The Black Widow Read online

  Feeling betrayed that he had turned out to be no better than any of the other “gentlemen,” she tried to pull her hand free, but he caught it with his other hand and held it in place.

  “No,” he said, “you need not be angry with me. I have made no wagers—accepted no dares. My purpose is merely to help you. It seems to me that what you need most is a friend, preferably one who is not swayed by superstitious nonsense.”

  Eyes downcast, she said, “Suppose it is not nonsense? Suppose I am truly ... cursed.’’

  “Do you believe that? Do you honestly think you are in any way responsible for what happened to those young men?’’

  She could not answer, and finally he touched her chin, and using no pressure at all, raised her head so that he could look into her eyes. “Do you believe there is even a grain of truth behind the gossip?” he repeated.

  “Does it matter what I believe?” she asked. “Reality or illusion, the effect is the same. Dozens of young men have ‘shown their bravery’ by dancing with me. What do you think is the likelihood that at least one of those men will catch a chill or fall off his horse or get himself shot in a duel? And whom do you think everyone will blame if that happens?” Again she tried to retrieve her hand, and still he held it fast. “I can only be grateful that I never had occasion to meet the prime minister, so that at least his assassination has not been laid at my door.’’

  “But suppose there were only one man courting you—do you not think people would forget about all those others if they were supplanted, so to speak?”

  She looked up at him in horror. “Surely you are not suggesting ...?”

  He smiled, but this time his smile was quite terrifying to behold. “But I am, Miss Prestwich. I intend to defy all this superstitious nonsense, and I also intend to remain quite hale and hearty in the process.”

  “But ... but ...”

  “But what? Either you agree that it is nonsense, in which case I have nothing more to fear than gossip, or you are saying, in effect, that you did cause those unfortunate accidents. So which is it going to be? Are you afraid of the illusion or the reality?”

  She thought about what he was proposing, then said, “I do not believe there is a real curse. But on the other hand, I cannot ignore the little voice in the back of my head that keeps saying, ‘What if there is a curse? What if all these other people are right? What if every man who comes near me is endangering his life?’ Unfortunately, no matter how I consider the evidence, I cannot answer those questions with absolute, unequivocal certainty. Therefore, after careful consideration of your suggestion, I find I cannot allow you to risk your life this way, Lord Thorverton. My answer has to be no, I do not wish you to pretend to court me.”

  With that she resolutely jerked her hand free and hurried down the street, not even looking back to see if Jane was keeping up with her.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  “Good evening, Miss Prestwich.” Lord Thorverton bowed politely. “May I have the honor of this dance?”

  The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, and for Meribe it was the last straw. The man was so aggravating—he had been following her around town for days, popping up where she least expected it. He refused to take no for an answer, but no matter what he tried, she was not going to cooperate with his efforts to prove there was no curse.

  “I am sorry, Lord Thorverton, but I do not feel like dancing this evening.” Her smile was as patently false as she could make it.

  “That is quite all right, Miss Prestwich. I shall be happy to sit out the dance with you.” Without waiting for permission, he took the chair recently vacated by Hester.

  “Nice weather we have been having lately,” he commented.

  Staring straight ahead, she tried to act as if he were not there, but he refused to take offense and leave.

  To add to her problems, Aunt Phillipa, who was sitting on her left, began to grumble. “I have told you not to associate with Swinton’s nephew, and yet you persist in encouraging him. You, young man”—she leaned around Meribe and spoke directly to Lord Thorverton—”go away and stop annoying my niece!”

  Although Aunt Phillipa’s voice was little more than a loud whisper, several women sitting near them tittered behind their fans, and Meribe wanted to sink through the floor.

  Her direct order being ignored, Aunt Phillipa began to animadvert on the perversity of all men. Then, to make matters worse, the music ended, and Hester returned with Lionell Rudd and found seats on the other side of Lord Thorverton. The two of them immediately began to comment with acerbity on the other dancers.

