The Black Widow (22 page)

Tears filled her eyes at the thought of the endless days ... the empty weeks ... the unendurable months ... the unbearably lonely years. How could she manage without him? How could she even find comfort working in her garden, when everywhere she looked she was reminded of him?

Love was not supposed to make her feel like this—love was supposed to bring happiness and contentment, not soul-wrenching misery.

If only there were some safe way to continue seeing Lord Thorverton—some way to marry him that would not endanger his life or the lives of his family and friends.

In the dark, empty garden, it seemed to Meribe as if her life would always be as bleak and lonely as it was now. For a moment she almost wished her sister had arranged for a fatal accident to befall her. But then she resolutely pushed such unworthy thoughts out of her head.

Time, she knew full well, did indeed heal broken hearts. It would not be soon, but someday in the future she would be able to look back on these weeks in London and remember Lord Thorverton without pain. She would be able to feel gratitude for his friendship, for his assistance, for the comfort of his arms.

Someday, but not today. Tomorrow, even, she would try her best to be brave and resolute, but not now. It was too soon—the wound was too fresh, the pain too intense.

Sinking down onto the stone bench where she had sat with Lord Thorverton, Meribe covered her face with her hands and allowed the tears to flow.

How long she cried, she had no way of knowing, but when the tears finally ended, she wiped her eyes, sat up straighter, and began to plan her future—a future in which she would not be Lord Thorverton’s wife.

She was still determined to learn to ride, even though he would not be her teacher. She would also get a kitten, and her aunt would just have to accustom herself to it. But most important of all, she and Bagwell, her gardener, would turn the gardens of Prestwich Hall into such a showplace that people would come from miles around just to see the flowers and shrubs. Perhaps her aunt might even agree to having public days. Perhaps three times each year—once during the spring, once in the summer, and once in the fall—they could open the gates to all and sundry.

If only Aunt Phillipa would agree! It would be nice to have a goal in life—to have something to look forward to. And more important, if she and Bagwell were to do such a thing, they would have to work very hard, because there was so much that needed to be done, and consequently Meribe would not even have a moment to think about might-have-beens and if-onlys.

Rising from the bench with the intention of going inside, she happened to glance up and notice that the light was still on in her sister’s room. And what, Meribe wondered, would Hester do with her twenty thousand pounds a year? Would she stay in Norfolk or would she want to travel? Would she live here in London, in this house that would belong to her, or would she perhaps buy a house in Bath or Brighton? What kind of plans did she have for the money, to obtain which she had conspired to commit murder?

The words from the Bible came to Meribe then: What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the world and lose his soul?

What is it you want to possess that is worth the cost of another person’s life, Hester? she asked silently, staring up at the lighted window. Have you ever stopped to realize the price you are paying in order to acquire the luxuries that you seem to think you cannot live without? Will you be able to enjoy your ill-gotten gains? Is your conscience completely dead, or are you still feeling some twinges of guilt?

Even as Meribe watched, the light went out in her sister’s room, and it seemed almost as if Hester had answered her. Even later, when she was curled up in her own bed, the memory of that darkened window stayed with Meribe, as if it were a symbol of the blackness in her sister’s heart.

* * * *

Collier waited impatiently in the library for his brother to return from his evening’s entertainment. During the journey back to London, his anger had abated considerably, but he was having little luck curbing his restlessness.

While he could not agree that his brother had acted correctly in hiring a Bow Street runner, still and all, it was understandable that Demetrius had been concerned. As much as he hated to admit it, it had never occurred to Collier that anyone would suspect he had been the victim of foul play. Under normal circumstances, Demetrius would have jumped to the correct conclusion, namely that Collier was playing least-in-sight until he was no longer angry.

But these were not normal times—a murderer was walking the streets of Mayfair, stalking Demetrius, and therefore Collier should not have absented himself from his brother’s side.

All afternoon he had, in fact, been picturing all the terrible “accidents” that could have happened to Demetrius while he himself was larking about the countryside with his friends.

