The Black Widow Read online

  “Quite the best hunter I ever owned, in fact. Shame I lost him to Nethercott on a wager.’’

  Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Collier repeated his question. “So, uh, what are you doing in London? Thought you never came here during the Season.”

  “I have come to see a man about a horse,” Demetrius said vaguely, wishing he could have discussed strategy with his mother before this confrontation. Actually, it was doubtful if she had any useful ideas on the subject. What he should have done was have a long talk with Anne before he left Devon. If she could not have come up with a foolproof plan to separate Collier from the Black Widow, doubtless the twins could have. Two more ingenious boys he had never met ... nor ever wanted to meet.

  “How fortunate!” Neuce exclaimed. “I have my eye on a team of matched grays that is being auctioned off at Tatt’s. Would you perhaps have time to accompany me tomorrow? I would appreciate the advice of an expert.”

  “Since I raise hunters, I am not an expert on carriage horses,” Demetrius pointed out. Then, seeing the look of relief on his brother’s face, he changed his mind. If Collier did not want him hanging around, then Demetrius was determined to stay as close to his brother as sticking plaster. “But I shall be happy to go along and check them out for you. I can at least see if they are sound and not broken in wind.”

  “Capital! I say, why don’t you come with us this evening? We are dining at White’s and then dropping by the Cholmondseys’ ball. I am sure they would have extended an invitation to you, had they known you were in town.”

  Deliberately ignoring the horrified expression on his brother’s face, Demetrius readily agreed to change into evening dress and meet the other three at White’s at seven.

  * * * *

  Demetrius stared in amused disbelief at the Cholmondseys’ ballroom, which was decked out to resemble the grounds of an Italian villa—or perhaps a Spanish grandee’s estate? It was difficult to determine exactly what had been intended, but the labor involved in dragging in garden statues and large marble urns had to have been immense, not to mention the cost of the hundreds of flowers that competed with the guests for elbow room.

  The last three years might well have been three days, so few changes could he see in the people around him. To be sure, there was a new row of eager young things seated beside their chaperones. But the look of desperation on their faces so precisely duplicated the expressions worn by the girls being presented three years ago that, with very little effort, one could convince oneself that they were the identical young ladies.

  Looking around, he gradually began to recognize a few people he had been acquainted with before, although he could not put names to all the faces. There was, of course, the usual assortment of perennial bachelors and bored husbands, eager mamas and ancient beldams, dandies and Corinthians, high sticklers and dashing young matrons.

  Unfortunately, no matter how he studied the other guests, Demetrius could not determine which of the women was the one called the Black Widow. For a moment he thought he might be wasting his time—that she might not even be in attendance this evening. But then he remembered the look of dismay on his brother’s face. No, Collier’s inamorata was sure to be here already, or she would be before the evening was over.

  His job would be immensely easier if he had some idea what she looked like. Perhaps if he circulated through the room, he might overhear a conversation that would give him an indication as to whom he was looking for.

  Heading in the general direction of the refreshment table, he listened carefully to what people were saying, but none of the gossip he heard mentioned the fatal widow.

  In the corner, halfway hidden behind the statue of a wood nymph, he spotted the former Miss Everard, one of Diana’s bosom bows, batting her eyelashes at Lord Huxmere, whose wife was dancing with Major Thomas. Although Demetrius could not remember the name of the man Miss Everard had married, he was reasonably sure it was the man presently flirting with Lord Buckner’s second wife. Which meant Miss Everard was not a widow, and so she could be eliminated.

  Demetrius could not completely hold back a smile when he approached Lionell Rudd, who was sitting with the chaperones. Three years ago Rudd had aspired to be the leader of fashion. This evening he had definitely achieved the dubious distinction of being the most foolish-looking fop at the ball.

  Underendowed by nature, the skinny little man was wearing a coat that had been padded to give him a most impressive set of shoulders, then nipped in so sharply at the waist, it was a wonder the man could breathe. To add to his magnificence, the colors he was sporting would have made a peacock blush, plus he had at least twenty fobs and seals dangling from his waistcoat.

