The round, hard end of a pistol muzzle jammed against Langdon’s back, just below his left shoulder blade.

“Listen to what I have to say. Then you may consider killing me. Agreed?”

Langdon knew that voice. It belonged to Marcus Mitchell. “Where is Grace?” he demanded.

The point pressed harder against his back. “Agreed?”

“Agreed, Marcus,” he begrudgingly told the man.

“I found your friend scouting on the north side of the ship. Unfortunately, he attacked me. I did not kill him,” Marcus said. “But he will be out for quite some time. Now turn around slowly. I want to see your face—talking to the back of your head feels rather unproductive.”

Langdon obeyed. Marcus was dressed all in black and nearly blended in with the night shadows, the brim of his hat pulled low over his brow, shielding his face. He held a cocked pistol in one hand and a bloodied knife in the other.

“Whose blood?” Langdon needed to hear him say it wasn’t Grace’s.

“Not your friend’s,” Marcus assured him.

“Or Grace’s?” Langdon asked, the question nearly sticking in his throat.

Marcus scowled at him. “Do you honestly believe I would kill the one woman I’ve ever loved?”

“I do not know what to believe about you,” Langdon replied, watching the man’s expression carefully. “If she is not dead, and she is not here with you, then where is she? Did you deliver her to the King?”

Marcus wiped his blade clean on his leather breeches. “She is with the King. A forged letter was delivered to Grace, asking that she come to my apartment. I knew nothing of this, nor that Crow and his men would be waiting for her. I had no choice but to go along with their plan. It was the only way for me to stay close to her.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

“I may hate you because she loves you, but that does not mean I would hurt Grace. She believed you would come. And here you are.”

So Marcus had not forced Grace onto the Resurrection. Langdon was relieved that she’d not been betrayed by a man she considered a friend.

Still, she was now the King’s prisoner. She was in danger. And Marcus had played a part in her capture.

“Why didn’t you fight for her?” Langdon asked, unable to keep the anger from his voice.

“Crow, the man sent to fetch Grace, is not someone to be trusted. He’s killed many whom the King had insisted be taken alive. I wanted her alive and she wanted justice. And Grace wanted justice—for herself, of course. And for you.”

“You endangered her life for justice?” Langdon countered, believing Marcus lied. “Is that what you are telling me?”

“She promised me you would come,” Marcus said simply. “I’ve seen many women who’ve needed so desperately to believe in something that they’ve trusted men they bloody well knew did not deserve the honor. But Grace? She does not need you—nor me, nor anyone or anything. Grace is everything strong and good in this world. Still, she chose you. She believes in you. I saw it in her eyes. I heard it on her lips. That is what convinced me. And if you fail her, I will breathe my last breath with my knife in your back. Do you understand?”

Langdon looked hard at Marcus, willing himself to be angry with the man. But something in him would not allow it. Marcus loved Grace, that much was clear. He understood who she was and what made her so special. He might be a member of the Kingsmen, but he was also Grace’s friend. And the only other man on the planet who came close to understanding how Langdon felt about her.

“I will not fail her.” Langdon held out his hand and waited. “I cannot. Not with your help and that of the men who ride with me. You have my word.”

Marcus reluctantly took Langdon’s hand in his and firmly shook it. “I am glad to be fighting on the same side, Clark. But it does not mean we are friends.”

Langdon returned the firm handclasp then turned toward the Resurrection. “God, no. Never.”

“What is it that you are afraid of?” Grace asked the King. She fidgeted with the rope that bound her wrists, the coarse braided hemp cutting into her skin as she attempted to loosen the knot.

Marcus was gone. And still, there the King sat, one leg crossed over the other as he tapped the heel of the boot on the floor.

“I will ask the questions, Mrs. Crowther,” the man replied, his tone taking on a slightly desperate quality that had not been there before.

