The Black Widow Read online

In the course of their rather heated discussion, Lord Thorverton had accused him of lacking compassion, which was patently untrue. It had been compassion—misguided, but well-intentioned—that had so disastrously loosened his tongue all those years ago.

  If only there were some way to go back in time! Given another chance, he would never have uttered those seemingly innocent words.

  But surely Lord Thorverton’s theories were not well-founded? There must be some other explanation. But in his heart, Augustus knew that he had indeed committed an unforgivable sin—the worst offense a solicitor could possibly be accused of. He had betrayed the confidence of one of his clients. Only once, to be sure, but that was one time too many.

  * * * *

  Arriving at his house in a less-than-congenial mood, Demetrius was somewhat cheered up by finding Thomas Hennessey waiting for him. His pleasure was tempered by the discovery that the Irishman had taken Collier into his confidence.

  That was a minor irritation, however, and quickly forgotten when Demetrius heard the distressing news his friend had discovered.

  “I have located your assailant—or rather, a watchman found him this morning. Besides the cut on his arm, which—and you may compliment your uncle on his swordplay—was to the bone, the man was also shot through the head.”

  “Shot!”

  Hennessey nodded. “I questioned the watchman, but apparently nothing incriminating was found on the body. The man was well-known in certain circles, however. He went by the name of Black Jack Brannigan, and a thoroughly nasty character he was. The authorities have long suspected him of committing various acts of violence, but they were never able to establish proof.”

  “Where was the body found?” Collier asked.

  “In Bruton Mews.”

  Turning to Demetrius, Collier said excitedly, “But that is directly behind the Prestwich residence in Berkeley Square.”

  “Which leads me to wonder who was employing him,” Demetrius replied. “Because if it were simply a matter of his attacking another innocent person, surely any person who shot him in self-defense would have reported the attack to the proper authorities.”

  “The same thought occurred to me,” Hennessey said. “But it appears that having sought out his employer, Mr. Brannigan received a bullet through his head in lieu of whatever money he was promised. Most unfortunate for us—although as things have turned out, he undoubtedly regrets as much as we do that he is unable to testify against the person who hired him. But tell us, did you fare any better at the solicitor’s office?’’

  Briefly and succinctly Demetrius related the events of their interview with Mr. Wimbwell.

  “What a stupid old man,” Collier blurted out.

  “I would not call him that,” Demetrius corrected him. “I can well understand his position. As he said, where would we be if everyone felt free to bend the law to suit his own requirements?”

  “That is quite generous of you,” Hennessey said, “but in this case his rigid adherence to the letter of the law may well cost you your life.”

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  Hester surveyed herself in the cheval glass. She was not entirely pleased with the new gown Madame Parfleur had sent over.

  “Amaranth is a most flattering color for you,” Jane commented beside her. “You should wear it more often. ‘‘

  “But the neckline is much too high,” Hester said crossly. “I cannot imagine what Madame was thinking about. She must have mistaken me for an old lady of ninety who is afraid of drafts.”

  Jane experimentally folded under a bit of the fabric at the neckline. “Perhaps it could be lowered by an inch or so.”

  “There is no perhaps about it,” Hester replied. “The dress is entirely unacceptable as it is now. It will have to go back for alterations.”

  They were interrupted by a light tap at the door. It was Smucker, come to inform her that she had a gentleman caller below.

  “Tell Lionell he can wait until I am done trying on my new gowns,” Hester replied automatically.

  “It is not Mr. Rudd, Miss Hester. I believe it to be your father’s solicitor, Mr. Wimbwell.”

  “Dear old Wimby? How delightful. I have not seen him since shortly after Father died. Put him in the library and tell him I shall be down directly. Oh, and, Smucker, fetch him some tea and a plate of bonbons. Wimby dearly loves chocolates, especially ones with cream centers.”

  “As you wish.” Smucker bowed himself out.

