The Black Widow (17 page)

He immediately started breathing again, and his heart slowed down to merely double its normal pace. Then, with fingers that trembled only slightly, he smoothed out the offending piece of newsprint and scanned it quickly. In the middle of the list of betrothals recently entered into, the names Miss Meribe Prestwich and Demetrius Baineton, Lord Thorverton, popped out at him.

By Jove, but his nephew had bottom! He’d actually done it—thumbed his nose in the murderer’s face. Demetrius was a credit to the Swinton family, even though technically he was a Baineton and not a Swinton. Still, the boy was his nephew, and Humphrey was quite proud of him.

“I demand that you put an end to this nonsense! You will go at once to the newspaper offices and threaten them with a lawsuit if they do not print a retraction, do you hear me?’’

Stiffening his backbone, Humphrey glared down at his older sister. For years she had pushed him around—browbeaten him unmercifully—but no longer. “I hear you,” he said in a calm but firm voice. “And I doubt not but that all the servants can hear you also.” He took a step forward, and staring up at him in amazement, Dorothea took a faltering step backward.

Pressing his advantage, he advanced remorselessly. “As head of the family, I order you not to meddle in this business in any way.”

“How ... how dare you talk—” she attempted to say, but he cut her off ruthlessly.

“Furthermore, you will not only welcome Miss Prestwich into the family but also give a party for her and for her aunt.”

Losing ground rapidly, Dorothea still essayed a defense. “Never,” she said, but her voice quavered weakly, and it was obvious to Humphrey that he almost had her routed, foot, horse, and gun.

“Do not say ‘never’ to me—say, ‘yes, sir, at once, sir.’” His voice now sounded menacing even to his own ears.

Her mouth moved, but not a sound came out.

“Say it!” he bellowed, and so well did he project his voice that had he been onstage at Covent Garden, he could have been heard even in the back of the farthest balcony. Babette would have been proud of him.

Tears welled up in his sister’s eyes, and he felt all his energy and determination leak away. “Now, don’t cry, Dorothea. I am sorry I yelled at you.”

“Nobody cares about my feelings,” she said, sniffling. “The only reason I did not like Miss Prestwich in the first place was that her aunt treated you so abominably. I am sure she is a very sweet girl if you say so.”

“I do, and I think you will agree with me once you get to know her better.’’

He was very satisfied with himself when he left the Thorverton residence a short time later. Really, it was not at all hard to manage his sister. All that was required was a little gumption.

* * * *

Watching McDougal show her brother out, Lady Thorverton was in such a towering rage she could hardly contain herself. So, Humphrey thought he could strut in here and dictate to her whom she must recognize—bah! The silly fool had not even noticed that she had promised him nothing.

He would be a graybeard before she would allow that contemptible Phillipa Prestwich to set foot in her house. And as for the niece, if Demetrius married that scheming hussy, then he could say good-bye to his mother, because she, Lady Thorverton, would never live in the same house with the pair of them. Not that Demetrius would mind if his mother had to eke out a meager existence in some shabby rented house in Bath. Such an unnatural son he was—so lacking in the proper filial respect.

Thinking about the injustice of it all, Lady Thorverton began to feel quite sorry for herself. But at least she had one son who behaved as he ought. Of a certainty, Collier would never desert his dearest mama. Perhaps he might even be willing to accompany her on her errands this afternoon. Having him for an escort would do much to soothe her jangled nerves.

Ringing for McDougal, she instructed him to inform Master Collier that his mother wished to speak with him as soon as it would be convenient.

“Beg pardon, my lady, but your son is not here at present.”

“Not here? But he would never go out without stopping to wish me a good morning and to inquire about my health.”

The butler cleared his throat and so far forgot what he owed to his position that he actually shuffled his feet.

“The maid has just informed me that Master Collier’s bed was not slept in last night.”

“Not slept in? Has that ridiculous boy taken rooms at the Albany again? If he has, be sure that Demetrius will bring him back directly.’’

