The Wicked Widow Meets Her Match A Regency Rogues Novel by Stefanie Sloane

down.
    Langdon had an appointment with Carmichael at the club. First contact had been made with the Kingsmen, and the leader of the Corinthians would want to know the specifics. And Langdon was anxious to learn more about Mr. Marcus Mitchell. He could not recall the man’s name in any of the Kingsmen documents he’d reviewed, but that did not mean the Corinthians lacked information concerning the lawyer.
    All good reasons to leave.
    Then why did he want to stay?
    “I will see you tomorrow, then?” Langdon had meant to make a statement, not ask a question.
    “Of course,” Grace replied with surprise, frowning at Langdon in confusion.
    Langdon believed he’d succeeded in establishing the upper hand with the Kingsmen. He could not be so sure with Lady Grace. He gestured for Midge to close the door. “Good night.”
    Though it was dark, his gaze followed Midge as he accompanied Grace’s slender figure up the stairs, andinside the house. The large entry door closed and Langdon continued to stare, lost in thought.
    “Blast,” he muttered at length, realizing the carriage had yet to move. He pounded his fist on the ceiling, the noise frightening the horses. The carriage lurched as they surged into the traces and Langdon fell back against the cushions, thankful for the distraction.

Langdon slipped down the hallway that led to the club kitchens, looking behind him to verify he was alone before he triggered the hidden entryway to the Corinthian offices. The door slid open and he passed through, reaching to reverse the action and waiting to hear the click of the hinges.
    Then he walked down the corridor toward the room where case information was stored.
    “You are late.”
    Langdon stopped and backed up three steps, pushing open the door of Carmichael’s office to step inside. “I am?”
    “You are never late,” his superior noted, straightening a sheaf of papers he’d been reviewing. “Trouble?”
    Langdon chafed at the very thought. He needed Carmichael to believe in his ability and commitment to the case.
    “Did we not agree on one o’clock?” he asked, looking at the large marble-based clock centered on a carved mahogany table against the far wall.
    The brass hands pointed to half past one.
    “Precisely,” Carmichael confirmed, frowning. “News?”
    Langdon nodded grimly. “We made contact,” he said succinctly, wanting to waste no more of his superior’s time.
    “Were they expecting you?”
    Langdon dropped into a chair facing Carmichael’s desk and slumped slightly. “Yes—though I do not know that I would say ‘expecting.’ Perhaps ‘prepared’ is a better description.”
    “Either way, a good sign,” Carmichael commented, resting his elbows on the broad oak desk. “Who received you?”
    “A Mr. Marcus Mitchell. Mid-rank, I believe. And an acquaintance of Lady Grace’s.”
    Carmichael tapped his fingers on the desktop in a rapid, absentminded tattoo. “An acquaintance, you say?”
    “A lawyer,” Langdon further explained. “Apparently, he got into a spot of trouble and found himself indebted to the Kingsmen. He has paid off the money, but proven himself too useful to be let go.”
    Carmichael continued to tap as he mulled over the information. “And his relationship with Lady Grace?”
    “She assures me it is of a purely platonic nature,” Langdon replied. “But from what I saw this evening, Mr. Mitchell would have preferred it to be otherwise.”
    “And continues to do so?”
    “If I had to guess, yes.”
    Carmichael stopped tapping the desk. “If? Stonecliffe, it is your job to assess and make a calculated guess. Is something wrong?”
    “Tell me, would we have so thoroughly manipulatedSophia, given the opportunity?” Langdon asked, barely sustaining a respectful tone. “The answer is, of course, no. How is Lady Grace any different from Sophia?”
    His superior pushed back his chair and rose. “Rather off course, but I will answer your question regardless. You are