  “I shall wear this dress, Jane. As old as he is, Mr. Wimbwell will doubtless approve of its excessive mod­esty. But hurry and fix my hair.”

  A quarter of an hour later she joined her father’s solic­itor. He had aged shockingly since the last time they had met, and he looked as if he already had one foot in the grave. He struggled to get up out of his chair, but she laid her hand gently on his shoulder.

  “Do not get up, dearest Wimby.” She kissed him on the cheek, then seated herself in the chair next to his. “It has been so long since you visited us. I am sorry Meribe and my aunt are out shopping. They would have also been delighted to see you.”

  At the mention of the others, a shadow passed over the old man’s face, and he turned his head away slightly. “That is all for the better since I need to speak with you privately. I do not quite know how to say this.”

  Hester could not imagine what business had brought Mr. Wimbwell to speak to her rather than to her aunt. “Is it something to do with the trust?”

  “Yes,” he said, but his expression became even more hangdog. “I am afraid I have done something quite wicked.”

  Hester gasped. “Never say you have embezzled from my father’s estate!”

  Now it was Mr. Wimbwell’s turn to look shocked. “My word, nothing of the sort! All the assets are most prop­erly invested in government consols, and as long as there is an England, no harm can come to your ... er, to your father’s money. It is just ...”

  “It is just what?” Hester was getting so impatient to discover why he had come that she wished she could shake the information out of him.

  “I should never have revealed to you the terms of the trust,” he blurted out in a rush. Then he looked directly at her, and his eyes were filled with great sorrow.

  “But you told me all that years ago. Why is it now become such a problem that you have needed to come see me about it? Not that I am not happy to have this opportunity to visit with you, of course.”

  After a bit more persuading on her part, Wimbwell finally said, “If your sister marries in the next few weeks, your income will be only a tenth of what it would be if she remains single.”

  “Yes, yes, that is what you told me,” Hester said im­patiently. “Please go on.”

  “I do not know any delicate way to put this...” he continued to hedge.

  “Tell me at once!” Hester snapped out, her patience at an end.

  Startled, the old man blurted out, “Have you been hiring someone to murder all your sister’s suitors?’’

  “Murder?” Hester looked at him in astonishment. Did he actually suspect her of having hired someone to kill Meribe’s suitors? His question was so unexpected—and so preposterous—that she could barely keep herself from bursting out laughing. Poor old thing, he had apparently become completely senile.

  Tears of pity now filled her eyes, so upset was she that dear old Wimby had been reduced to this pathetic, para­noid old man. And all those years ago he had been such an intelligent man, awake on every suit, or so her father had always said.

  “There, there, my dear child.”

  Now he was patting her hand, trying to comfort her! She had to bite her lip to hold back the hysterical laugh­ter.

  “It was silly of me to think you could ever do such a thing.”

  By digging her fingernails into her palms, she was able to control her emotions enough to say calmly, “Indeed it was. I would not even know where to find a ... a murderer for hire, were I to want to employ such a per­son, which I as
sure you I do not.”

  The relief on his face made her angry. Who did he think he was, coming to her with his ridiculous accus­ations? And what kind of a person did he think she was? Even making allowances for his apparent senility did lit­tle to lessen the hurt.

  “I do apologize for my suspicions, my child, which I see were completely unfounded.” He continued to beg her pardon, but she scarcely heard what he was saying. When she was a child, he had held her on his knee and allowed her to play with his watch, and yet he had thought her capable of murder?

  It was all of a piece—first Peter had betrayed her; then her father, and now even Wimbwell, who had always liked her the best, had turned against her.

  It required an immense effort to remain civil until she finally managed to usher the old man out of the house. But it did not take long after that for her to see the possibilities for humor in the whole episode. As she had always done, she hid her pain behind a sharp tongue and a sarcastic wit.

  * * * *

  “Me? Why should I dance with her?” Uncle Humphrey looked at Demetrius in dismay.