Again McDougal looked uncomfortable. “Master Collier’s things are quite untouched, my lady, so I do not believe he has gone so far as to move out.’’

“Then when did he leave? And why did no one ask him where he was going? Surely you have not taken it upon yourself to disobey my instructions?”

“I regret, my lady, but no one saw him leave the house. It would appear that he slipped out secretly.’’

Tears filled Lady Thorverton’s eyes, and this time they were not the crocodile tears she had cleverly produced in order to win the confrontation with her brother. “Slipped out? Rubbish! My dearest son would never have sneaked away like a common thief. How dare you suggest such a thing!”

“But, my lady—”

“Oh,” she wailed, clasping her hands to her bosom, “he has been kidnapped, I just know he has. And it is all the fault of the Black Widow. No matter how often he was warned—and I pleaded with him myself on numerous occasions—Demetrius would associate himself with her. And now the curse he scoffed at has struck down his innocent little brother! My sweet Collier has been snatched out of my loving arms—more than likely murdered most foully! Oh, was ever a poor mother treated so insensitively, so callously, so shabbily as I?”

* * * *

Demetrius had never before been scolded more thoroughly—or quite so delightfully. From the moment his carriage had pulled away from her house, Miss Prestwich had been ringing a peal over him: he was foolhardy in the extreme; he had made a target of himself; he should have consulted her, and she would have urged caution; if he were killed, she would never forgive him.

He did not think she was at all well-practiced in the art of browbeating a man, however, since in lieu of making him feel cast down, her lecture was only making it difficult for him to suppress a grin.

Glancing down at her was definitely a mistake. One look at her dark eyes glistening with unshed tears, and his urge to smile was replaced by a strong desire to hold her in his arms and kiss her tantalizing lips, which were quivering sweetly.

“You might at least have warned me. I felt a positive fool when my aunt congratulated me, not that it matters, but Hester was sitting right there, and I might have accidentally said something to betray our plan. Really, I cannot think what you were about to send that announcement to the newspaper.”

“You err in your assumption,” he replied, directing his horses to St. James’s Park. He was not in the mood to run the gauntlet of curious, prying, meddling gossips who at this hour were driving, riding, and promenading along Rotten Row. “I sent no announcement to the Morning Post.’’

“You ... But who...?”

“I visited their offices, and they informed me that a servant wearing my livery brought them the note. By their description of the fellow, I recognized him as one of my mother’s footmen.”

“Your mother? But surely she would not have done such a thing. Why, she will not even acknowledge me in public.”

“My uncle has spoken to her about that, and he assures me that she will no longer dare to give you the cut direct. But in any event, you are correct. It was not my mother, but rather my brother who instigated this scheme.’’

“Without consulting you?”

“Oh, he consulted me, all right. He suggested that I marry you so that your sister would not inherit your father’s estate. When I rejected his plan, he deliberately disobeyed me.”

There was a soft sound beside him—a sudden intake of breath—and he instantly wished that he could call back his intemperate words. But how could he explain away the hurt he had obviously caused her by mentioning marriage, while at the same time making it obvious that he did not wish to marry her? He could not very well say, “I would be happy to marry you, but you do not meet the standards I have set for my future wife.” Nor could he say, “It is not that I do not like you. I am indeed quite fond of you. Unfortunately, I do not love you.”

“You need not worry, you know,” she said quietly. “When this is all over, I shall release you from any obligation. I shall not take advantage of your brother’s foolishness to trap you into a marriage not of your liking.”

She sounded calm enough, but when he looked at her, her head was lowered and all he could see was her bonnet. Blast it all! Why had he not thought before he brought up the subject of marriage? He was proving to be as heedlessly rash as Collier.

They drove in silence for what seemed like an eternity. “Would you like to stroll a bit?” he finally asked, unable to think of anything else to do to heal the breach between them.

“No, thank you,” she said, her voice still barely above a whisper. “I think, if you do not mind, I should like to return home now. The sun is really quite hot, and I forgot to bring my parasol.”

