Black Widow: A Spellbound Regency Novel

by Lucy Leroux

  “No, he has that already. I’m talking about my personal fortune—the one only I control.”

  “Hmm…I suppose that makes sense. Sir Clarence let slip something about the arrangements your father made long ago. He was…irritated,” he said, softening the amount of ire his uncle had displayed. “And now my uncle has found an ally who is willing to turn over some of those funds to him.”

  Gideon should have been surprised that his nearest relation was trying some underhanded trickery to manipulate Amelia, but he wasn’t. Money and position had always been the most important things to his uncle. Sir Clarence had never believed in a woman’s right to direct her own fortune.

  Marriage should have transferred control of those funds to her husband, but Amelia’s canny parent had been prepared for such a possibility.

  “Your father must have loved you very much,” he said suddenly.

  She stopped short and blinked. “Yes, he did.”

  She was still staring at him when Worthing hurried up. “Amelia, dear, we were starting to worry. You were supposed to join us half an hour ago.” He nodded in the direction of the other guests, who were enjoying a picnic near the entrance of the estate’s famous hedge maze.

  “I was lost in thought and didn’t realize how far I wandered in the woods. Lord Flint found me and kindly offered to escort me back.”

  “And prevented you from encountering a boar or something equally dangerous. You should have stayed in the house,” Gideon couldn’t help adding waspishly.

  “On that, we are in total agreement! A boar. Dear lord, what a narrow escape. So what brings you out to this corner of England, Lord Flint?” Worthing asked with a poor imitation of welcoming joviality.

  “Business with our host,” he said shortly, walking along with the pair until they reached the other guests.

  A waiter hurried over with a glass of champagne. He took it, wishing it were something stronger.

  “Well, I’m pleased you were able to join us,” Amelia said with a soft smile as Worthing helped her settle on the blankets stretched onto the lawn. She spread out her skirts and accepted a plate from her neighbor.

  With easy grace, Gideon settled down across from her, noting with satisfaction the flicker of irritation cross Worthing’s face. He ignored the man, focusing all his attention on Amelia.

  The soft rosy flush on her cheeks extended all the way down to her décolletage. It was an unholy temptation, mocking him with the irresistible urge to find out how far down that blush went.

  Chapter 9

  By the time the picnic ended, Gideon had gotten ahold of his rampant lust. He berated himself for falling for Amelia’s charms like some lovestruck dandy.

  What is wrong with me?

  It wasn’t like him to fall under the spell of a woman. In the past, he was always the one who ended romantic liaisons, usually when it became clear that the woman involved desired more than he was willing to offer.

  His desire for Amelia was nothing like what he’d felt for his former lovers. The almost violent nature of his passions cast the entirety of his previous relationships in the shade. He found the fact that the focus of all this maelstrom of emotions was a woman of dubious character distinctly unsettling.

  He had yet to establish if Amelia was involved in his cousin’s death. Until he knew what had happened that day, he couldn’t allow himself to give in to his baser desires. And if she’s not guilty of any wrongdoing, I still have to stay away.

  She was Martin’s widow, for Pete’s sake. He had no business kissing her, let alone contemplating an affair.

  At least she was starting to trust him. Today he had learned one of her secrets—hers and Sir Clarence.

  Elmer Cannonburry. What the devil was his uncle thinking? The idea of a young and vibrant woman like Amelia in the arms of that old fossil was disturbing on several levels.

  Gideon didn’t stop to ask himself why it bothered him so much. Very old men frequently married girls fresh out of the schoolroom. He didn’t approve of the practice, but such marriages were common in the ton. Only it was clear Amelia didn’t want this one.

  As a young girl, Amelia hadn’t had much of a choice who she married, but as a widow, she had the right to decide the course of her life. Whatever machinations his uncle had planned couldn’t possibly work now.

  At least he had an explanation for her most recent behavior. Worthing was right. Amelia was throwing herself into the social whirl to avoid Sir Clarence’s ill-conceived matchmaking. The poor girl had grown up criticized and belittled by his nearest relation. The fact she still lived in fear of him stirred his pity.

