The Black Widow (18 page)

If indeed he was in any way connected with the assassinations. Perhaps it was, as Lionell had suggested, the work of someone who had wagered a large sum on the shortness of Lord Thorverton’s life expectancy. Men, especially ones cursed with the gambling fever, were known to behave rashly on occasion.

Was it not more likely that one of them—one of the Corinthians who were willing to risk life and limb in a curricle race or to watch with glee while two men pounded each other’s faces into bloody pulps—was it not more likely that someone like that had hired some ruffian to attack Lord Thorverton?

Indeed, now that she thought on it, that attack was not necessarily even connected with her sister, despite what the gossips around town were so quick to whisper. The deaths of the other suitors had undoubtedly been nothing more dreadful than the accidents everyone assumed them to have been. And Lord Thorverton, at an earlier period in his life, might easily have aroused the enmity of someone who now was seeking vengeance.

If such were the case, then all that remained unexplained was Wimbwell’s murder, which had happened the day after he visited her. But other than the time element, was there any reason to connect one event with the other? Doubtless Wimbwell had a great number of clients, one of whom might have cause to hate the old man.

For all she knew—and despite his assertions of innocence—Wimbwell might very well have embezzled money from some other client. Then again, she had seen signs of incipient senility; perhaps he had merely made an innocent but costly blunder with someone’s investments?

There was, of course, the fact that the killer had sent chocolate bonbons with cream centers—the poisoned chocolate bonbons—but then, Wimbwell had made no secret of his fondness for the sweets. Dozens of people, including all of his office staff, must have known he would gobble them down immediately.

More than likely, when the authorities investigated, they would discover a disgruntled employee, a dissatisfied client, a plethora of other suspects, any one of whom was a more likely candidate for Tyburn than Lionell, who was too involved with his own person—with the polish on his boots and the folds of his neckcloth—to worry himself with the ramblings of a silly old man.

It must have been the shock of hearing about the murder that had made her suspect Lionell in the first place, because now that she thought about it, the very idea was absurd. If Lionell had poisoned Wimbwell, then that would mean he was also behind the attack on Lord Thorverton, and that was where her suspicions faltered and failed.

While she could be brought to believe Lionell might have poisoned some bonbons, she could not, with the best of efforts, picture him consorting with a scapegallows from Soho. Although Lionell prided himself on knowing the best supplier of snuff in London, she could not imagine that the dandy would have the slightest idea where to go to find an assassin for hire. Even the thought of it now made her smile, so amusing it was.

Around Hester people were whispering, and she could hear scattered snatches of conversations—”wouldn’t wager a groat he’ll see his next birthday” ... “that’ll make five dead, won’t it?” ... “the devil’s mark is on her” ... “I wouldn’t be in his shoes for all the tea in China” ... “the Black Widow” ... “how long?” ... “doomed” ... “the curse will bring him down, you mark my words”—

“Good evening, Miss Prestwich.”

Hester recognized the man addressing her. Mr. Hennessey was an upstart Irishman who five years ago had astounded everyone by winning the hand of Lady Delilah. “I do not believe we have been introduced,” she said coldly, but instead of bowing politely and moving on, he took a seat beside her.

“Since Lord Thorverton is one of my dearest friends,” he said glibly, “I am sure we are destined to become well-acquainted once he is your brother-in-law.’’

“I am willing to wait until after the ceremony,” she said, keeping her eyes averted from his face. She did not at all like the knowing way he was looking at her—the open appraisal in his glance.

Did he, like Wimbwell, suspect her of hiring an assassin? But no, he could not possibly have any knowledge of the terms of her father’s will, and so he would have no reason to connect her with the death of the old man.

She glanced at the Irishman out of the corner of her eye, but was not reassured. He looked like a fox ready to pounce ... and he was making her feel like a rabbit about to be gobbled up.

“So you believe there will actually be a wedding ceremony?” he asked. “The majority of the people here think Thorverton will be struck down by the fatal curse, but I would like your honest opinion. Is Lord Thorverton brave or merely foolhardy? Tell me, Miss Prestwich, are you superstitious enough to believe in such things as fatal curses?’’

