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

man scuttle from the King’s office into the room where he waited. He was careful to avoid eye contact with the poor bastard. The lastthing Marcus needed was to feel pity for him. The first rule of the Kingsmen: feel nothing.
    “Mitchell,” the King called.
    Marcus stood and brushed a speck of lint from his dark blue coat. Then he adjusted his cuffs until they lay just as they should.
    “Do not keep the boss waitin’.”
    Marcus looked at Four Fingers, the man who’d addressed him so rudely, and offered him a charming smile. “Wouldn’t want to go before the King with my suit out of sorts, now, would I?”
    “I’ll show you out of sorts if you do not haul your educated ass in there right now,” Four Fingers growled, the severely deep wrinkles on his forehead extending back to his bald pate.
    Marcus adjusted his cuffs once more then strolled toward the King’s office. “It is true what they say, then; losing a digit has made you quite cross.”
    The squat thug lunged, a string of curses spilling from his thick lips as he narrowly missed wringing the life from Marcus’s neck.
    Marcus slammed the office door shut and crossed to the King’s desk.
    “He’ll catch you one of these days,” the man warned Marcus.
    “I like my chances,” he replied, waiting to sit until the King told him to.
    There were times when the man instructed you to take your seat before beginning the conversation. And there were others when he made you stand for nearly the entire meeting.
    Marcus noted, not for the first time, how appearing before Henry Tudor or William the Confessor musthave been quite similar to what he endured each week. Only this king did not wear a ring, nor require his subjects to kiss it.
    At least, not yet.
    “Take your seat, Mitchell.”
    Ah, the sire speaks .
    Marcus obeyed, sketching a half bow before sitting.
    “Your talent is, at times, the only reason I keep you alive,” the King said, frowning at the comical move. “You know that, don’t you?”
    “That and my natural charm, of course,” Marcus replied, amused by the man’s displeasure.
    Marcus had considered cutting off one of his hands. The Kingsmen valued him for his skill and accuracy with a gun. And if he could no longer shoot?
    “Careful,” the King told him, his temples beginning to throb.
    Marcus had ultimately decided not to maim himself. The gang had taken everything from him. Why give them his hand as well?
    Marcus bowed in surrender. “Say no more.”
    “Well, get on with it,” the King said impatiently. “Tell me about this Mr. Clark. Moth said he had the nerve to bring Crowther’s widow with him?”
    Marcus casually rested his elbows on the chair arms. “Ah, yes, Mr. Clark from Liverpool. Well, to begin with, the man has superior taste in clothing.”
    “The important bits, Mitchell.”
    The prominent veins in the King’s temples visibly throbbed. Good, Marcus thought. Perhaps he’d erupt in a rage and throw Marcus out before the subject of Grace came up again.
    “He came unarmed—rather daring, don’t you think?”
    “And his men?” the King asked impatiently.
    Marcus shook his head. “Several inside the Four Horsemen. And several more on the street. Nothing showy, though.”
    “Ballsy bastard,” the King swore.
    “My sentiments exactly,” Marcus agreed.
    The King leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Moth said he gave you a card of some sort.”
    Dammit , Marcus thought. He was not ready to share the address. Grace’s predicament had him pondering the situation, considering possible alternative actions, and Marcus preferred to move forward only after deciding on the exact path he would take. Giving the King Mr. Clark’s address might hinder his plan.
    Or it might not.
    “Really, I do not know why you are bothering to ask me anything. Moth seems to have already told you everything you need to know. Quite the accomplished young man, Moth.”
    The throbbing in the King’s temples picked up speed. “The