Spoilers: None, really.

Disclaimer: I don't own Clint and Nat, though I still wish I did. And after a couple days of looking at beautiful dresses from the late 1800s, I wish I owned one of them too, even if I'm not sure where I would actually wear it.

A/N: This is a very, very late birthday drabble for my dear friend ValiantArcher. She prompted me with "a period mystery drabble." It wound up longer than a drabble, and I'm not quite sure if it's what she had in mind, but the bunny completely insisted on having its own way, lol. I hope you enjoy it, ValiantArcher! And, since it turned out that I'm posting this around the birthday of another very good friend, I wanted to wish historylover a very happy birthday also!

As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I would be utterly lost without him.

I hope you enjoy it, and please let me know what you think!

Soirée

The party was the social event of the year. Everyone who was anyone was there.

Clint found it useful, since attendees were unlikely to think twice about seeing an unknown face among the crowd. That was true for most of them, in any case. Miss Isabella Palmer had apparently thought about him a great deal.

She had arranged to be introduced to him barely half an hour after he'd set foot in the room, and Clint couldn't help being amused by her eagerness.

Had she any idea who he really was, she wouldn't have deigned to so much as look at him. But a counterfeit title, false manners, and a fancy set of clothes was enough to change that. She had been fluttering about him all evening, hanging on his every word, clearly besotted.

But only one woman held his interest tonight.

The papers had begun calling her "The Black Widow."

It was a fitting enough title for a woman who had left her mark all over Europe, and was believed to have lured at least a dozen men to their deaths with her charms. Some of the men had been poisoned, others had met their end by more violent means, but in every case, witnesses claimed to have seen the victims in the company of a woman shortly before their demise - an almost unearthly beauty, it was said, with red hair and green eyes.

The witnesses were right.

He had only laid eyes on her from afar, as was his wont, but she was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her pale skin was flawless, and her red hair was a deep, rich color that shown like polished copper; it was pulled high atop her head in an intricate bun, a few loose red curls hanging stylishly around her face. She wore a dark blue gown that accented the small size of her waist then flared around her hips, the rest of the satin fabric pooling gracefully down to the floor. The bodice of the dress was a study in lacework and fine embroidery, though her shoulders and décolleté were left bare. An ornate jeweled collar was clasped around her throat, a cameo at its center.

She had no shortage of admirers at the party. Many an ignorant man had gazed at her longingly, and it had been all Clint could do to keep from doing the same. He could not risk tipping his hand, not now. She had led him on a merry chase for months, and that chase had brought him here, to London and this party, where he'd heard that Miss Natalie Rushman would be in attendance. It was a false name, of course. She changed names the way most women changed hats. But it was undoubtedly her.

The Black Widow. His target.

She knew he was there.

She'd shown no sign of it, but this woman seemed to have developed an uncanny awareness for his presence. He could say the same of her, though he did not allow himself to ponder what the implications of such a connection might be.

In any case, he could do nothing with the eyes of so many still upon her.

So, he waited, enjoying the attentions of Miss Palmer and eventually allowing himself to be pulled into a game of cribbage. When the hour grew late, Miss Rushman bid farewell to a throng of gentlemen and slipped quietly towards the exit. She refused all offers of an escort, insisting that someone else would be along shortly to see her home.

Clint quickly and quietly made his own excuses, accepting Miss Palmer's invitation to tea the next week because it seemed the most expedient way to be rid of her.

Then, he followed Miss Rushman into the streets of London.

She had already walked some distance, though he spotted her easily enough, her jeweled collar glinting in the moonlight as she stepped into a nearby alley.

He was not particularly surprised when he turned into the alley himself and found her waiting for him.

Her dark blue gown looked black in the shadows, as though she were dressed for mourning, and even in the limited light, her pale skin and red hair seemed to glow with an ethereal quality. It was fitting, he supposed, that she should appear like a fatal specter, but nonetheless, he was struck by how beautiful she looked.

Some would undoubtedly think that odd, but then again, he had been flirting with death for years.

He stopped just short of her reach and tipped his hat. "Miss Rushman."

She gave a graceful bow of her head in answer. "Mr. Hawkins."

If she was aware of the pseudonym he'd assumed for the evening - one he'd found rather amusing, truth be told - then she had been watching him as carefully as he'd been watching her. The thought should have been far more disturbing than it was.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance," she added a moment later.

He would have expected the words to be empty, perhaps even mocking, but something in her voice seemed to suggest that the sentiment was genuine. That was enough to give him pause, because if she knew who he was, then she knew why he had been following her.

Perhaps he wasn't the only one flirting with death.

"The feeling is mutual, Madam," he assured.

Her lips curved faintly, and then she was moving impossibly fast, something clenched in her right hand.

He was moving as well, a fraction of a second later, pushing her hand to the side, just in time to register that it was a fan she held. She unfurled it with a practiced flick of her wrist; the weaponized edges cutting through the heavy layers of his clothing and finding his shoulder. Had she hit where she'd been aiming, his throat may have been slit.

He barely felt the sting of the wound, his blood surging with the thrill of the fight and perhaps something else as well. He grabbed her, his fingers wrapping around her forearm, twisting it away from him, but she was already reaching for her hair with her left hand, withdrawing a long hairpin, holding it like a dagger. It undoubtedly served the same function, given the way she thrust it at his chest.

His hat tumbled from his head as he pulled back, narrowly avoiding the improvised blade. He grabbed her left arm now, then struck out with his head, his skull colliding with hers, stunning her for a moment. He pressed his advantage, tightening his grip on her arms and forcing her back until she was pressed against the wall of the alley.

She fought him, surprisingly strong for someone so slender, but he managed to wrench her right wrist hard enough to loose her grip on the blade-like fan, then he pressed his forearm to her throat. A rough jerk of his other hand forced her to release the hairpin as well.

He increased the pressure on her throat and sensed her weakening just enough that he was able to free one hand and draw the pistol hidden in his coat. He would have preferred his bow, but a gentleman did not carry a quiver on his back while walking through the streets of London, and his cover had demanded that he appear as a gentleman.

He pressed the pistol to her abdomen and she stilled, staring back at him evenly, clearly braced for the shot.

Even if she had some sort of armor built into the corset she was wearing - which, given the fan and the hairpin, would not surprise him in the least - a bullet at such close range would surely still be lethal.

With a single pull of the trigger, his assignment would be complete, and The Black Widow would never claim another victim.

His finger didn't move.

She was even more beautiful now, the loss of the hairpin freeing the long red locks of her hair from the bun she'd worn. It hung to her waist, wild and untamed, and her cheeks were flushed, her breath quick.

But it was her eyes that held his attention.

They were fierce and proud, but…weary. So very weary. Old eyes on a young face.

Eyes so very much like his own.

Slowly, he lowered the gun, hoping that he wouldn't regret it.

…He didn't.

Fin

A/N: For those of you waiting for an update of Twenty Pieces of Silver, I promise I'm doing my best. RL has simply been demanding all of my attention lately.

I hope you enjoyed this, and please let me know what you think!

Take care and God bless!

Ani-maniac494 :)