Turning to look at him, she said coldly, “What I believe, Mr. Hennessey, is that people who play with fire often get burned. And now, if you will excuse me. I fear I have torn my flounce.” She stood up and hurried from the ballroom, pursued by the whispers of the crowd.

“Do not look behind you, but we are being followed,” Demetrius murmured to Hennessey as soon as they had left the dance and begun walking the few short blocks to the Thorverton residence. “I have spotted the pair of ugly bruisers several times in the last few days, but so far they have not made any attempt to waylay me.”

Ignoring Demetrius’s warning, the Irishman casually looked over his shoulder, then broke out in a large grin. “Malone and Mulrooney,” he said. “I would have to agree with you that they have no pretensions toward beauty, but on the other hand, each is virtually strong enough to pick up a horse and throw it over a fence if the beast refuses to jump.”

“So they are the stout lads you mentioned earlier? And without my permission, you have set them to follow me like a pair of watchdogs. I remember quite distinctly telling you I have no need of bodyguards.”

“Since you have seen fit to thumb your nose at the murderer—I refer, of course, to the announcement you sent to the Morning Post—it will be small comfort to your friends if we catch the culprit after he has already dispatched you to a cold and solitary grave,” the Irishman said. “Trapping the villain is a laudable pursuit, but I intend to see that the bait does not get gobbled up in the process.”

“I did not write that announcement.”

“Wheesht, and here I thought you’d come to your senses and asked that lovely girl to marry you.”

“My brother took it upon himself to interfere yet again. This time, however, he has gone too far, and it will probably take both your stout lads to keep me from wringing the boy’s neck when I find him.”

Turning the corner onto Grosvenor Square, Demetrius asked, “Will you come in for a bit of brandy? I am sure that if we put our minds to it, we can find a more enlivening topic of conversation than my younger brother.’’ So saying, Demetrius began to describe a new colt he had—a promising two-year-old he was considering keeping for his own use.

The discussion of horses came to an abrupt end when the butler opened the door to admit them. “Your mother is waiting to speak to you in the drawing room,” McDougal informed him, his face haggard. “It is Master Collier—he has totally vanished. His bed was not slept in last night, and your mother is most distressed. She fears he has been kidnapped or even murdered.”

“What nonsense is this?” Demetrius said, pushing out of his mind a fleeting fear that his brother might actually have met with skullduggery.

“I know your mother has a penchant for dramatics, my lord,” the butler said, wringing his hands, “but this does appear to be serious. No one saw Master Collier leave the house, and he told no one where he was going or when he would be back, which is most unlike him. Lady Thorverton has sent footmen to all the clubs, inquiring after him, but they have all denied knowledge of his whereabouts.”

Demetrius gave a bark of laughter. “As my mother should have expected. Does she not realize that the doormen in all the clubs have standing instructions to say that a member is not present even if he is? More than likely my brother is at this very moment ensconced in a comfortable chair in White’s playing cards with his cronies. My mother would do better to worry about the gambling fever that seems to have infected Collier’s brain, for I tell you flat out, I shall not open my pockets to him again until he shows signs of having developed at least a modicum of common sense.”

“Well, old friend,” Hennessey said, clapping Demetrius on the back, “I believe I shall decline your offer of brandy and conversation. Perhaps another day.”

“Deserting under fire?” Demetrius asked with a rueful smile.

“Knowing when to retreat is ofttimes more crucial for success than charging blindly ahead,” his friend said before departing.

A short time later Demetrius found himself in the unaccustomed position of defending his brother’s actions. “Collier lacks but a few days of being one-and-twenty, Mother. I find nothing odd about it that he has neglected to account to you for his every movement.”

His mother rose up out of the chair where she had been reclining in a tragic pose and advanced on him in a complete rage. “Since you have never shown me the slightest consideration, I can well believe that you have been encouraging my darling boy to cast me aside like a ... like a discarded neckcloth!”