  “Because I am determined to disprove this supposed curse once and for all,” Demetrius replied. “Therefore I have been enlisting some of my friends—Thomas Hennessey, Collier, and a few others I am sure I can trust to hold their tongues—to dance with Miss Prestwich.”

  “But... but... but ...” Humphrey looked around as if wishing he could flee from the spot, but Demetrius had him cornered between a pair of potted palms, and there was no way for him to escape except by climbing over one or the other of them.

  “And do not try to convince me that you are still afraid some supernatural power will strike you down,” Demetrius said, keeping his voice low so that none of the other guests would overhear them. “You know as well as I do that Black Jack was undoubtedly a paid assassin and that he is by now already rotting in a pauper’s grave.”

  “But ... but ... I don’t ...”

  “And do not try to persuade me that you do not dance, for I have seen you leading out any number of ladies.”

  “Married ladies only, I assure you, my boy.”

  “You need not worry. I can vouch for Miss Prestwich; she will not set her cap for you.”

  “But the problem is her aunt. I cannot abide that woman, don’t you know.”

  “No, I do not know,” Demetrius said crossly. “I have been trying to find out what unforgivable thing you did to her all those years ago, but so far my mother refuses to divulge your secrets, and you are also proving quite impossible to pin down.”

  “I? I? I did nothing to her—you should rather ask what she did to me!”

  “What did she do to you?” Demetrius asked.

  “She ... Oh, blast it all, Nephew, as much as I despise that woman, as a gentleman I cannot reveal what she did, not even to you, else I could not hold up my head in public any longer. Now, stop berating me, for it will do you no good.”

  “I am not asking you to dance with the aunt,” Demetrius said in a low, menacing voice. “You may give her the cut direct for all I care. But you will be civil to the niece, or you will answer to me.”

  Humphrey tugged his waistcoat down over his rounded paunch, brushed an imaginary speck of lint off the sleeve of his jacket, eyed Demetrius consideringly, then finally said sulkily, “Very well, I shall dance with the chit.”

  “Thank you, Uncle, I knew I could count on you. You will find she is quite light on her feet. I do not think you need worry about your toes.”

  “Bah!” was all the reply his uncle vouchsafed.

  * * * *

  “And then he asked me if I had hired someone to kill my sister’s suitors! Can you imagine such impertinence? Really, he was too droll.” Hester looked at her friend expectantly, but instead of smiling, Lionell raised his hand to cover a yawn.

  “My dear, if you will persist in telling these boring stories about senile old men, I shall be forced to take myself off to the card room.”

  “Well, I found him quite amusing.”

  “Old people are never amusing, only tedious. I should prefer it if no one over the age of fifty were allowed in London.’’

  Hester did not even smile at his feeble attempt at wit, although her lack of response did not appear to bother Lionell in the slightest. He began to tell her the current on-dit about Lord Westerholme’s wife, which was so titillating that Hester abandoned her affronted pose and related to Lionell the equally scandalous—and even possibly true—story she had heard concerning the third Baron Edgeford, father of the present baron.

  * * * *

  It was amazing what one could accomplish by greasing the right palm, Collier thought with a smile. Moving soundlessly through the darkened rooms of the solicitor’s premises, he soon reached the door he had been seeking. Taking a second key from his pocket, he inserted it in the lock, turned it, and heard the telltale snick of the bolt.

  Once inside the room, he checked to see that the heavy curtains were tightly closed, then raised the shutter on his lantern only far enough that he could inspect the contents of the file drawers.

  Finding the correct folder was more difficult than he had anticipated since there seemed to be no logic to the order of the files.

  After a wasted hour he suddenly realized that they were after all arranged logically—not alphabetically, as might be expected, but by the rank and importance of the various clients. Going back to the first drawer, he quickly flipped past one duke, three earls, a half-dozen or so viscounts, innumerable barons, until he finally found the proper drawer containing records for baronets.