  As if that were not bad enough, a young man approached, obviously intending to ask her to dance. Feeling like a trapped fox harassed by a pack of hounds, Meribe turned to Lord Thorverton and wordlessly beseeched him to do something.

  * * * *

  Responding to Meribe’s silent plea, Demetrius scowled at the man heading toward her. The young man faltered, then abruptly veered off in a different direction. There were advantages to advancing age, Demetrius decided. His eight-and-twenty years, while not rendering him ancient, did make it easier for him to intimidate the young bucks of nineteen and twenty who had become accustomed to having their sport at Miss Prestwich’s expense.

  Unfortunately, nothing gave him an advantage where the aunt was concerned. It amazed him, in fact, that with such a dragon for a chaperone Miss Meribe had twice succeeded in becoming betrothed. The eldest Miss Prestwich had not ceased glaring at him since he had first sat down beside her niece, and he had obviously been meant to overhear her sotto voce comments about men. She would have been amusing, except that she was obviously upsetting Miss Meribe.

  Compared to her elder niece, however, Aunt Phillipa was the very model of congeniality. Rudd and Hester seemed to vie with each other as to which of them could be the more sweetly malicious.

  It belatedly occurred to him that rescuing a damsel in distress was all very good in novels, where the hero simply carries the heroine back to his castle. But in real life one had to contend with the girl’s relatives.

  Surely Miss Meribe must be getting just as fed up with her aunt and her sister as he was? Perhaps, now that she had made use of his assistance once, she would be a trifle more amenable? “It is rather stuffy in here. Would you like to take a bit of fresh air? I believe there are several balconies available.”

  “No, I would not,” Miss Meribe replied, once again spurning his attempts to help her.

  No sooner had she rejected his offer, however, than another young man approached. This time when she turned to Demetrius for assistance, he merely smiled at her.

  The young man bowed, then shot a quick glance over to where a group of his friends was watching. “May I have this dance?” he asked with a smirk.

  “I am sorry,” she said softly, “but I have promised to take a turn around the room with Lord Thorverton.”

  Not expecting to be rebuffed, the young man hesitated, clearly uncertain what to do next, but Demetrius did not delay in rising to his feet and offering Miss Meribe his arm.

  As soon as they were far enough away that her aunt would not be able to hear them, Miss Meribe said, “You should be ashamed of yourself for taking advantage of my situation to achieve your own ends.”

  “I would apologize,” he replied, “except that I have reached the limits of my tolerance for your aunt’s baleful glances and your sister’s spiteful tongue.”

  “I will admit my aunt and my sister can be a bit tiresome. Have they vexed you out of reason?”

  “Why do you ask such a thing? Merely because a lesser man would have strangled your aunt by now? And doubtless ripped your sister’s tongue out by the roots?”

  She smiled briefly, then said, “They are not always so bad. My aunt has never had any fondness for men, but in your case, since you are closely related to Humphrey Swinton, she is particularly displeased with you. Whatever your uncle did years ago, it was bad enough to turn her against your whole family.”
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br />   “And your sister? Is she always this acid-tongued? Or has she been displaying her wit strictly for my entertainment?”

  “I believe Mr. Rudd is a bad influence on her,” Meribe explained. “He encourages her to cast poisonous darts in all directions. While I would never describe her as sweet, at home in Norfolk she does not make such a deliberate effort to find unkind things to say about our neighbors.”

  As they strolled along, Demetrius gradually became aware that a path was magically clearing in front of them and that all conversation ceased with their approach. Not wishing to be overheard by one and all, he deemed it wiser to lead his companion out onto one of the aforementioned balconies overlooking the garden.

  Another couple had had the same idea, but as soon as they recognized who they were sharing the cool night air with, the woman uttered a little squeal of dismay and the man hustled her back into the ballroom.

