The Black Widow (20 page)

Walking briskly to Berkeley Square, Demetrius gradually came to realize that by his efforts to help, he had caused grave injury to the young lady he was attempting to protect. Owing to his relatives, she had become betrothed against her will, and then had been callously jilted.

If he wished to call himself a gentleman, there was nothing for him to do but ask her—persuade her if necessary—to marry him. It mattered little that she was not the type of woman he would have chosen for a wife if he’d had the freedom of choice. What mattered was that he do whatever was needful to undo the pain he had caused her.

It was not as if she were an antidote, of course. She was quite pleasing to the eye and she had no serious faults that he could think of. She was not headstrong or flighty, nor did she chatter incessantly. More important, she had kept her sweetness of disposition under conditions that were distressing enough to have caused even a saint to become bitter and resentful.

To be sure, her knowledge of horses was nonexistent, but at least she liked animals and appeared willing to learn to ride. He might even see about teaching her to drive.

Yes, now that he thought about it, they should be able to rub along rather well together, and the chances were that even if he waited a lifetime, he would never meet another woman like his neighbor Anne, and since that was the case, Miss Meribe Prestwich would do well enough.

Which meant all he had to do was propose to her in a suitably romantic way so that she would not notice when he never actually avowed enduring love. Women, he had learned through various friends’ experiences, were funny that way; the female sex was not especially keen about treating marriage like any other business merger. But he had confidence in his own ability to pull it off.

Of course, a proper proposal was not actually all he had to do—he also had to trap a murderer. Luckily, the two tasks could be easily combined.

Much to his mortification, he was not given the opportunity to speak with anyone except the butler.

“I regret to inform you that the Misses Prestwich are not at home,” Smucker said nervously.

“It is only Miss Meribe Prestwich that I need to speak with,” Demetrius explained. “Perhaps I might wait? When do you expect her to return?’’

Looking even more ill-at-ease, the butler said, “The Misses Prestwich are not at home to you.” The emphasis was subtle but definite.

Demetrius cursed under his breath, and for a moment he toyed with the idea of forcing his way past the butler. Such uncivilized behavior would hardly advance his cause, but it was tempting, considering that the young lady he wished to marry was undoubtedly in her room crying her eyes out. Or more likely she was in the garden finding consolation among her plants.

He smiled at the mental picture of her with her gloves discarded on the ground, her hands and likely her face streaked with dirt.

Before he could quiz the butler further, the door was shut in his face, and he heard the sound of the bolt being slid into place.

Walking toward Tattersall's, he could not help contrasting this day with that idyllic day only a few weeks ago, when he had watched the birth of Dolly’s foal. Lawrence had indeed been correct when he had prophesied that misfortune was bound to follow their months of good luck.

It was almost enough to make Demetrius superstitious, but despite everything that had happened since he had come to London, he still clung to his belief that a man could make his own luck, whether good or bad.

“I still say you oughtn’t to be calling on a gentleman like this,” Jane protested.

“Lord Thorverton lives with his mother,” Meribe replied, lifting the heavy knocker and letting it fall. “I am sure not even the highest stickler would find anything to criticize me for since they can assume that I am calling on Lady Thorverton.”

“But you don’t want to speak to her,” the maid continued to remonstrate.

“Well, I certainly cannot tell the butler that I wish to speak with Lord Thorverton,’’ Meribe replied. She was not looking forward to a confrontation with her aunt’s sworn enemy, and she could only hope that Lord Thorverton would happen to be with his mother.

Her wishes were not to be granted. Finally opening the door after an unconscionable time, the butler looked down his nose at the two of them, as if they were Gypsies come to steal the family silver.

Handing him her card, Meribe said bravely, “I wish to speak with Lady Thorverton,” while Jane attempted to hide behind her back.

With a total lack of civility the butler shut the door in their faces and left them standing on the stoop while he carried the card to his mistress.

When he returned after a good ten minutes, he looked as if he had eaten an unripe persimmon. Without meeting her eyes, he said stiffly, “Lady Thorverton has instructed me to tell you that you are not welcome in this house and that if you ever come here again, she will have charges laid against you at the nearest magistrate.”

