“And here is one more question for you, my lady,” Imogen offered as she sat down and carefully arranged her morning dress. “Why are you sitting outside on a day such as this? The breeze is positively arctic and the sun has made an appearance. It is as if Mother Nature cannot make up her mind. I believe I will both freeze to death and acquire more spots on my skin than my father’s old nag Matilda.”
“Spots? Oh, freckles. Come now, Imogen,” Grace playfully chided. “We are not the sort to allow a bit of brisk air to dampen our spirits. And as for spots? I rather like them.”
“Bite your tongue!” Imogen implored, adjusting her bonnet so that it sat lower on her brow. “Men prefer a woman with a milky complexion. You should know that.”
Grace had obtained quite a few freckles since coming to stay at Aylworth House. And she could not remember Langdon complaining about them. Not when his tongue had traced a trail from her ear to her toes. Maybe when he’d opened her legs and kissed the very core of her? No, not then, either.
“Perhaps I do not care what men think,” Grace answered, her nipples tightening at the memory of making love with Langdon.
Imogen’s mouth formed a charming O of understanding. “None of my protectors have been men who prefer women with much of a will. Lucky you.”
You have no idea, Grace thought to herself.
She leaned over and retrieved the parasol she’d tucked underneath the bench. “Mrs. Templeton insisted I bring it outside. She never mentioned anything about using it, though.”
“Naughty girl,” Imogen teased, taking the lace parasol in her hands and opening it. She twirled it this way and that before finding the perfect angle. “There, that is much better. Now, what news, Wicked Widow?” Imogen asked, her perfectly plucked eyebrows wriggling with innuendo. “Have Madame Fontaine’s creations come in handy of late?”
Grace realized she’d not put the garments to the test yet. Langdon did not seem to care what she wore as long as it was easily removed. “Oh yes. Please do tell Madame I am most thankful for the help.”
“You can tell her yourself when we visit her next,” Imogen replied, pulling her cashmere shawl tightly about her shoulders. “Which will not be far off, I think. I’ve need of a new riding habit and a morning dress or two.”
A pang of sadness poked at Grace’s heart as she realized there might not be a next time she’d venture out with Imogen. Once Langdon took over the Kingsmen, there would be no reason for Grace to remain at Aylworth House.
There would be no reason to remain at Aylworth House.
Of course Grace had thought about her future. She still very much wanted a quiet life in the country with Mr. and Mrs. Templeton. Only she now required Langdon as well.
What was the likelihood the leader of England’s most powerful crime organization would be willing to retire at the zenith of his power?
“Why do you suddenly look so sad?” Imogen asked, unwrapping her shawl and spreading it over both her lap and Grace’s.
Grace attempted a smile, but her lips would not cooperate. “I wonder, Imogen … to your knowledge, has any woman ever spent the entirety of her career with one protector?”
“Oh heavens,” Imogen breathed. Her eyes widened and she dropped the parasol dramatically. “You’ve not fallen in love with the man, have you?
Grace shook her head adamantly.
“Say the words,” Imogen demanded, ignoring the open parasol as the breeze caught it and sent it slowly sailing across the lawn toward a hydrangea bush.
Grace shook her head a second time, reluctant to out-and-out lie to her friend.
“You’ve broken the most important rule, my lady,” Imogen nearly wailed. “A woman never—ever—falls in love with her protector. Ever.”
“Is it really so wrong?” Grace asked, aware her tone bordered on desperate. “After all, wouldn’t love only improve upon the relationship between the woman and her protector?”
Imogen took Grace’s hands in hers and squeezed. “To the best of my knowledge, not one woman has ever spent the entirety of her career with one protector. And do you know why? Because ours is not a world in which ‘relationships’ exist—not in any real sense anyway. These men already have enough relationships to fill the Tower, my lady. What they want in a mistress is not love. Affection, yes. And sex. And their egos stroked along with other bits and bobs. But not love.”
“And if a man says he is in love?” Grace pressed.
“He is lying,” Imogen answered, her expression pained.
Langdon had yet to say the words to Grace. There had been a few instances when she’d wanted to tell him she’d fallen deeply in love with him. But she’d held back—out of fear or pride, who knew.
Perhaps it did not matter why now.
