The Black Widow Read online

  THE BLACK WIDOW

  Charlotte Louise Dolan

  About the Author

  Publishing Information

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  May 1809

  There are some moments in life so perfect that one would like to hold onto them forever. This was definitely one of those times, Demetrius Baineton, Lord Thorverton, decided. Inside the cool dimness of his own stable, he was surrounded by the familiar smell of the hay and horses; and the occasional murmurs of grooms and stable lads as they went about their business did nothing to disturb the peaceful serenity of the morning.

  But even more crucial to his feeling of total satisfaction and complete contentment was his recognition of the fact that he was exactly where he wanted to be, doing exactly what he wanted to do.

  “I do not think I will ever become so jaded that such a sight does not thrill me,” he commented, keeping his voice low to avoid spooking the mare in the stall before him. She was nudging her newborn foal, urging it to its feet. The beautifully formed little filly wobbled and staggered, but soon managed to coordinate its gangling limbs well enough to find its breakfast.

  “All in all, we have been unbelievably lucky,” Lawrence Mallory replied. “Dolly here is the last one, which means we did not lose a single mare or foal this spring.”

  Demetrius glanced at his cousin, who did not seem terribly pleased with their good fortune. “Why the long face? You look as morose as a man who has just watched his horse come in last at Newmarket.”

  “It has been my experience that luck has a way of balancing out. After so many months with things going exactly the way we would wish, I cannot help but feel disaster is lurking just around the corner.”

  Demetrius chuckled. “Forget such superstitious nonsense and come up to the house. Watching that little filly gulp down her first meal has made me realize we missed breakfast completely.’’

  “I shall be along in a minute, after I speak to Tompson about Daisy’s sore hock.”

  There was a clatter of hooves outside, and Demetrius emerged into the bright sunlight in time to welcome Andrew and Anthony, the thirteen-year-old twins from the neighboring estate. As usual, their little cousin Jenny was riding on Anthony’s lap.

  “Has Dolly had her foal yet?” Andrew asked, swinging down from his horse.

  “Not more than ten minutes ago,” Demetrius replied. “A filly, and as pretty as a picture. Did Anne not come with you?”

  With supreme confidence that he would catch her, Jenny threw herself down into Andrew’s uplifted arms. After two years of observing the child’s total lack of fear, Demetrius should have been accustomed to such hair-raising sights, but his heart still skipped a beat.

  “Bronson is bringing her in the phaeton,” Anthony explained, dismounting in a more normal fashion. “She is increasing again. It’s such a bother. Now she won’t be allowed to have any fun all summer.’’

  “I don’t know why she could not simply have had twins the first time around,” Andrew complained. “She usually does things more efficiently than this.’’

  Smiling broadly, Demetrius held out his arms, and with a gurgle of laughter Jenny came to him, hugging him and “talking” a mile a minute. She was quite a little chatterbox, and always spoke with great earnestness, but so far no one could understand a single word she said, which luckily did not seem to bother her in the slightest.

  The twins vanished into the stables, and standing there with the baby in his arms, Demetrius felt an intense longing—a deep regret that he was not married with a child of his own. But it was only a momentary sadness, which he easily dispelled by simply remembering his former betrothed. If Diana had not jilted him, he would not be standing here enjoying the beauties of spring in Devon; he would be in London suffering through the frenzy of the Season.

  Moreover, any child they might have had would undoubtedly have been raised by the servants. Very few parents followed such revolutionary practices as Branson and Anne did, of taking care of their children themselves. Most men paid more attention to the training of their horses than they did to the education of their children, and most women spent more time with their hairdressers than with their own babies.

  If only, Demetrius thought, watching the phaeton approach, he could meet a woman like Anne—a woman who was fearless, capable, self-confident, intelligent, and knowledgeable about any and all subjects. There was nothing Anne could not do, and do to perfection, and in a contest of any kind, whether physical or mental, it would take an extraordinary man to beat her. And yet such masculine traits did not detract in the slightest from her womanliness.

  Bronson and the twins adored her and openly basked in her warmth and approval. Actually, the entire household at Wylington Manor revolved around her, as if she were the sun and they were planets orbiting in her sphere.

  Diana had also wanted—no, demanded—to be the center of attention, but it had not been the same. Thinking about it, Demetrius realized she had always taken from him; she had never given anything back. If he had married her, she would eventually have sucked him dry, until he was only an empty husk ... rather like her father.

  No, since there were no other women who could begin to equal Anne, it was better that he stay single, Demetrius decided, not for the first time. His brother, Collier, would doubtless marry in due course and provide for the succession, and if not, then there were any number of cousins who would be more than happy to move into Thorverton Hall.

  “Why so pensive this morning?” Bronson, Lord Leatham, asked, helping his wife out of the phaeton. “Has my daughter been talking your ears off?”

  Going to meet his guests, Demetrius replied only half-jokingly, “Your daughter is a delight as always. If I look thoughtful, it is merely because I have been considering how best to effect your demise, Leatham, so that I can marry your widow. Good morning, Anne, you are looking in remarkably good health.”