“Here, now,” Jane said, “you don’t have no cause to be so disrespectful to my mistress, no matter what that old harridan told you to do.”

“Her ladyship has also instructed me to tell you that it is all your fault that Master Collier has been kidnapped and likely murdered.”

At Meribe’s look of horror, most of the stiffness went out of the butler’s spine, and he seemed almost wistful when he said, “He has quite vanished, and her ladyship is beside herself with worry. She fears that he has also been struck down by ... by...”

“By the fatal curse?” Jane asked contemptuously.

The butler nodded miserably, and Meribe realized there was nothing for it but to admit her true purpose in coming here. “Would you please inform Lord Thorverton that I wish to speak to him?’’

Again the servant became the quintessential butler. Straightening his back, he said quite formally, “His lordship is not at home.” Then, after a furtive glance over his shoulder, he hurriedly shut the massive oaken door in Meribe’s face for the second time.

“Well, and I hope you have learned a lesson from all this,” Jane said crossly once they were well away from the Thorverton residence. “No good ever came of a woman chasing after a man. It’s unnatural, that’s what it is.”

She continued to animadvert on the foolishness of young girls who wore their hearts on their sleeves, but Meribe hardly heard what the maid was saying.

Guilty thoughts frantically chased each other through Meribe’s mind. Whyever had she not been more resolute in turning down Lord Thorverton’s offer of friendship?

Did it really matter whether she was afflicted with a fatal curse or whether she had acquired a mortal enemy? In the end, the results were the same—another innocent young man had been struck down in the prime of life.

Oh, but she wished she had never accepted Lord Thorverton’s initial offer of assistance, nor any of the subsequent offers! She had been selfish in the extreme, thinking only of her own happiness. It was no wonder Lord Thorverton wanted nothing more to do with her.

* * * *

With the end of the Season fast approaching, Almack’s was crowded with young ladies, their hopeful expressions looking a bit desperate. None of them looked as desperate as Meribe felt, but she was not trying to catch a husband, she was only attempting to avoid speaking—or dancing—with Lord Thorverton lest the murderer make another attempt on his life or on the life of one of Thorverton’s friends.

This was not as easy as she might have wished, because Almack’s did not provide a plethora of places for a young lady to hide. After her third visit in the space of one hour to the room set aside for ladies who wished to freshen up, her aunt asked her if she was corning down with something.

“No, I just do not wish to dance with Lord Thorverton,” Meribe confessed, feeling quite ill at the sight of the aforementioned lord approaching her yet again.

“Then for heaven’s sake tell him so to his face. Men do not understand hints the way women do. You have got to be firm, otherwise he will continue to trifle with your affections.”

Instead of heeding her aunt’s advice and showing resolution, Meribe bolted back to the ladies’ room, where she huddled miserably for a good quarter-hour, wishing she could again find comfort in Lord Thorverton’s arms, but knowing it was too dangerous for him.

If only her birthday would come more quickly, before anyone else’s life was shattered. She would not mind eking out an existence on the meager pittance she would receive from her father’s will if only her sister would be satisfied with her ill-gotten gains and would call a halt to this evil conspiracy she had instigated.

* * * *

“Next time she bolts, you could lie in wait for her and catch her the moment she emerges from that blasted retiring room,” Hennessey suggested.

Demetrius looked at him in disgust. “What a gentlemanly thing you’re suggesting. And I suppose that once I have ‘caught’ her, I should throw her over my shoulder and make off with her as if she were one of the Sabine women. A proper heathen I would look.”

“Just trying to help,” Hennessey said, his cheerfulness intact. “Would you like me to ask her to dance? Perhaps I can find out what’s bothering her.”

“I know what is bothering her. She is upset that I—or so she thinks—canceled the betrothal. I cannot say that I blame Miss Prestwich for being annoyed with me. She did not want the announcement put into the newspaper in the first place, and now she is probably disgusted with me for blowing hot and cold like the veriest feather-headed widgeon.”

“Still, she should give you a chance to explain that it was your mother who sent in the retraction, and not you.”

“As if that makes a difference to the gossips. Have you seen the way they are whispering? And they are avoiding her as if she has the plague.’’