  Moments later he was extracting the papers concerning Sir John Prestwich’s estate. Without any qualms he seated himself at the desk and began to copy the pertinent ones, using Mr. Wimbwell’s own quill and ink for his purpose.

  The documents were long and full of legal terminology, and the sky was exhibiting a rosy tinge in the east by the time he was finished and the original documents were restored to their proper place.

  Tucking the copies inside his jacket, he quickly and noiselessly left the premises, locking the doors behind him and hiding both keys in the crevice where he had been instructed to leave them.

  A good night’s work, he thought with satisfaction. And the contents of the papers were damning enough to justify the risk he had taken. Demetrius would be very pleased to have his suspicions confirmed.

  * * * *

  Looking around Tattersall’s for his brother, Collier spotted his uncle instead. Humphrey Swinton was patting the neck of a flashy black gelding, whose groom was talking rapidly and earnestly.

  “Good afternoon, Uncle,” Collier said, inspecting the beast with a jaundiced eye.

  “Ah, Collier, my boy. How lucky for me that you have turned up at such an opportune time. Give me your opinion of this fine fellow—should I buy him or not?”

  “That would depend, of course, on whether you were wishing to put him in your stables or in your stewpan.”

  Collier’s answer did not please the groom overmuch. With a disgusted snort he led the horse away, no doubt seeking a less discerning customer to diddle.

  Casting one last look at the departing pair, Humphrey said, “Are you sure, Nephew? It seemed like such a pretty horse—its coat was so shiny and healthy-looking.”

  “Boot blacking,” Collier muttered, still checking the crowd for his brother.

  “Really? How odd.”

  “Only thing odd about it is finding it here at Tatt’s. It’s an old trick, but if one of the Tattersalls discovers it is being used here, the owner will have to take his business elsewhere. By the bye, have you seen Demetrius? I was told he was here.”

  “Saw him not ten minutes ago down at the kennels. Told me he’s considering picking up some Welsh foxhounds. Wants to try running them with the English hounds—maybe even try a little cross-breeding. Can’t say I approve, but your brother always was determined to go his own way.”

  A few minutes later Collier spotted his brother ta
lking with old Mr. Tattersall. Moving through the group of men inspecting the various hounds, he waited impatiently while Demetrius finished his conversation. “Got something you will be interested in,” he said out of the corner of his mouth when Mr. Tattersall finally excused himself to talk to another customer.

  “What is it?” Demetrius asked impatiently, his gaze and his attention still on a fine couple of hounds being exhibited.

  “Can’t tell you here. Need to find someplace more private.” Sliding his hand inside his jacket, Collier pulled the papers out just enough that his brother could see the corners.

  After eyeing them with some displeasure, Demetrius looked around, then led the way to a quiet corner, where he took the documents and flipped through them quickly, his face gradually turning an alarming shade of red. “Where the devil did you get these?”

  Gleefully Collier explained how easily he had managed to acquire them. Instead of praising him for his resourcefulness, however, Demetrius continued to scowl at him.

  “How could you have done such a childish trick?”

  “Childish? There was nothing childish about it,” Collier snapped back, thoroughly incensed at his brother’s attitude. Demetrius was always determined to hog all the glory for himself; he never wanted Collier to receive credit for anything.

  “You are correct—it was merely illegal, or had you considered that? Bribery, breaking and entering, stealing documents—is that the full extent of your criminal activities, or have you neglected to tell me the whole of it?”

  “I should have known you would not appreciate the trouble I have gone to on your behalf.”

  “Trouble? You do not seem to understand just how serious the consequences will be if anyone discovers what you have done.”

  “No one suspects a thing.”

  “And pray tell me how you can possibly know that.”

  For the first time, Collier began to feel a trifle uneasy about his nocturnal adventure. “Well, and why would they suspect something? I left everything exactly the way I found it.”

  “Did you? Are you absolutely positive? Is this another of your ‘sure things’?”