  Rolling his shoulders, he slipped away from the other guests to confer with Manning, his valet. The former cockney errand boy had originally begun as his father’s valet when he was a young man. Though he was now getting on in years, his loyalty and discretion ensured Gideon kept him on despite his recent elevation to the earldom.

  Manning had arrived late this afternoon with his travel carriage and a trunk packed for a week’s stay. Gideon had been grateful for the change of clothes, as well as the other invaluable services Manning provided. The grey-haired manservant had proven quite adept at gleaning information from other servants during his time on the continent. It was a skill he hoped had proved useful now.

  “Did you learn anything?” he asked as soon as he reached the privacy of his room to change.

  Manning’s long face grew impossibly longer. “I’m afraid Viscount Worthing’s man, Simpson, proved to be a difficult nut to crack. He wasn’t in a particularly talkative mood earlier. Didn’t take kindly to the offer to gossip about his employer. Man’s a bit high in the instep for a servant.”

  “Did he rebuff you?” Gideon frowned. Manning was usually subtle when it came to this sort of thing.

  “I let one of the new housemaids do the questioning,” Tom replied. “The staff was quite eager to gossip about Mrs. Montgomery, but her maid pretended not to speak English so they turned to his lordship’s valet without success.”

  Gideon scowled as Manning helped him with his waistcoat. “Blast. Loyalty is commendable in your own servants but decidedly inconvenient in anyone else’s.”

  Manning nodded. “Don’t lose heart yet. I haven’t given up. I brought a bit of your least expensive brandy to share with the other servants and housekeeper this evening. I’m hoping it will loosen Simpson’s tongue.”

  “You’re welcome to the most expensive bottle I have if you can get the man to talk about his master’s reaction to Martin’s death. I would also like to know his exact whereabouts at the time of the accident.”

  “I thought you established Lord Worthing was out visiting his tenants when it happened.”

  “That’s what I was told by those servants who left Amelia’s household just after the accident, but I would like corroboration from someone in Worthing’s employ. Anything you learn about his relationship with my cousin would be of note. Amelia insists they were good friends, which I find hard to believe.”

  “It could be the truth, but it doesn’t mean there wasn’t an affair. Your cousin might simply have been ignorant of it.”

  Gideon nodded, acknowledging the possibility. “Martin always was a bit naive when it came to the darker side of men’s natures. He tended to believe the best of people,” he muttered, adjusting his cravat. “One last thing. Find out if Amelia is warming Worthing’s bed now if you can.”

  Something in his voice must have alerted Manning. “Err…I thought you were convinced she was.”

  “So goes the gossip, but I’m no longer certain,” he admitted as Manning straightened his coat.

  “I will do my best to learn whatever I can.”

  “Good.” Gideon nodded at him. After a few more minutes of conversation and adjustments to his attire, he headed back downstairs for dinner.

  Despite the upheaval of his emotions, it wasn’t too difficult to pretend he was like all the other male guests—a privileged and jaded nobleman seeking to relie
ve his boredom with country entertainments. Interminable cases of ennui were a popular affectation among his class, and for a former spy of his experience, easy to emulate.

  At dinner, he was seated directly across from his hostess—too far from Amelia and Worthing to even consider conversing with them. Normally being situated so far from the subject of an investigation would have been enough to annoy him, but in this case, he used the opportunity to shore up his resistance to Amelia’s charms.

  If only there weren’t so many damned charms. His quarry was looking especially lovely tonight. She wore a lovely silk damask dress the color of deep violet. The creamy silk of her skin seemed to glow in the candlelight. It was a challenge not to stare at her—one other men did not seem to mind failing. One man, a young and gangly baron name Bruxton, was practically drooling.

  Amelia pretended not to notice the attention. She conversed with Worthing and her neighbors, only occasionally peeking toward the head of the table to look at him and their hosts.