“Question, you mean,” Grace corrected him. This was not what Grace had expected. She was glad, of course, to still be alive. And the longer she kept the King engaged, the more time it gave Langdon and his men to arrive. But something was off. The infamous leader of a criminal organization did not waste time. And yet, it felt as though that was exactly what he was doing, as he asked her just one question, over and over.

“Why would I want you dead?” he asked for what seemed the thousandth time.

Unfortunately, the repetition was not helping jog Grace’s memory. “I have never been good at guessing games, I am afraid. Not even as a child. So you will need to be patient with me.”

The man uncrossed his legs and stood, impatience flushing his face with ruddy color. “Do not play coy with me, Mrs. Crowther—you will not like the results. Tell me now and there is a very real chance you might survive the night. Keep the truth to yourself and we will both assuredly die a very painful death.”

Rather cryptic, Grace thought to herself. As if he had forgotten why he wanted her dead in the first place.

Or as if he’d never known.

“If I tell you, my life will be spared?”

“Then you do know? Ha!” the King barked and slapped his thigh with one meaty hand. “I’ll bend that bitch to my will yet.”

Bitch?

Grace felt the pressure against her right wrist ease and continued to work at the knot with her fingers. “Then you promise to free me, unharmed?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the King replied impatiently, turning to his desk and gathering up what looked to be nothing more than odds and ends. “Now, tell me what you know.”

Something powerful slammed against the cabin door. The King dropped what he was doing and spun to look at Grace with wild eyes. “Now, woman. At once. Or I cannot promise you anything!”

The door took a second blow and crashed inward, wood from its center panel splintering around the shape of a man as he stepped through it.

The deafening noise from the chaos below poured into the cabin as the man stopped just over the threshold and turned back to offer someone his hand.

“Jesus Christ,” the King swore as he backed up against the outside cabin wall. His gaze darted about the room, most assuredly looking for a way out.

“I am afraid your God will do you no good now, Adolphus.”

Grace’s gaze flew to the doorway. The man who’d acted as a battering ram only a moment before stood inside the cabin, a woman at his side.

“I sent Marcus to fetch you,” the King blurted out.

Even Grace, who knew very little about the man, could tell he was lying.

“Are you certain of that?” the woman asked, her crisp, proper, distinctly upper-class voice surprising Grace. “According to the guard outside, Mr. Mitchell was ordered to lock the door and go in search of Mr. Clark. No one mentioned anything about informing me. Which is odd, considering you took Crowther’s whore a day earlier than we’d agreed to.”

“Isle,” the King addressed the battering ram, “listen to me. Crowther’s wife knows something that could put an end to the Queen. Help me and you will become second in command. You have my word.”

Isle eyed the King with patent suspicion. “You think I am as stupid as they say, don’t ye?” the man asked, then walked forward, all menace. “But I am not. You’d lead the Kingsmen straight to hell. You’ve not got the bullocks to pull it off. And I’ve no interest in seeing hell any sooner than I need to.”

Isle’s tree limb-sized arm moved with surprising speed. He grasped the King’s neck with one hand and lifted him off the ground.

“Eloquently put,” the woman said, gracefully crossing the cabin to join Isle.

She drew a knife from within the folds of her skirt and pointed the tip at the King. “I never cared for you, Adolphus. You are intelligent, yes. But too ambitious. Dealing with you has become quite tedious. I must thank you, I suppose, for giving me a reason to kill you.”

She drove the knife point into the King’s heart, sinking the steel to its hilt before pulling it free. Blood gushed from the wound and the King cried out, clutching his chest. The woman attacked once more, this time twisting the knife until his entire body convulsed, then stilled.

Isle released the King’s neck and the dead man landed with a thud on the wooden floor.

“Clean this,” the woman instructed the battering ram as she handed over the knife, then reached inside her reticule and produced a hanky.

Isle kicked the King’s lifeless body, then spat on him.

Grace slipped her fingertips between the two pieces of the knot and twisted back and forth, the rope loosening more quickly.

“Do you know, your mother and I were quite good friends,” the woman addressed Grace as she wiped drops of blood spray from her hands. “The best of friends, some might have even said.”