  “So I have tried to convince my husband, but Bronson persists in treating me as if I were made of delicate porcelain, merely because I am in an ‘interesting condition.’ I have told him repeatedly that in the Mohawk tribes the women continue their normal activities right up until the day their babies are born, but still he will not let me ride.’’ She gave her husband a darkling look.

  Being a prudent man, Leatham ignored the open invitation to quarrel, instead retrieving a small packet of papers from the phaeton. “Our groom picked up your mail along with ours when he went into Tavistock this morning.”

  “Thank you. I was about to go up to the house and have a bite to eat. Will you join me, or would you rather be introduced to the new foal?’’

  Food being Anne’s choice, she and Demetrius left Bronson with the children and strolled up to the house, where the cook produced a veritable feast, including a bowl of clotted cream with berries for Anne, whose partiality for the same was well-known in the neighborhood.

  His pleasant mood vanished, however, when Demetrius glanced through his mail and found along with the London newspapers a letter from his mother. Only the presence of a lady prevented him from uttering a curse, but he could not keep his face from revealing some of his annoyance.

  “Bad news?” Anne asked politely.

  “A letter from my mother,” he replied, breaking the seal. “Doubtless full of recriminations and accusations—pointing out to me that I am an unnatural son who will drive her to her deathbed by breaking her heart since I willfully choose to hide myself away in Devon rather than escort her around London, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.” He glanced at the tangle of swirls and loops that covered the sheet of paper. “She does seem more upset than usual this time since her handwriting has gone from barely adequate to completely illegible. I wonder at her purpo
se in sending me a letter I cannot begin to read.”

  “Would you like me to see if I can decipher it?” Anne offered politely. “When I was a governess, I acquired considerable skill with such things.”

  “I am not at all sure I want you to,” Demetrius replied with a wry smile. “Lawrence warned me not half an hour ago that we are due for some bad luck, and I have a feeling that I would be happier were I to throw this letter in the fire unread.” As strong as the temptation was to do just that, he nevertheless handed the missive to Anne, who studied it for a while before speaking.

  “It would be easier if she had not crossed and re-crossed her lines, and then too, in so many places her tears have caused the ink to run.”

  “I doubt she was actually crying. I have long suspected that she keeps a dish of water on her writing desk so that she may sprinkle her letters with the appropriate number of drops to indicate the level of despair and heartbreak I have caused her.’’

  “There is something here about unnatural ... yes, you were quite right, the next word appears to be ‘son.’ She seems to require your presence in London ... something about death...”

  “My unfilial actions over the years have repeatedly brought her to her deathbed, which is amazing, considering she is as healthy as a horse,” he interjected.

  “No, it appears to be Collier’s early demise that she is worried about.”

  Demetrius sat up straighter. “Collier? What has that idiot brother of mine done? Has he challenged someone to a duel or some such fool thing? Or is he merely pestering her again to buy him his colors and let him go off to fight Napoleon?’’

  “It is hard to say. The crucial words have been quite washed away. Luckily she has a tendency to repeat herself ... ah-hah! I have it. Collier has fallen in love with a widow ...no, with the Black Widow.”

  “The Black Widow? Not the Scarlet Hussy?”

  “Apparently there is more danger than just to his heart ... your mother seems to be saying that young men who dangle after the Black Widow have a shortened life expectancy. Surely I cannot have read that right.”

  Demetrius had an ominous feeling that the misfortune he had joked about earlier was about to overtake him.

  “No, that seems to be what she is saying—that Collier has fallen in love with a widow whose charms have a tendency to be fatal.”

  “I suspect my mother is exaggerating the situation.” Demetrius shoved back his chair and stalked over to the window. “It is doubtless all a plot to get me to London, where the crisis will naturally have quite resolved itself, but since I am there anyway, would it not be delightful if I were to meet the daughter of one of her friends? Such a sweet girl, so good-natured, so accomplished. Bah! I know my mother, and I am not falling for her stratagems, no matter how many letters she dispatches, nor how many tears she sprinkles on them.”

  Behind him Anne said nothing, nor did she need to. He knew very well that he would have to go to London. Nothing else would have sufficed to get him there, but danger—real or imaginary—to his little brother must always make him run to the rescue.

  * * * *

  “I would appreciate it if you would stop grinning. I see nothing amusing about being forced to go haring off to London when there is so much work to be done around here.” Demetrius scowled at his cousin.

  “I am sorry, but I cannot help but be happy that misfortune, when it did strike, struck you and not—”

  “Not yourself. Thank you so much. I do appreciate your concern.”

  “I was going to say, and not the horses,” Lawrence said. “Speaking of which, you are not to worry about them. I can handle the stud in your absence, as I proved three years ago.”

  “Well, at least this time I shall not be gone very long. Odds are my mother has merely taken a queer start and is imagining danger where there is none. After all, most young men on the town for the first time fall in love with some unsuitable female—an opera dancer or a dashing widow—but that does not mean they marry such persons.