  By the light coming through the French doors, Demetrius could see Meribe’s face reasonably well. At first he thought she had not noticed anything amiss about the other couple’s behavior, but then he saw that her hands were clenching the railing tightly, and he knew the incident had indeed upset her.

  Since she apparently wished to pretend nothing was wrong, he did not mention what had just happened, but instead began to talk about an innocuous subject. “I think what I miss most about Devon is my horses.”

  “Did you not bring them to London with you?”

  He smiled. “I brought my team and one riding horse, but I could not very well bring them all. I raise and train hunters, you see. The Thorverton stud is quite well-known in hunting circles, by which I must conclude that you do not hunt.’’

  “I am afraid it is even worse than that. I do not ride at all.”

  For a moment he was at a loss for words. Not ride? Even his former betrothed, Diana Fairgrove—now Lady Hazelmore—who despised horses, could ride, albeit not with any degree of style, and not on a horse that showed even a modicum of spirit.

  “My aunt ranks horses only slightly below men in her esteem,” Meribe explained. “They are all too big and too full of energy. They are also clumsy, which means they are constantly breaking things, added to which they eat too much and have a fatal tendency toward gambling and strong drink—”

  “Gambling, drunken horses?”

  Meribe laughed. “No, no, that is her opinion of men. But horses, she contends, have much the same failings, plus they have been known to bite, kick, and throw off their riders. Aunt Phillipa therefore holds that skills such as riding and driving are completely unladylike and not to be acquired.’’

  “And do you share your aunt’s opinion, or would you like to learn to ride?’’

  “My opinion matters little. My aunt is the one who decides what I shall do and not do.”

  “Then, given her dislike of men, I am surprised she has brought you to London for the Season.”

  “Oh, that is beyond her control. In his will, my father put in a stipulation that I must have a Season every year until I am one-and-twenty. My birthday is less than four weeks away, at which time I shall gladly return to Norfolk and never again show my face in this fair city.’’ She paused, then continued in a rush, “But you must not think I am hinting that you should stay here and bear me company until my birthday. On the contrary, I am persuaded it will be better for all concerned if you return to your horses.”

  “Not at all,” Demetrius heard himself saying. “I shall be happy to stand your friend until you are free to return to your own home.” Now, why was he persisting in playing the hero, when his noble sacrifices were obviously not welcomed by their intended recipient?

  After a short pause, she said, “I thank you for the offer, Lord Thorverton, but as I have told you over and over, I cannot be responsible for the danger you will be putting yourself into if you persist in your efforts on my behalf. I have managed this far alone, and am sure I can make it through these last few weeks. After all, what harm is a little gossip?’’

  There was a gasp behind them, and they turned to see another couple standing in the doorway, clearly surprised to discover the balcony was already occupied. They were so flustered, in fact, that it was equally obvious that they had recognized Meribe. With looks of horror, they backed away as hurriedly as if she were a poisonous snake coiled to strike.

  “Gossip is anything but harmless,” Demetrius said, his voice sharp with anger. “Sometimes I feel it is the worst curse of all. What fools these gentlefolk of the ton are!”

  “Do not let them upset you, then. They are not worth fretting over.”

  “I am not fretting, Miss Prestwich. Nor am I willing to let them have a clear field. All it takes is a little boldness—a little resolution.”

  “I feel I should warn you that I am not terribly brave.”

  “Not wishing to boast,” he said with a smile that was again quite infectious, “but I have an ample supply of courage and will be more than pleased to share it with you.”

  Looking into his eyes, Meribe could almost feel his strength pouring into her, and without conscious volition, she straightened her back. Let the people stare at her, she decided. She was not going to cringe any longer, no matter how they whispered. And if some of the young men pestered her again, she would send them to the rightabout herself.

  “No troubles are so bad,” Lord Thorverton continued in a low voice, “that they cannot be lightened by sharing them with a friend. Will you not accept my friendship, Miss Prestwich?”