“Surely you do not know the heart of every last man on earth,” Grace suggested, positive that mathematics was on her argument’s side.
Imogen bit her bottom lip as she considered Grace’s question. “Well, no, I do not. But tell me this: if your man is in love with you, and you are in love with him, then what will happen?”
“Well, we will marry …” Grace had not realized until that very moment that she’d been looking at her life with Langdon as though she was still a lady and he was not a criminal, but a lord. “That is not right, is it?”
“Do not think on what is right or wrong,” Imogen instructed as the parasol blew by. “You will marry, and then?”
Grace closed her eyes and focused on the sun’s warmth upon her face. “We will marry and move to the country—far away from London and its sordid memories.”
“And who will see to Mr. Clark’s business interests?”
The most powerful criminal organization in the whole of England could not be run by an absentee overlord. Everything Langdon had built and spilled his blood, sweat, and tears for would be lost.
Imogen squeezed Grace’s hands reassuringly. “Yours is not an impossible match. He is not a lord—which would make marrying you absolutely out of the question. But it is complicated. I tell you these things because I want you to be prepared, my lady. You need to pursue what is in your best interest. And I do not know that Mr. Clark is.”
Grace was not sure letting Langdon go was in her best interest. But she was convinced it was in his.
“Thank you, Imogen,” Grace said, slipping her hands from her friend’s and embracing the woman. “You treat me as a true and good friend would by telling me these things.”
“I do not want to see you hurt, my lady,” Imogen replied. “You’ve lived through too many bad things in life to miss out on the good. Just keep your mind on that little cottage in the countryside. Your dream will see you through.”
Langdon stood right outside the entrance to Niles’s drawing room and listened to the man while he played the violin. Langdon had returned home from his meeting with Carmichael and been informed that Grace had gone to bed early, blaming a headache. The Corinthian who’d delivered news of the Kingsmen’s failure to provide any communication had arrived just after dawn, and Langdon had departed for Niles’s apartment shortly after that. He’d been desperate to interrupt Grace’s sleep and steal a kiss before leaving, but had not wanted to disturb her.
“I had no idea you played the violin,” Langdon said to Niles as he walked into the man’s drawing room. “And so well. Really, keeping such talent a secret truly is a crime.”
The bow screeched across the violin’s strings as Niles stopped playing. “Why did Strout not announce you?”
“Because I paid him. And promised to bring him into my service should you fire him.”
“Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you, Stonecliffe?” Niles said accusingly, walking over to retrieve his violin case. “Leaving me to my own devices. Really, man. First you physically attack me, and now this?”
Langdon chuckled as he watched his friend settle the instrument into its case before snapping the lid latches closed. “How is your nose, by the way?”
“Still broken, thank you very much,” Niles replied dryly. “And in the interest of saving myself any further injury, let us discuss why you are here.” He placed the case on the floor then claimed a chair for himself. “I would hate to once again be the victim of your mercurial temperament.”
“It was an accident,” Langdon explained as he walked across the room and sat next to Niles. “And besides, I am the one who sought you out this time. Not the other way around.”
His friend rolled his eyes. “Details. Nothing more than details. Now, tell me, what news have you?”
“Another twenty-four hours have passed and the Kingsmen have failed to make contact. It is time to burn down the Four Horsemen.”
“The popular gaming hell?” Niles asked, crossing one leg over the other. “Seems likely we would run the risk of injuring civilians.”
“True, there are very few hours when the building is empty, which is why we will need to be quick,” Langdon explained. “We’ve a man on the inside who will search all three floors for anyone present, then unlock the main door and let us in.”
Niles carefully considered the information. “I see. And you are certain the Four Horsemen is a worthy target?”
“Yes,” Langdon replied confidently. “Our man took a look at the books. Between the rigged games, marked-up pricing for the inferior alcohol, and the prostitutes, the Kingsmen are earning nearly five hundred percent more than what they put into the hell each year.”
Niles emitted a low whistle of appreciation. “Who says crime does not pay?”
Langdon chuckled as he flexed his fingers.
Niles propped his elbow on the arm of his chair and rested his chin in his hand. “Though I fear it makes us appear an old married couple, I know what you are doing there, with your hands. What is bothering you?”