  “I am sure I can persuade Collier to be reasonable, or if worse comes to worst, I can drag him back here bodily, although I do not think my mother would like that any too well. She prefers to keep him dancing attendance on her, something I was always too disobliging to do.”

  “I feel I should tell you that Tompson has his nose bent out of shape since he heard that you intend to take one of the lads instead of him. He feels his seniority should give him the right to accompany you.”

  “As head groom, he is needed more here. I am also leaving Fredericks behind, and he is equally miffed. The two of them can doubtless console each other.”

  “You are not even taking your valet? How eccentric do you wish to be thought?”

  “Eccentricity has nothing to do with the matter. If I take him along, my mother will do her best to coerce me into attending any number of balls and dances and ridottos and rout parties and musical evenings and Venetian breakfasts and whatever else the hostesses have come up with by now. This way, I shall have an excuse to cut my visit short. And to strengthen my case, I am also taking along only enough clean shirts for one week.”

  Lawrence smiled. “Be as devious as you wish, but I will wager ten guineas that you will be sending for Fredericks and the rest of your wardrobe before that week is up.”

  * * * *

  Demetrius did not arrive at his mother’s residence in Grosvenor Square until late on the afternoon of the third day after he received her letter. Technically the house had belonged to him since his father’s death, but his mother always acted as if she still owned it. Given his distaste for London, he had never made any effort to assert his rights in the matter.

  Having sent his horses and groom around to the stables, he banged on the front door more vigorously than was perhaps necessary, but then, he had been in a foul mood for every minute of those three days.

  He was just lifting his hand to the knocker again when the door was opened by his mother’s starched-up butler, who ignored his scowl and welcomed him quite formally to London.

  Stalking past the man into the entrance hall, Demetrius did not bother to disguise his mood. “It is not a good day, McDougal. I have not had a good day since my mother sent for me. Fetch me a bottle of brandy and then tell her I am in my study. The sooner this farce is played out, the sooner I can return to Devon.”

  “Your mother is out, m’lord.”

  “Out?” Demetrius paused in the doorway of his study.

  “She always goes for a drive in the park at five, m’lord.”

  “I see. The situation with my brother is desperate, yet she has not let it interrupt her social activities. I was a fool to have come here. You may tell her that if she wishes to speak with me, she may visit me at Thorverton Hall.”

  Turning on his heel, he retraced his steps, but escape was not to be that easy. By scurrying in a most undignified manner, the butler managed to reach the front door before him and blocked his exit.

  Looking embarrassed by his own temerity, McDougal spoke up, his voice quavering with unbutlerish emotion. “Begging your pardon, m’lord, but I fear your brother has indeed gotten himself into mortal danger. We have all been praying you would arrive in time to save him. He appears to be so infatuated with the Black Widow, Lady Thorverton is afraid that if she allows him even to suspect she has sent for you, he will take offense at her interference and be goaded into doing something rash.”

  “Something rash? Surely he cannot be seriously contemplating matrimony at his age?”

  “That is precisely what is worrying us all, m’lord. Even Lady Thorverton is convinced that young Master Collier intends to offer for that woman as soon as he is twenty-one, which will be in another six and a half weeks. They do say that the odds in the clubs are now three to two that your brother will not survive the Season.”

  Demetrius could not believe how overly dramatic everyone was acting. What had this widow done—poisoned several husbands? If so, why had she not been brought to justice?


  “So how am I to persuade him to give up this woman without letting him suspect that I am opposed to the match?”

  “Lady Thorverton is hoping that you will pretend you have come up to London for some business reasons.”

  “That is all well and good, but has she figured out what I am to do after that?”

  The butler looked completely miserable. “She has not made me privy to all her plans.”

  “Which means she does not have any plans.” Biting back an oath, Demetrius turned away from the door. “I do not suppose my brother is in?”

  The butler cleared his throat, then said, “I regret to inform you that young Master Collier no longer resides under this roof. He has taken rooms at the Albany.”

  Demetrius began to suspect that he had at last discovered the real reason his mother had summoned him to London—not, as she was trying to pretend, to save his brother from the clutches of a scheming widow, but rather to coerce Collier into residing once again under the parental roof, where she could more easily control his every activity.

  * * * *

  Demetrius had no difficulty tracking down his brother, who was with two friends in his rooms at the Albany. Unfortunately, the guilty expression on Collier’s face did not bode well for the quick accomplishment of the task assigned to Demetrius.

  “What are you doing in London?” Collier blurted out.

  “Mind your manners,” Demetrius answered, more than a little put out by his brother’s obvious discomposure. How deeply was the boy involved with this Black Widow?

  “Oh, of course. Uh, these are my friends, Ernest Saville and Charles Neuce.”

  “Your brother and I have already met,” Neuce immediately told Collier.

  Demetrius cast his mind back, but could dredge up no recollection of the other man, who was watching him with all the eager expectancy of a young, untrained foxhound.

  “I bought a hunter from you four years ago,” Neuce prompted. “A chestnut gelding, name of Hey Go Mad.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember.” Demetrius did not bother to mention that while he could recall the horse quite clearly, he still had no memory of the man who had bought it.