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

correct,” he began, walking around the desk to a side table. He unstopped a carafe of brandy and poured two glasses half-full. “Even if we had known of Sophia’s involvement in the search for her mother’s killer, we would not have used her in any capacity. We certainly would not have used her as bait to draw the guilty party out of hiding.”
    Carmichael handed Langdon a glass and reclaimed his seat. “Lady Grace, through no fault of her own, is not in the same position as Sophia. And she never will be again. The Corinthians cannot change the truth—you cannot alter the past. The most we can do for her is aid in her eventual escape from a life she never deserved.”
    Langdon took a long swallow of the mellow brandy, letting it slide down his throat as he considered Carmichael’s words. “Cruel and heartless, but practical, I’ll give you that.”
    “Practicality has always been your bread and butter, Stonecliffe,” his superior replied.
    “True enough,” Langdon agreed, taking a second sip. “Perhaps it is Lady Grace’s background? Paying prostitutes and washerwomen for their help seemed far more palatable compared to what I am asked to do now.”
    “So you find fault with our methods because she is of the nobility.”
    “Of course not,” Langdon said automatically.
    “Then it is because you find her faultless. Whereas, prostitutes and washerwomen are not?” Carmichael asked, setting his glass down with the contents barely tasted. “You opened Pandora’s box, not me, Stonecliffe.”
    Langdon considered downing his own brandy and then claiming Carmichael’s. “They are blameless as well—in many cases.”
    “I am afraid I do not understand.”
    Langdon emptied his glass with no time spent slowly savoring the excellent liquor, something he normally would not do, and stared into the cut crystal. “I will be honest with you, Carmichael. I do not know that I understand, either.”
    This was all new to him. If Langdon met Carmichael’s gaze, he would see doubt. Not that he knew so firsthand, but because he had borne witness to such conversations, purposely been present to echo what Carmichael always told the agents who wavered.
    Was that it, then? Was he questioning the methods used by the Young Corinthians? Even more, having doubts about his place within the organization? He knew that Carmichael was considering the same at that very moment.
    What was happening to him?
    “I trust you, Stonecliffe,” Carmichael said. “I want to believe you are more than prepared to handle this case. But the man I see before me is not the same man—”
    Langdon could not listen to any more. “I’ve never failed you before and I am not about to start now,” he ground out, setting his glass down and standing. Heforced himself to slow his breathing. Flexed his fingers on each hand, balled them into fists, then spread them open, laying them flat. “I will alert you when I hear from the Kingsmen.”
    “You are not yourself, Stonecliffe.”
    “Tell me something I do not already know,” Langdon muttered under his breath.

    As superiors went, Adolphus Beaufort could have been worse. Marcus Mitchell eyed the man through the doorway that presently separated them. The King looked to be threatening his guest, the telltale bulging veins at his temples almost glowing hot with anger. He did not yell, but spoke in a quiet, controlled tone that seemed to be tightening the guest’s already tense frame.
    Marcus was not afraid of the King. He probably should be—and most certainly had been back when the gang had seen to his debt and made him their own. But somewhere along the way Marcus had lost the ability to care what happened to him, or when. Until he had met Grace.
    And then everything had changed.
    The man with the King hastily pushed his chair back, the screech of wood grating over wood rousing Marcus from his thoughts.
    “You’ll have it by midnight tomorrow,” he heard the man say to the King.
    Marcus watched the