  After dinner, the women retired so the men could enjoy their port. After, the two groups met again for cards and subdued conversation in the main salon. Gideon thought he’d acquitted himself quite well until later that night after Amelia and most of the other women had retired.

  The men drifted into the billiards room. Gossip and spirits flowed freely. At first, Gideon was hopeful Worthing would soon be in his cups. Unfortunately, his nemesis decided to focus on the game instead of his drink.

  “I was surprised to see you here,” Worthing confided as he leaned over the table to align his shot.

  Gideon stood near the other end, cue in hand. “I wanted to speak to our host,” he said.

  “Mmm-hmm.” Westcliff gulped the brandy he was drinking. He made an approving sound in the back of his throat. “Yes, we are partners in a new consortium. Flint here had a few questions about it. Came to me to clear them up,” he said, managing to sound more paternal than boastful.

  “Your expertise in the matter was enormously helpful,” Gideon assured him, bending to align his cue when Worthing’s ball bounced on the bumper, missing the pocket.

  Gideon sank his ball effortlessly and walked around for the next shot while their host preened.

  “How fortunate that your business with Westcliff coincided with his seasonal house party,” Worthing said, not bothering to inject any enthusiasm in his voice.

  “It was lucky, wasn’t it?” Gideon said blandly, sinking the next ball neatly. With a vindictive little flourish, he proceeded to clear the table.

  “Congratulations,” Worthing said with a courtly bow better suited to a drawing room—and directed at a female matriarch.

  Gideon acknowledged that with a nod. The glitter of something gold on Worthing’s breast caught his eye.

  It can’t be. He narrowed his eyes, staring at the small ornament in the shape of a key on Worthing’s waistcoat.

  “That’s an interesting pin,” he said, a hollow feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. “Where did you get it?”

  Worthing stiffened. His hand went to his waistcoat, covering the key in an abrupt instinctive move. “My father gave it to me.”

  He was lying, and they both knew it. “Did he? Was he very good at maths?”

  “Maths?”

  Gideon could see the small flicker of panic that crossed Worthing’s face.

  “Why yes, he was quite good at them. This is a school prize.”

  Except that pin is given as the classics prize at Abingdon—not mathematics. Martin had been inordinately proud of it. Literature was the one field he excelled in. He’d been a miserable mathematics student.

  The realization that Amelia had given Worthing one of Martin’s most prized possessions settled in his gut like a lead weight.

  “Would you all excuse me? I seem to have developed the headache.” He exited the room abruptly, heedless of the reaction of his host and the other assembled gentlemen.

  Once he was alone he took a deep breath, but it did little to calm him. The slow burn kindling in his breast was building into a towering rage. He stalked off, intent on getting as far away from the other guests as possible. It was a move that guaranteed he meet the last person he should be near.

  “Gideon.”

  He spun on his heel to find Amelia standing alone in the dimly lit hallway.

  Unable to form a civil greeting, he stared down at her. She hesitated, her lips forming words she did not let fall.

  “Yes?” he asked coldly.

  “I…err…Lord Westcliff has a fine conservatory. I thought you might enjoy taking a turn with me.”

  His stomach was roiling. He swallowed heavily before straightening his spine. “I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

  Amelia drew back, visibly stung by the coldness in his voice.

  “Oh, I see.”

  Gideon fought to keep an even tone, but it was difficult with his composure in threads. “No, I don’t think you do. I regret I gave you the wrong impression today in the woods, but I don’t intend to share your bed tonight or any other night. It’s a little too crowded for my taste.”

  Amelia’s mouth parted, a shocked look on her face. She blinked rapidly before spinning on her heel and running away.

  Muscles tensing, Gideon forced himself not to run after her. Would a cold-blooded killer be so sensitive?

  Chapter 10

  Amelia flew up the stairs. It felt like she had been struck, a body blow that was threatening to knock her to the floor.