Grace froze. Then she forced herself to look away from the King’s corpse. With a calmness that surprised her, she managed to meet the woman’s gaze without flinching and studied her patrician features. “Is that so? I apologize, but you are not familiar to me. Have we met before?”

“Long ago, when you were only an infant,” the older woman answered, tossing the soiled handkerchief to the floor.

Grace watched the delicate fabric float downward, the salt-scented breeze from the open porthole catching the square mid-flight. Fluttering, it changed direction and finally settled on the King’s limp, lifeless arm.

“Odd,” Grace said, examining the woman’s fine dress and reticule. “I cannot recall my mother ever speaking of a woman with such an unusual hobby.”

Grace’s gaze reached the woman’s face, where a cold, hard, slightly eerie smile played upon the woman’s lips.

“Killing?”

“Not specifically, no,” Grace answered, the hairs on her neck lifting with unease. “I refer to your connection with the Kingsmen—though murder is a most unexpected pastime, to be sure.”

Grace could just fit her entire finger through the loop now, which gave her some small measure of comfort.

“Connection, is it?” the woman asked, her voice sharper.

Grace shivered at the change in her demeanor. Something shifted within the woman. Even Isle, who was now fishing in the King’s pockets for God only knew what, stopped what he was doing and looked up at her with concern.

“Leave us,” she commanded the giant.

Isle looked only too happy to oblige. He hefted his weight upward and stood, turning for the door.

“Wait outside,” she added impatiently. “Let no one in.”

He stepped across the cabin threshold and closed the splintered door behind him, leaving Grace alone with the woman.

“Do you know why your mother never told you about me?” she asked Grace, walking around the desk and claiming the King’s seat. “Because she believed I’d gone mad. And she was not the only one. And do you know, they were all correct. I had lost my mind—in a manner of speaking, that is.”

Grace swallowed her fear and forced an uninterested expression. “I did not know one could go mad by degrees, Mrs.…” She paused, taking note of the insecurity that flashed in the woman’s eyes.

“The Queen, Mrs. Crowther,” she replied icily. “You may call me the Queen.”

“No, no! You need me, I can tell you where she is—and the Queen’s neck …”

The conversation between the doctor and his killers flashed in Grace’s mind. She’d been terrified by the encounter she’d heard and would not have known she was hearing valuable information. Had she missed something? Had the doctor been about to tell Crow and his man something important?

“Ah, I see the pieces are falling into place, then.”

“He did not give me the necklace in an attempt to win my favor,” Grace said, her mother’s silver-chained pendant in her mind’s eye. “No, the doctor gave it to me for safekeeping. It was yours, not my mother’s.”

“Smart girl,” the Queen complimented her, though the snide tone of her voice stripped her words of any true kindness. “The doctor liked to poke about in my things while I rested after receiving a medicinal sleep aid. When he found the necklace, he knew right away where to look for my true identity—because you had seen fit to tell him all about the pendant’s origins. Your mother’s necklace was gone, of course, traded or gambled away to a long line of wastrels, no doubt. And so your husband stole mine and passed it off as your mother’s.

“I cannot blame you for failing to realize the mistake earlier. After all, the necklaces are only distinguishable one from another by the initials. Your mother’s were SLH, for Sibyl Louise Hastings, while mine are STH for Serendipity Theodora Hatch. A very subtle difference—only one letter. But one you may have used to identify me. That is, if you’d known what to look for.”

The woman was right. Grace hated to admit it, but there it was. She’d not bothered to remove the necklace from its velvet jeweler’s pouch since the doctor had returned it to her some years before. The proof had been in her possession all along.

“Why?” she asked the Queen, genuinely curious. “Clearly you were a member of the ton. Why would you sacrifice your life in order to work for an organization such as the Kingsmen?”

The Queen flushed with annoyance. “I did not sacrifice my life to work for the Kingsmen. I sacrificed my life to create the Kingsmen. As to why? I did it for love, Mrs. Crowther.”