“Well put, Mother, since you will persist in hanging around the poor boy’s neck. Collier will never become a man if you continue to treat him like a child.”

At his mocking words, she puffed up like a broody hen protecting her chick from a marauding fox. “I do not wish to hear a lecture from you about the proper way for a mother to act. You are not now—nor will you ever be—a mother. Knowing your attitude, I find it in me to pity that wretched Miss Prestwich. Did she know how cold-hearted you are, she would jilt you tomorrow and count herself lucky to have escaped. And as for your brother, I demand that you hire a Bow Street runner to find Collier, and we can only pray that the runner is in time to save my darling child’s life—a life that you have endangered by consorting with a young lady who everyone knows is afflicted with a fatal curse.”

“A Bow Street runner? Surely you jest. I can think of nothing that would alienate Collier more surely than having a runner sent after him to drag him home like a naughty child.”

“It is all your fault, you know. If you had not given that announcement to the papers, your brother’s life would not now be in jeopardy, but you have refused to take the advice of your elders and avoid that wretched woman. Perhaps you will believe in fatal curses when you discover your brother’s lifeless body—or will you even then deny responsibility?”

With those parting words his mother stalked out of the room, her rigidly straight back proclaiming her displeasure with her elder son.

Little did she know that her angry words had reminded Demetrius of the bone he had to pick with his brother. Collier was undoubtedly—and very wisely—hiding out until Demetrius might be expected to have forgotten all about that infamous betrothal announcement.

Left in peace, Demetrius rang for some brandy, then settled himself in front of the fire. His thoughts were far from peaceful, however. As much as he was convinced that he understood perfectly why Collier had felt it necessary to sneak out of the house, still the possibility existed that Miss Hester Prestwich might have found herself another hired assassin—who in turn might have snatched the wrong brother.

Now he was being as foolish as his mother, seeing villains behind every bush. He took a sip of brandy, but found it tasteless. Finally he admitted to himself that he could not rest easy until he made an effort to find his brother.

With regret he abandoned his comfortable chair and set out to check at the clubs for his brother. He was not best pleased when he heard footsteps behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he recognized Malone and Mulrooney, and their presence did nothing to improve his mood.

By the time the sun was up, Demetrius had made a thorough check of all the clubs to which he belonged, and he had also gone to several of the more notorious gambling hells. Unfortunately, he was not an ardent gambler himself, which meant he was woefully ignorant about the innumerable smaller places where one could go if one wished to lose one’s money rapidly.

Likewise, if he had only known who his brother’s special friends were, his search would have been easier since he could have asked them for news of Collier. But to his chagrin, Demetrius could not remember any name except Charles Neuce, whose face he was not even sure he would recognize. Although it was painful for him to admit, Demetrius began to suspect that during the last year or so he should have been paying less attention to his horses and more attention to his brother.

Returning home, he was met at the door by his mother, who had obviously not been to bed either. When she saw he was alone, grief clouded her face. If she had had the hysterics, Demetrius could have dismissed her fears and gone to bed, but her haunted look was not part of her normal dramatic repertoire.

“Very well, Mother,” he said tiredly, thinking with longing of his bed, “I shall go at once to Bow Street and engage the services of a runner.’’

* * * *

Lady Thorverton stared with hatred at the young lady her elder son was dancing with. The Black Widow was smiling and talking as if she had not once again more than likely caused the premature demise of an innocent young man. Dorothea’s feelings for Demetrius were not much pleasanter. How could he act as if he had not a care in the world, when his brother might even at this moment be lying dead in a ditch somewhere, struck down by the fatal curse?

But perhaps it was not too late to save Collier. Although the Bow Street runner had been duly hired the day before, he had not yet reported back, which to her way of thinking only proved that even a runner was helpless against an evil curse.

No, the only way to break the power of the curse and save Collier’s life was to end the relationship between Demetrius and that wretched Miss Meribe Prestwich.

Perhaps if she spoke with the girl directly, Miss Prestwich might be willing to release Demetrius from her clutches. But no, the chit was undoubtedly enraptured with the idea of having ensnared an earl in her coils.