  As silly as Rudd looked, the dandy was apparently not lacking in mettle—he was conversing with Hester Prestwich, whose sharp tongue had left scars on many an inoffensive young man. Her looks were not to be despised, and they had even gained her a number of suitors during her first Season, which had been—Demetrius counted back—about six years ago, when he himself had been an unlicked cub like Collier, set loose in London for the first time and determined to make a fool of himself.

  If memory served him right, she had even been betrothed for a short period of time, but a few weeks later a retraction had appeared in the Morning Post. No one had been terribly surprised since any man who married her could expect to live under the cat’s paw.

  Demetrius’s attention moved on to the girl sitting beside Miss Prestwich. There was enough resemblance to make it likely that she was a younger sister.

  Her hair was a rich chestnut and was piled on top of her head, exposing a very graceful neck. She had not the classic beauty of her older sister—her nose was definitely not regal, and her upper lip was a bit too short, while her lower lip was too full. Actually, her lips looked quite kissable.

  Overall, her features were softer, more rounded, and definitely more appealing than those of Miss Hester Prestwich. Idly he wondered what the younger sister’s given name was.

  Unexpectedly the girl glanced up and caught him staring right at her. Her eyes were dark and appeared over-large for her face, like those of a newborn foal. For a long moment he was able to look deep into her eyes. He saw such sadness there—such a look of injured innocence—that it was disconcerting, and he felt almost relieved when she again lowered her eyes to her hands, which were busily engaged in twisting up a handkerchief to its obvious detriment.

  “Young man, I will thank you to go about your business,” the hatched-faced woman sitting next to the two girls snapped out at him. “My niece is not a raree show, to be gawked at so rudely.’’

  Recognizing Miss Prestwich’s aunt, also a Miss Prestwich since she had never married, Demetrius bowed and murmured all the correct apologies, but the old harridan was not to be appeased. She seemed determined to blame Demetrius for all the shortcomings of the male of the species—failings that in her mind appeared to be innumerable.

  Giving up the obviously futile task of coaxing her out of her bad temper, he moved on and resumed his quest, feeling a moment of pity for the youngest Miss Prestwich, trapped as she was between a sharp-tongued sister and a man-hating aunt. It was small wonder none of the young bucks were crowding around, eager to sign her dance card.

  Finally reaching his ostensible goal, he helped himself to a glass of champagne, then turned to survey the crowd once again. Belatedly it occurred to him that all he actually needed to do was pay attention to his brother and notice which of the ladies he paid attention to. With luck, Collier would betray himself.

  Demetrius should have remembered that luck was what he no longer had. By the time the evening was half over, Collier had done nothing more reprehensible than dance with a few young ladies, none of them twice. Demetrius was about to give it up as a lost cause and go home when he spotted his mother’s brother, Humphrey Swinton, signaling him frantically from the other side of the room.

  With great resolution and determination, Demetrius once again began to squeeze
his way through the press of people, but this time he moved as quickly as the crowd allowed.

  Before he could indicate his desire to speak privately with him, his uncle caught him by the arm and dragged him behind a pillar. “Demetrius, my boy, thank the dear Lord I have found you. Your mother insisted I come here this evening to help you rescue your brother, but it is too late—he is already asking that wretched woman to dance a second time. Either Collier is dicked in the nob or he has grown tired of this life. I cannot help thinking he should be locked up.”

  Demetrius peered around the column and spotted his brother not fifteen feet away, bowing in front of ... No, that was clearly impossible!

  Ducking back behind the pillar, he questioned his uncle further, thinking there had to be some mistake. “You cannot mean to tell me that Miss Hester Prestwich is the Black Widow?”

  “No, no, of course not. It is her younger sister, Miss Meribe Prestwich, whose charms are so fatal.”

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  Among all the women Demetrius had suspected that evening, the youngest Miss Prestwich had definitely not been included.