Langdon looked down at his hands, now balled into fists. “I am concerned for Grace’s safety. With each attack, we anger the Kingsmen more. What if the King—”
Niles held up one hand, urging Langdon to stop. “We are prepared for any eventuality—you know that better than I. She is unharmed, Stonecliffe, and will remain so. We knew going in that Vauxhall would be a difficult location to manage. Aylworth House is not Vauxhall. Hell, you’ve enough agents guarding the premises and surrounding grounds, we might as well move the whole of Corinthian operations there.”
“The Afton case is one of the Corinthians’ most important,” Langdon countered, Niles’s comment putting his back up. “Do not forget there were many other agents who were either killed or lost family members in the aftermath.”
“Easy, my friend,” Niles said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I am well aware what solving the Afton case means to the Young Corinthians. What I find more important is what Lady Grace has come to mean to you.”
Langdon’s hackles lowered. “What are you suggesting?”
“Do you remember when we first met?” Niles asked, lowering his hands. “We were paired up for the better part of our training period—which I’ll never forgive Carmichael for, by the way.”
“Yes,” Langdon replied. “You were rather full of yourself then—still are, actually. When I introduced myself, you said, ‘Your name is of no consequence. But your motive is. Tell me why you are here.’ ”
Niles smiled wryly. “Yes, well, as you mentioned, I was rather full of myself. But do you recall what your answer was?”
“ ‘I am here to solve the Afton case,’ ” Langdon answered, picturing himself and Niles as the young men they were then.
“Because?”
They’d trained that day until they dropped, then dragged themselves to the room they shared at the Corinthian facility outside London. When Langdon had introduced himself to Niles he’d intended to shake the man’s hand then collapse onto his bunk and sleep until forced to do otherwise.
The man’s question had caught him unprepared. And he’d answered without even thinking upon it.
“Because it is my job,” Langdon replied. “You reprimanded me for such reasoning. A man’s calling was not his job. It had to be his love—his very life. Otherwise, he dishonored the effort and himself.”
“God, I was rather an ass, wasn’t I?” Niles asked. “And you never forgave me for it—would not even allow me to speak of it.”
“You questioned my motivation without knowing a single thing about me,” Langdon countered.
Niles shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll give you that. Which was why I then set out to learn the truth for myself. You four—Sophia, Carrington, Bourne, and you—all of you had more than enough reason to pursue the Afton case. Though, and I say this with the deepest respect, yours was not quite as much of an emotional one as the other three’s.”
“What are you saying, Niles?” Langdon asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Lady Afton was a mother to the three. Only a surrogate one to Dash and Bourne, but still, the only mother they could claim in any real sense. As for you? Whether you wanted a closer relationship with the woman I cannot say. But if I had to guess, I would say no. You were stronger than your friends, more independent. You had to be—you are the eldest son, heir to an earldom. Which means, from the time you could walk you understood what it meant to be the firstborn son. To manage the lands, marry the right girl, and protect the family name. You understood your job and accepted it—even relished it. But it was never something that consumed you. It was not your calling.”
“It is true enough that I did not require Lady Afton’s attention in the same way as the others,” Langdon responded, his patience fraying, “but that does not mean I wanted to solve the case any less than they did.”
Niles nodded as he uncrossed his legs. “That is precisely my point, Stonecliffe. You wanted to solve Lady Afton’s death. The others? They needed to. Needed it more than air, from what I understand.”
“Get to the point,” Langdon ground out.
“You have finally found your calling. The something you need more than air is Lady Grace.”
The sentence was short and simple. Less than twenty words, no more. And it held the truth of Langdon’s universe.
He did not know what to say. So he sat there, staring at his friend, and breathed. Just breathed.
“Do not think this means you may abandon me,” Niles added in a menacing tone. “Capturing Lady Afton’s killer may not be your purpose in life, but it is still integral to who you are.”
“And absolutely necessary to Grace’s happiness,” Langdon added, his instinctive response only proving Niles’s theory. “The same man responsible for the death of Lady Afton is to be blamed for Timothy’s death, too.”
“Yes, yes, that as well,” Niles agreed with little enthusiasm. “Now, let us hammer out this plan so you and Lady Grace may get on with your happy ending, shall we?”