He was just starting to run through the possible disasters once again when he heard a commotion in the entrance hall. Hurrying to the library door, he opened it and beheld a strange spectacle.

Uncle Humphrey, Demetrius, and Thomas Hennessey stood there being fussed over by McDougal. Although the three gentlemen were dressed for an evening at Almack’s, they looked as if they had gone several rounds with the Bedford Bruiser. At second glance, Collier realized it was mostly their clothes, which had suffered from gross mistreatment, rather than themselves.

“Ecod, what have the three of you been doing—crawling home on your hands and knees?” he said, and instantly there was dead silence and three pairs of eyes turned toward him. Four pairs, actually, if one counted the butler’s.

After a long moment, during which Collier could feel his cheeks beginning to heat up, Demetrius said mildly, “Welcome back.’’

Collier had intended to rebuke his brother for sending a Bow Street runner after him, but now he changed his mind. From the manners of the others it was obvious to him that something untoward had happened this evening, and his own righteous indignation at being treated like a child now seemed ... seemed, well, rather childish.

“Would someone like to tell me what has been going on?” he said.

“Hum, well, yes.” Uncle Humphrey broke the silence. “Well, you see, my dear boy, while we were returning from an evening at Almack’s—the usual dismal affair, by the way. You did not miss a thing by staying away, but then, I have learned never to have any great expectations of a good time when I go there. Such an insipid place, I cannot think why it is so popular. But be that as it may, while we were strolling along on our way here—not that I would not have preferred to take a carriage, but then, no one consulted me. And do you know, now that I think on it, we would have been much better off to drive home, because someone took a couple of shots at your brother, and he would have been much safer if he’d been in a closed carriage, don’t you know.”

“That would explain the hole in his chapeau bras, then,” Collier said, admiring his own sangfroid.

Demetrius took his hat off and stared at it, then broke out laughing. “Ecod, but the blackguard was a better shot than I’ve been giving him credit for. It appears I have been remiss in not thanking you gentlemen properly for throwing me to the ground and nearly crushing the life out of me.”

Blast it all, Collier thought, he should never have left his brother’s side! He gave Hennessey a black look for having made his idiotic suggestions about the betrothal announcement and the prizefight.

The Irishman met his glance and shrugged. Then, looking suitably apologetic, he said, “As much as I admire your hallway, Thorverton, I suggest we retire to the library, and perhaps if it is not too much trouble, we might have a bit of that port I have been hearing so much about.”

“Capital suggestion,” Humphrey said. “Some of the ‘87, McDougal, if you please.”

A few minutes later they were all seated comfortably, Hennessey and Humphrey sipping the port, while Collier and Demetrius shared a bottle of excellent brandy.

“It seems to me,” Collier said, “that this whole affair has dragged on much too long. Something must be done, and done soon, to catch the villain.’’

“Or villains,” Hennessey said. “We suspect that Miss Hester Prestwich has a cohort—someone to act as an intermediary between her and the ruffians she hires.”

“You have proof of this?” Collier asked eagerly.

“Not a bit,” Demetrius replied. “But the pieces of the puzzle fit together better if we assume that someone of our own class is aiding and abetting her.”

“A gentleman?”

“Do not sound so surprised, little brother. You know very well that London is full of so-called gentlemen who have not even a nodding acquaintance with honor,” Demetrius pointed out.

“So the question is, what are we to do to trap the villainous pair?” Hennessey asked.

“To begin with,” Demetrius said, looking directly at his brother, “there will be no more announcements in the Morning Post.’’

Collier started to protest that his intentions had been good, but then he remembered his new resolve to act with more maturity, and he bit back the excuses he had been about to utter.

“The only thing for you to do is go back to Devon,” Uncle Humphrey said unexpectedly.

“And leave Miss Meribe alone? Don’t be daft,” Demetrius said heatedly.

His words were so angry, Collier looked at him in astonishment. What else had happened while he was out of town? Had his brother, who after Diana had jilted him had sworn an oath never to get mixed up with a female again—his brother, who was determined never to be leg-shackled—had his brother done the unthinkable and fallen in love? It appeared that such was indeed the case.