  “They are doing it on a dare, you should realize.”

  A man’s high-pitched voice spoke right behind him, and Demetrius turned to see Lionell Rudd, who was smiling with malicious glee.

  “The young bucks think they are proving their courage by dancing with her. Your brother is pushing his luck even further than most by asking for a second dance. It does raise a question about his intelligence, would you not say, Thorverton?”

  Restraining his impulse to toss the dandy out the nearest window, Demetrius moved a few feet away until he had a clear view of his brother, who was still standing in front of Miss Meribe Prestwich. He was saying something, but whatever it was, she did not appear to be pleased. Her eyes still downcast, she was shaking her head repeatedly.

  “Got to stop your brother before he ends up cold in his grave like her other suitors,” Uncle Humphrey said in a loud whisper.

  While Demetrius watched, Miss Hester Prestwich said something sharply to her sister, who gave a start, then stood up and with obvious reluctance allowed Collier to lead her out to join a set that was forming.

  Having seen enough, Demetrius took his uncle’s arm and began to urge him toward the door. Behind them Rudd snickered nastily.

  “Are you not going to make a push to rescue your brother?” Uncle Humphrey protested. “Are you intending to leave him in that woman’s clutches? Have you no sense of duty? You are the head of the family, after all.”

  “My brother can go to the devil with my blessing,” Demetrius retorted, continuing out of the room and down the stairs. “And while he is starting on his journey, you and I are going to have a long talk.”

  “I am not sure I wish to get involved,” his uncle said. “It is bound to upset my digestion.”

  Pausing briefly to retrieve their hats and Uncle Humphrey’s cane, they soon emerged into the cool night air, which was a welcome relief. It was hard to believe that the same people who complained about the smell of horses and the “stink” of the stables could spend hours in stuffy, overheated rooms that reeked of hot wax, stale sweat, and musky perfumes.

  “Did you bring your carriage?” Demetrius asked.

  “No, I came with Mannlius, and he is going to think it dashed queer of me to take off this way without a word to him.”

  Shrugging, Demetrius began to walk in the direction of Grosvenor Square. His uncle hesitated, then hurried to catch up. “You cannot expect me to converse while galloping along like this.”

  Obediently Demetrius shortened his stride to match his uncle’s slower pace. “Begin,” he said curtly.

  “The question is, precisely what is the beginning?” his uncle tried to hedge, but a sharp look from Demetrius made him clear his throat and start over.

  “Well, I suppose it began three years ago when Miss Meribe became betrothed to Collingwood. He was quite a catch for a young lady of seventeen in her first Season. Son of an earl, and all.”

  “You are referring to Lord Wittingham’s heir?”

  “Not any longer. Less than a week before the wedding, he was thrown from his horse and broke his neck. Fortunately, he has three younger brothers, so there is no problem with the succession.”

  “I am not concerned about the succession, I am interested in Miss Meribe Prestwich.”

  “Well, after that disaster, she retired to the country, of course. I believe they have an estate in Norfolk or Suffolk or some such place. Well, what else could the poor girl do? She could hardly be expected to finish out the Season. Wouldn’t have been proper, don’t you know. Although,” his uncle continued reflectively, “I am not sure how long one is expected to mourn for one’s betrothed. Undoubtedly not as long as for a husband, of course. But you can ask your mother; I am sure she would know.”

  “You are wandering off the subject, uncle.”

  “Hmmm? Oh, yes. Well, the next Season, she got betrothed to Lord Thurwell. Only a baron, and not nearly as well-funded as Collingwood, but still and all, a decent catch.”

  “What happened to him?” Demetrius prompted.

  “Got run down in the street by a dray three days after the betrothal was announced in the Morning Post. The driver claimed it was an accident—insisted Thurwell just stepped out in front of him. Most people disagreed.”

  “Did they think there was foul play? Was there any investigation?”