  Reaching her room, she dismissed her maid. As soon as the door closed behind Carlotta, Amelia flung herself down on the bed. Hugging a pillow to her stomach, she let the violent storm of tears overtake her.

  How could Gideon say those things? What had happened between now and this afternoon to change his opinion of her so radically?

  He had kissed her. Though she wasn’t overly familiar with it, she thought she had glimpsed sincere desire in his eyes. His embrace had been more fervent than that Italian count in Modena who had tried to lure her into an illicit liaison during her honeymoon.

  Amelia had told herself not to dream, but despite her stern lecture, she had managed to build an entire future around that one kiss. For one glittering moment, anything had seemed possible. The impossible fantasy she had spun since childhood, one of a future with Gideon, almost seemed within her grasp.

  But now her dream was a pile of glass shards at her feet.

  It’s your own fault. She had let herself hope, and despite her great wealth, that had been a luxury she had never been able to afford.

  Amelia wiped away the tears with a rough hand. There were always plenty of members of society ready to spread lies and innuendo about her, but she had thought Gideon was above listening to them. Clearly some viper had been whispering in his ear tonight. It was only to be expected. She was deeply unpopular among the ton. There were several ladies present who would love to fix the earl’s attentions on themselves. The fact Gideon had believed whatever lie they had told meant she had overestimated both his intelligence and noble nature.

  A little shudder passed through her, but she ignored it. Taking a deep breath, she sat up. She no longer had Martin, but she still had her pride. Gideon could choose to believe the lies about her, but he wasn’t going to get away with belittling her. In the morning, she would take him aside and give him a dressing down he would never forget.

  Hardened by her resolution, she began to undress and prepare for sleep. It was still early. With luck, none of the other guests had returned to their rooms in time to hear her cry. Whatever spiteful creature had been gossiping about her would only be too happy to spread the tale of her tears. From notorious to pitiful in one evening.

  It was unlikely anyone was about. Everyone was still downstairs playing cards and drinking. They would not have come back upstairs yet—not unless they had pre-arranged a tryst in their bedroom.

  The convenient access to bedrooms explained why country parties were so popular despite the la
rgely insipid entertainments. Affairs and illicit rendezvous were much easier to conduct away from the watchful eyes in town.

  Amelia put down the pillow she was holding on the empty bed with a snort. The only crowded thing about it was the abundance of cushions. Their hostess was very fond of tiny embroidered pillows and velvet bolsters. She felt the irony of her situation bite deep.

  With a little more energy than was strictly necessary, she tossed the many pillows aside and climbed into bed. She lay there staring at the canopy for some minutes. After a few more moments of feeling sorry for herself, she fell back on the trick her father had taught her to quiet her mind.

  The yearly compound interest of fifty thousand pounds is two thousand. The interest on sixty thousand pounds is twenty-four hundred pounds.

  Amelia continued calculating interest until she was numb, the pain of her confrontation with Gideon receding into the background. Hollowed out and empty, she fell asleep.

  Several hours later, a noise startled her awake. She opened her eyes, expecting to hear one of the other guests in the hallway, but the crashing sound that followed was not some drunk reveler stumbling to their room.

  Someone was pounding on her door. The force was enough to make the wood vibrate in the jamb.

  Bang! Bang!

  Amelia gasped as the wood shuddered in the bright moonlight illuminating that part of the room.

  Good Lord, the house must be on fire. Scrambling out of bed, she threw on her pelisse over her bed jacket and hurried to the door.

  “I’m coming,” she called out.

  The door shook once more. It was so violent that Amelia hesitated for a moment. Whoever was on the other side was massive and agitated. Fear tightened her chest, but she shook off her apprehension and went to open the door.

  She threw it open, expecting to see a footman or Lord Westcliff on the other side. There was no one there. Confused, she peeked out, scanning the empty hallway.

  Rushing footsteps signaled the approach of a pair. Mrs. Kimball, another widow, rushed up with a man she recognized as Lord Windmere. The much younger man was adjusting his waistcoat and trousers.