The drive back to Berkeley Square was uncomfortably tense, and to add to his disquiet, Demetrius spotted two men following them. Big bruisers, they looked as if they had been cast from the same mold as the late Black Jack Brannigan. It would appear that Miss Hester Prestwich had found herself a pair of hired assassins this time.

Demetrius had learned his lesson well enough, however, that he did not mention the two ruffians to his companion. She was already worried enough about his safety that she did not need additional cause for alarm.

With a little luck—and with the help of his friends—he should be able to capture one of the brutes and force him to disclose who had hired him. Once the plot against Miss Meribe Prestwich was made public, he, Demetrius, could return to his horses and allow her to announce that their betrothal was called off. Which would make it twice that he was jilted—enough to make any woman wonder about his suitability as a husband.

On the other hand, there was bound to be a scandal when the elder Prestwich sister was arrested for murder. Could he in all decency take himself off to Devon and leave Miss Meribe to face the malicious gossip alone?

In fact, now that he thought about it, it would be better for all concerned if her sister were not arrested and tried for murder. With a little judicious handling of the situation, Miss Hester could undoubtedly be persuaded to immigrate to Jamaica or Canada or some other suitably distant part, after first signing over to her sister all her rights to their father’s estate.

Clearly it behooved him to stand by Miss Meribe until everything was settled. Then she could jilt him.

He was frowning when he returned his horses to the stables.

* * * *

She had to convince Lionell it was all a hum—that some prankster had inserted the announcement of the betrothal in the newspaper. Hester looked around the crowded ballroom trying to spot the dandy whom she could no longer dismiss as nothing more than a posturing, conceited fop.

Finally espying him dancing with Miss Quailund, Hester waited impatiently for the music to cease. Then she moved as unobtrusively as possible around the room, so that she would be properly positioned to intercept him when he returned the young lady to her chaperone. For the first time in her life, Hester felt self-conscious, and she found it difficult to believe that everyone in the room was not watching her when she “accidentally” bumped into Lionell.

“Excuse me, my dear, are you all right?” Lionell took her arm to steady her, and his words were all concern.

Fixing a smile on her face and desperately hoping he did not mark how false it was, she giggled nervously, then blurted out, “The most amusing thing—you will positively die when I tell you.” Die—whatever had possessed her to use that word?

Resolutely she continued, “Some prankster has inserted an announcement in the Morning Post that my s-sister is betrothed to Lord Thorverton.” With difficulty she kept smiling, praying that he had not noticed her stutter—that he did not suspect she was trying to mislead him.

“Hartwell, who stands to lose five thousand guineas if his lordship is still alive on the first day of July, informed me that the announcement was delivered by a footman wearing the Thorverton livery. How odd,” Lionell commented absently.

“A disgruntled servant,” Hester improvised quickly. “The insolent jackanapes has, of course, been let go.”

Raising his eyebrows in mock astonishment, Lionell said, “But you are singularly informed about the doings of Thorverton’s household. I had not realized the two of you were so close.”

“He s-sent a note to my sister—an apology, as it were.”

“There is another possibility, you know.” Lionell looked at her speculatively.

Hester felt her gorge rise up into her throat—surely he did not, like Wimbwell, think that she had anything to do with promoting the curse!

“One of the numerous gentlemen who have wagered small fortunes on the early demise of my Lord Thorverton may have bribed the servant.”

He had accepted her explanation! She was flooded with relief. “Yes, of course, that is more than likely the case,” she agreed, then quickly, before he could question her further, she changed the subject and began talking about the outrageous gown Mrs. Gilmoreton was wearing, which made her look like the veriest ladybird.

Her feelings of relief did not last out the evening, however. Lord Thorverton, with blithe disregard for his own safety, danced not twice, but three times with Meribe, acting the entire time as if he did not notice how everyone was staring at him in ghoulish anticipation—how they were all waiting for him to be struck down by the fatal curse.

The only thing she could be thankful for was that Lionell had left the party before the newly betrothed couple danced with each other a third time. With a little more luck, by the time he heard any gossip, she would have come up with another prevarication with which to soothe his suspicions.