  “Foul play? No, no, nothing like that. Most people thought that she was under an evil spell, and Thurwell was merely an innocent victim of that curse, don’t you know. And time has proved them right. Miss Prestwich removed herself from London again, and I, for one, never thought to see her turn up here again last Season. Well, stands to reason, don’t it? A girl has two suitors die on her—who’s going to want to risk his neck getting betrothed to her?”

  Apparently someone, Demetrius thought. Prompting his uncle, who had paused overly long in his recital, he asked, “Who?”

  “Arleton and Fellerman, that’s who. Not at all up to the level of Collingwood and Thurwell, but then, the girl probably counted herself lucky that she still had any suitors at all. Didn’t even manage to get an announcement in the Morning Post last year, though. Right from the first week of the Season, the betting was heavy in the clubs as to which of them would make the first offer, but only four weeks into the Season, Arleton was killed by a highwayman on Hounslow Heath.”

  “A highwayman? In this day and age?”

  “Probably about the last one left in England, which just goes to show how unlucky it is to associate with Miss Meribe Prestwich. When they fished poor Fellerman out of the Thames, even the last diehards were willing to admit that she is afflicted with a fatal curse—fatal for her suitors, that is. It was after Fellerman’s funeral that everyone started calling her the Black Widow.’’

  They walked in silence for a few moments while Demetrius thought about the story his uncle had related. “But I fail to understand—why the Black Widow? It would seem she has never actually been married, much less widowed, and her hair is a glorious chestnut rather than black.”

  “It was Mannlius who rather cleverly came up with that sobriquet. Related it all to me. Explained how they’ve got a spider over there in the colonies called the black widow. Not only deadly poisonous, but the female eats the male after they ... well, you know ... after he does what he is supposed to do ... well, when she’s done with him as her bridegroom, so to speak, she turns him into dinner, as it were.”

  “That is the most disgusting thing I have ever heard.”

  “Well, can’t be helped—rather hard to persuade spiders to behave in a more civilized manner. No way to communicate with them, don’t you know. Best just to step on them.’’

  “I was referring to Lord Mannlius. He should be ashamed to have added fuel to the gossip. Why, this is all nothing more or less than a witch hunt. I am amazed that people could be so superstitious—present compa
ny included.”

  Uncle Humphrey hurried to justify himself. “Well, you will have to admit, it is somewhat peculiar that the girl—”

  “I shall admit nothing of the kind. Rather it is typical of the blind cruelty displayed by ignorant mobs when they engage in such sports as bearbaiting.”

  “Oh, come now,” his uncle blustered, “you are exaggerating. No one is being cruel—they are just being cautious.”

  Remembering the look of sadness in the poor girl’s eyes, Demetrius said, “I disagree. They are acting like the most superstitious of savages and are managing to ignore all the progress civilization has made in the last thousand years.”

  “But ... but really, Demetrius, how can you expect a man with the slightest common sense to risk his life? No, no, it is clearly your duty to rescue your brother from the Black Widow.”

  The rage that had been building up in Demetrius now spilled over. Catching his uncle by the front of his waistcoat, Demetrius pulled him up until their faces were mere inches apart. “Do not ever—ever—let me hear you call her by that disgusting nickname again. Her name is Miss Meribe Prestwich, and I shall thank you to use it.”

  Uncle Humphrey’s mouth gaped open and he stared at Demetrius in amazement. “But what about Collier?” he finally blurted out.

  Obviously it would take something more than rational arguments to persuade his uncle to abandon the superstitious nonsense he was spouting. Feeling frustrated beyond measure, Demetrius released him. “I shall take care of Collier tomorrow.’’

  “Thank the dear Lord, the boy has a chance of surviving.”

  “Not really,” Demetrius answered, his voice grim. “I intend to have his head on a platter.’’

  * * * *

  Riding home in the carriage, Meribe counted the number of days left until her twenty-first birthday. Five weeks and four days. Only thirty-nine days until she would be free to return to Norfolk. And never again, under any circumstances whatsoever, would she return to London.