Bravo, big brother, Collier silently applauded.

“No, no,” Uncle Humphrey protested, “I did not mean abandon her. Take her along, and her aunt, and her sister, and whoever else we can think of. Do it up right, so it will look like a proper house party, don’t you know. The thing is, London is too big—there is no way we can protect you properly here. But Devon is another matter. Out there, so isolated on the moor, the servants would notice in a flash if some stranger was lurking about.”

“By Jove, that’s a capital idea,” Hennessey said. “I propose we drink a toast to your uncle, who has come up with the best plan yet.”

Rather than lifting his glass, Demetrius said, “Might I remind you that Miss Prestwich is not speaking to me at the moment?”

“But only because she thought young Collier here had been kidnapped by the assassin,” Uncle Humphrey said, and all eyes turned toward Collier, who felt even more ashamed of his earlier behavior. “But now that I think on it, you have only to tell her that your brother is home again safe and sound, and I am sure she will listen to you.”

“Your brother plans to propose to Miss Meribe Prestwich,” Hennessey explained, the light of mischief again in his eyes.

To his amazement, Collier noticed that Demetrius—his calm, mature, always-in-control-of-himself big brother—appeared to be blushing.

“I’ll drink to your success,” Collier said, his spirits lifting immeasurably. “I never did like the idea of stepping into your shoes. Now you will be able to provide your own heirs.”

There was no longer any doubt about it: Demetrius’s face was now bright red.

* * * *

“I think I would rather face the assassin unarmed,” Demetrius murmured to Hennessey early the next morning as they rumbled over the cobblestones in the closed carriage Hennessey had borrowed for the occasion from his father-in-law, the earl.

“Rather than what?” Hennessey asked. “Oh-ho, I have it. Rather than ask Miss Meribe Prestwich to marry you.” He chuckled. “Are you so unmanned by a pair of soft brown eyes that you cannot find the words that will make her yours? But come now, you have surely done this before—did you not propose to the fair Diana on bended knee?”

“That was ... easier somehow,” Demetrius replied. “I knew she was expecting me to do it, and I knew she intended to say yes.” What he did not add was that somehow her answer, whether aye or nay, had not been as important to him as Miss Prestwich’s answer was. Had Diana turned him down, he would have been indignant that she had led him on, and cross with her for not letting him know before he made a fool of himself, but even when he had still thought he wanted to marry her—even before he discovered what life would be like as her husband—even then he would not have felt as if his heart were broken if she had declined to marry him.

But if Miss Prestwich said no? He did not want to think about it. But as they proceeded through the streets of Mayfair, he had nothing else to think about, and the more he thought about it, the more determined he became.

If she said no, he would ask her again and again until she said yes. It was that simple. After all, he thought with an inner smile of delight, in the beginning she had repeatedly told him no when he had offered to be her friend, and yet he had managed every time to turn her no into a yes.

Since that was the case, why prolong things? Why not persuade her today, rather than tomorrow or the next day or the day after that?

“You are looking like the cat that ate the canary,” Hennessey said, interrupting his thoughts. “Have you figured out how you are going to persuade her to accept you?”

“Not at all,” Demetrius replied, now smiling openly. “But I am determined that you will not see me emerge from her house until I am betrothed.”

“Then I wish you luck, my friend,” Hennessey said as the coachman pulled the team to a halt and the footmen—in this case not the earl’s servants, but Malone and Mulrooney—sprang down from their places on the back of the coach and opened the door.

“I do not believe in luck, whether good or bad,” Demetrius replied. “Nor do I believe in fatal curses or evil spirits or”—and here he grinned broadly—”or even in leprechauns or other wee folk. What I do believe in is resolution, determination, and persistence. In short, when it comes to stubbornness, Miss Prestwich will discover that I am an expert and she is but a rank amateur.”

“Fortunately for you,” Hennessey agreed with a laugh. “I should not wish a wife for you who resembles your honorable mother.”