Page 2 of Submitting to the Widow

She had to stifle a chortle of laughter. This was the way she liked her men — needy and ready to do whatever she asked of them.

And she seriously needed them to perform a service for her which each was uniquely suited to do. Although she would never tell them, or the women they’d eventually come to know intimately, she’d carefully planned this scenario from the moment she’d realized the identities of the two men who’d been foolish enough in their youth to pen the incriminating journal pages and then stupidly arrogant enough to keep them into adulthood. Because the women she’d chosen to receive the pages needed exactly what these two men could offer. And no two men were better positioned to provide access to the secrets El sought in exchange for the names of the two women who currently held the dangerous pages.

* * *

“What doyou suppose is keeping her so long?” Sythe’s erstwhile partner in conquests, Col, gave him a sharp jab in the ribs.

Stephen turned toward him, annoyance dripping in his tone. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe she’s casting about for the most humiliating task she can demand of us for the return of those God-forsaken, filthy journals.”

Col leaned close. “Sythe—you do recall we all relished every minute we recounted in those journals?”

“And now, we’re all going to pay till the end of our days for keeping the wretched things.” Stephen stood and paced long, angry strides up and down the small anteroom. He finally threw up his hands. “I’ll be lucky if I’m not barred from every courtroom in the kingdom.”

At that moment, a young man with dark hair that curled over his collar and deeply set blue eyes softly pushed open the door from Captain El’s inner office and beckoned to Sythe. When Col half rose to follow, he shook his head and said, “No, if you please. She asked to see Mr. Forsythe first.”

Sythe could swear he saw a spark of amusement in her assistant’s eye when the impudent pup held out his palm to keep Bow Street’s most intimidating runner from falling in behind him anyway. Col gave the man a thunderous look but fell back into the couch’s maw with a dismissive wave.

Sythe fell into step behind their messenger and entered the inner sanctum. What the hell was she playing at?

* * *

The woman sittingin an imposing empire chair behind the desk flanked by matching statues of griffins had a peaches-and-cream look of youth and innocence. Her skin was flawless, seemingly unmarred by time.

Sythe had never seen Captain El Goodrum in full light, and he was surprised she didn’t bear the ravages of the rugged life of a sea captain and high seas brawler as the gossips would have one believe.

His perception changed suddenly when she turned from perusing a ledger of figures on a side table. He tried to hide a sharp intake of breath. The other side of her face had a thin, white scar from the corner of her eye down to just above her lips.

“Mr. Forsythe,” she began, and he was completely disarmed by the husky tone of her voice. “You must excuse my voice.” She turned her head and lifted the heavy auburn curls from the side of her neck. Another, wider scar there marred her throat.

“You don’t need to pretend you don’t notice. I earned these scars, and the loss of my feminine voice, in a sword fight long ago.”

Sythe had no idea how to respond, so blurted out, “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not,” she said simply. “He died, but I’m still alive. For that, I’m grateful every day.”

Somehow, all the bravado and anger he’d built up while pacing in her anteroom whooshed out of him. This woman was truly terrifying. The rumors were true. Since he’d obviously ruined his first gambit in the negotiation game, he decided to abandon his defensive posture.

He sat in the chair she’d indicated in front of her desk and steepled his hands between his chin and lower lip. “What do require from me for the return of my journal pages from your library?”

* * *

El pickedup a large purple sea urchin shell from her desk and rolled the polished, bumpy texture against her palms. She was silent for a long time, because she loved to make supplicants squirm.

The barrister Forsythe merely leaned back and stretched his long legs out in front of him, athletic, muscular legs that his trousers clung to in interesting ways. Not only was Stephen Forsythe the foremost barrister in London, he was also a well-known all-rounder in cricket circles.

Jane would be over the moon, the arrogant man in front of her would get a well-deserved comeuppance, and she…well, she would get something she’d been waiting for a very long time.

“Your pages were lent out of my library to Baron Trevellyn’s widow in Combe Down.”

“Combe Down—?” He seemed surprised at the sharpness of his tone and retreated behind what was surely his enigmatic courtroom smile.

“I can pay for shipping the pages back here, or I could hire a trusted courier to pick them up. That should—.”

She cut short his glib take-charge patter. “You will do as I say. What I need from you is of a delicate nature and must be done in person.”

He leaned forward, tension in every part of his body.

Thank God. He was finally ready to listen.