“They were whispering about her and avoiding her before she even met you, and they have never stopped since. The only thing that will put an end to all the speculation and gossip and wagering is for you to marry the girl.”

“Which is a bit hard to do if I cannot get her even to speak to me.”

Hennessey raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “So, you’ve come to your senses at last. I congratulate you.”

“Congratulations are a bit premature, don’t you think? At the moment she is unwilling even to dance with me, much less entertain an offer of marriage.”

“But I am sure you will be able to persuade her.” Hennessey clapped him on the back. “And now, if you will excuse me, I have someone I need to talk to.”

Demetrius caught him by the arm. “You are not going to bother Miss Prestwich—I forbid you to talk with her.’’

“Forbid? My, we are feeling rather crotchety this evening, aren’t we?”

“Understand me, Hennessey, I am not joking about this. Give me your promise that you will not approach her this evening.”

“Very well, if that is what you wish, I promise to stay away from her.”

There was something about the look in the Irishman’s eyes that Demetrius did not quite trust, but he could hardly call his friend a liar. “Thank you,” he said, releasing the other man’s arm.

Hennessey strolled away as if he had not a care in the world, and a few minutes later Demetrius saw him in earnest conversation with Humphrey Swinton. Muttering an oath, Demetrius started toward his uncle, but before he could make his way through the crowd, Uncle Humphrey had approached Miss Prestwich and bowed.

With a tremulous smile she stood up and laid her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her out to join the set that was forming.

Demetrius felt such intense frustration, he wanted to bang his head against the wall, but knowing how many people were watching him and waiting to see what he would do, he carefully kept his expression impassive.

As much as he had been against Hennessey’s interference, now that Miss Prestwich was talking with Uncle Humphrey, Demetrius felt impatient to discover what was being said.

The music dragged on and on, and when the final chord was played, instead of returning Miss Prestwich to her seat, Uncle Humphrey led her over to a pair of chairs that were positioned somewhat apart from the others, and they continued their conversation.

“You could approach her now, no doubt,” Hennessey’s voice came from behind his shoulder.

Without turning, Demetrius said, “I suggest you leave before Almack’s is treated to the sight of two grown men brawling and brangling like a couple of schoolboys.”

“Keep in mind that I am only trying to help,” Hennessey said, a smile in his voice. “And don’t forget to send me an invitation to the wedding.”

“The way it looks, she’d sooner wed my uncle.”

“Fustian, the young lady dotes on you.”

“She has a strange way of showing it.” Demetrius could not possibly be feeling jealous—not of his uncle, who was a portly, middle-aged bachelor, more fond of food than of women. But even the most confirmed bachelor could take a tumble for a pair of soft brown eyes.

Strangely enough, now that he had decided he wanted to marry Miss Meribe Prestwich of the oh-so-kissable lips, he felt quite impatient to get the matter settled.

“Do you know,” Hennessey commented, “it might look a little less odd if you were to dance with one or two of the other young ladies. Standing here scowling at your uncle will only add fuel to the gossip.”

“Do you know,” Demetrius retorted, “I am beginning to find your helpfulness a bit tedious. Perhaps if you tried very hard, you could find someone else who would appreciate your advice more than I do.”

“Ah, but the lady patronesses won’t allow Malone and Mulrooney inside these sacrosanct portals, so I must keep my place here beside you.”

Demetrius turned to his friend in amazement. “Surely you do not suspect that there will be an attempt on my life in here?’’

“Why not? How difficult would it be in this crowd for someone to jostle up against you and at the same time to slip a dirk between your ribs? Or to drop some poison into your glass of orgeat? That stuff already tastes nasty enough to kill a man.”

“I hardly think it likely that Miss Hester Prestwich is skilled with a knife, and she cannot very well bring another like Black Jack in here to do the job. As you have pointed out already, the patronesses are particular as to whom they allow inside. Besides, why would a hired assassin go to so much trouble to gain admittance to Almack’s, when he can simply use a gun some night and shoot me down in cold blood? Of what use would you or Malone or Mulrooney or my uncle be in such an event?’’ Demetrius asked.