  Almost she said yes, but then that little voice in the back of her head nagged at her: But suppose I am in truth cursed? Suppose he is struck down like the others?

  So instead of accepting his offer, she equivocated. “I shall think about what you have said. And now I believe we should return to my aunt. I am becoming a trifle chilled.”

  For a moment he looked as though he was prepared to continue arguing his case, but then he led her back inside without further delay. As usual, people moved away from them, but to Meribe’s surprise, when they were halfway around the room, one lady deliberately planted herself in their path. She was dressed in a red gown with a shockingly low décolletage, and either she had painted her face or she was suffering from a high fever.

  “Demetrius, my dear, I am so happy to see you in London again,” she positively cooed. “But I am afraid I have never met your companion. Pray introduce us.”

  Meribe could feel the tension radiating from Lord Thorverton, and when she looked up at him, she was shocked by the strong emotion she could see in his face. Before she could identify what he was feeling—whether joy or anger—his features altered, and she might as well have been looking at a statue carved of marble.

  In a wooden voice he performed the introductions. “Lady Hazelmore, may I present Miss Meribe Prestwich; Miss Prestwich, Lady Hazelmore.”

  Then, before the woman could say anything further, he bowed, made their excuses, and hustled Meribe back to where her aunt and sister were sitting.

  Once there, he did not offer any explanation for his strange behavior, which had bordered on rudeness, nor did he say what connection he had with the lady who had made free with his given name and who had called him “my dear.”

  But Meribe could not help noticing that throughout the rest of the evening, no matter how they talked about this and that, his eyes kept straying toward Lady Hazelmore, who for her part was not making the slightest effort to disguise her interest in Demetrius.

  * * * *

  Black Jack Brannigan walked into the Spotted Dog and sat down at the bar. O’Roark immediately set a bottle of gin in front of him, then unobtrusively slid a screw of paper toward him. Black Jack palmed it; then, glancing around to be sure he was not observed, he stuck it into his pocket. Tossing a few copper coins on the counter, he walked out the back, taking his bottle with him.

  Climbing the rickety stairs to his room above the tavern, he smiled in anticipation. Another job, it would seem. The gentry mort who was hiring him thought
his identity was well-concealed, but the last time Black Jack had taken care of a little problem for his anonymous employer, he had also managed to ferret out the man’s identity. There was no telling when such knowledge might be needed, and Black Jack was by nature suspicious of people who desired to use him without giving any security in return. He had therefore provided his own protection against a betrayal.

  Once in his room, he took a swig from his bottle, then retrieved the note from his pocket. Untwisting it, he stared in frustration at the letters written on it. Then he pounded on the wall and bellowed, “Peg!”

  A few minutes later, his neighbor and occasional mistress appeared, already dressed for an evening on the streets. “Read me this,” he said, thrusting the paper at her.

  “It’ll cost you a penny,” she said, but he raised his fist and she immediately reconsidered. Walking over to the table, she peered at the note in the light of the single candle. “It don’t make much sense. It just says ‘Lord Thor-ver-ton,’ and underneath is writ ‘fifty guineas.’ Coo-ee, that’s a lot of money.”

  She looked at him with speculation in her eyes, but he made no effort to explain. The fewer people who knew about this business, the better. Taking back the piece of paper, he sent Peg on her way with a scowl that promised she’d be sorry if she ever mentioned a word of his business to anyone else.

  * * * *

  Meribe paced back and forth in the sitting room. Aunt Phillipa and Hester had gone to Madame Parfleur’s to order some new dresses, leaving her behind, and all because she was afraid that if she went out, Lord Thorverton would once again “chance” to meet her. Why, she was becoming little more than a prisoner in her own house. Things had clearly gone too far.

  But what could she do? That wretched man persisted in playing the hero. Hadn’t anyone ever told him that heroes were quite often killed while performing their acts of bravery? Why could she not make him understand that it was not worth risking his life just so that she would not have to endure being stared at and whispered about?