“Which should be enough if you were only a loving, obedient son. In any case, I cannot tell you what I do not know. If you wish to discover all the sordid particulars, you must apply to your uncle.”
“I intend to do just that,” Demetrius replied.
* * * *
Uncle Humphrey was not in his rooms, nor in his club, but fortunately Demetrius ran into a man he recognized as one of his uncle’s cronies.
“Swinton? Heard he was dining with Mannlius this evening.”
Further questioning elicited directions to Lord Mannlius’s town house, which was in Hanover Square. Since the night was balmy and his destination not too distant, Demetrius elected to walk instead of taking a hack.
He found the correct house without difficulty, but gaining entrance was another matter altogether.
“I regret, my lord, but I cannot allow you to interrupt the gentlemen,” the butler said quite firmly. “If you would care to wait in the library until the dinner is over?”
“I only wish to speak with my uncle briefly,” Demetrius replied.
“I am afraid you do not fully understand the circumstances. His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, is also dining with my lord, and it would simply not do for someone to burst in upon them uninvited.”
“Could you not simply take a note in to my uncle, asking him to step out into the hall for a minute?”
Clearly shocked, the butler drew himself up even more stiffly. “Lord Thorverton, how can you even suggest such a thing? No one is permitted to leave before the Prince departs. Now, if you wish to wait in the library, you may, but under no circumstances whatsoever can you disturb our royal guest. The wait should not be overlong since the port has already been taken in.’’
The house being quite stuffy and grossly overheated, Demetrius chose to wait in the little park in the center of the square. The butler willingly agreed to inform Uncle Humphrey that his nephew wished to speak to him.
After slightly more than half an hour, an ornate coach pulled by six horses drew up in front of Mannlius’s residence, and four liveried outriders sprang down to assist the portly gentleman who ponderously descended the steps and with great difficulty managed to climb into the carriage. Then the lackeys took their positions again, the coachman cracked his whip, and the carriage rolled away.
A few minutes later another man appeared in the doorway, and Demetrius recognized his uncle. The butler, who was pointing toward Demetrius, was obviously telling his uncle that he was waiting to speak with him.
Pushing himself away from the fence against which he had been leaning, Demetrius started toward the street. He had gone only a few steps when a low voice behind him whispered hoarsely, “Lord Thorverton?”
Demetrius started to turn, but before he could see who was addressing him, a bag was thrown over his head and twisted tightly around his neck, choking the breath out of him.
Desperately he clawed at the cloth, trying to relieve the pressure on his windpipe before he passed out from lack of oxygen, but it was an unequal contest. Not only was his assailant incredibly strong, but he had also attacked from behind, which gave him all the advantage.
Despite his best efforts to break free, Demetrius could feel his arms beginning to weaken, and he knew that the darkness closing in on him was not entirely owing to the hood covering his eyes.
* * *
Chapter 5
Slowly and relentlessly Demetrius was forced to his knees, and his situation became so desperate that it took him a moment to realize the pounding in his ears was actually the sound of running footsteps.
Suddenly the man holding him gave a grunt of pain, and the pressure on Demetrius’s neck was gone. Barely conscious, he fell forward on the ground, gasping for breath.
Rough hands pushed him over on his back, and the hood was jerked off his head. Kneeling beside him, staring down at him with horrified looks, were his uncle and Lord Mannlius’s butler. The assailant was nowhere to be seen.
“Are you all right? Speak to me!”
Uncle Humphrey shook him, but Demetrius was still unable to talk. All he could do was nod his head, but that was apparently enough to reassure his uncle, who pushed himself ponderously to his feet.
“I cannot believe such a dreadful thing could have happened right here in Hanover Square,” the butler wailed, wringing his hands. “Oh, my, suppose he had attacked His Royal Majesty!”
Hearing that remark, Demetrius abruptly remembered the words that had come out of the darkness—Lord Thorverton—and he knew the Prince of Wales had been in no danger.
A more immediate puzzle was how his two rescuers had managed to fight off the attacker so easily. Feeling his breathing and heartbeat gradually returning to normal, Demetrius sat up, waited until his head was no longer dizzy, and then got to his feet.
“How the devil did you stop that giant?” were the first words he uttered.
“Slashed his arm,” his uncle replied, which did nothing to explain what had happened. Uncle Humphrey bent over and picked up a sword from the grass and waved its bloody tip in front of Demetrius’s face.
“Where the deuce did you get that thing?’’
“Found it in a little shop in Italy—Florence, I believe it was. The shopkeeper had a collection of the most fiendishly clever weapons. Poison rings, chairs with daggers that would spring out and kill whoever was sitting in them, gloves with poisoned needles worked into the leather, so that if you shook a man’s hand, he would die hours later without even knowing anything was wrong. Typical of the Italians to be so devious.’’
The butler produced a white handkerchief, and Uncle Humphrey carefully wiped the blade clean. Then the butler handed over a long object of some sort, and Humphrey slid the sword into it, there was a click, and suddenly Demetrius was looking at his uncle’s cane.
“A concealed sword? All the years you have carried your cane, and I had no suspicion there was anything out of the ordinary about it.’’
“That’s the beauty of it. Can’t very well go around with a regular sword and scabbard strapped to my waist. I’d look a proper fool, and doubtless it would cause my jacket to hang crooked.”
“You amaze me, Uncle.”
“Pish tosh, there is nothing to it. I was happy to have a chance to use the sword after all these years. Of course the cane is quite sturdy and rather stylish too, but I have long wished for an opportunity to try the sword. In any event, I hope this has taught you a lesson, my boy.”
“Indeed, I shall procure passage to Italy as soon as may be. Where did you say that shop was located?”
His uncle snorted. “In Florence, but I was not suggesting you try to find another concealed sword; I was referring to this attack. I hope you are now ready to admit that wretched woman’s niece is cursed.”
Again the words of the attacker echoed in Demetrius’s mind—Lord Thorverton. Only two words, but they were enough to let him know that this had been no coincidence. Neither fate nor a fatal curse had been behind this brush with death. It had been deliberate, well-planned, directed specifically at him, and it would have been successful if Uncle Humphrey had not unexpectedly produced his sword.
That being the case, the question that could not be avoided was: who was behind the attack?
He was about to explain everything to his uncle, when he realized the butler, having brushed all the bits of grass off Demetrius’s coat, was now trying to repair the damage done to his neckcloth. Prudence demanded that he wait until he and his uncle were private before continuing the discussion.
With great difficulty Demetrius managed to persuade Mannlius’s butler that the crisis was over, that his assistance, although it had been most welcome, was no longer required, and that he could therefore return to his post.
“I told you that woman is poison—as deadly to associate with as one of the Borgias, don’t you know,” Humphrey said as they walked along in the direction of Demetrius’s house. “I hope you will not be so foolhardy in the future as to ignore the cu
rse.”
“There is no curse, Uncle, and I was not a random victim. That bruiser knew my name.”
Uncle Humphrey mulled over this new bit of information for a few minutes, then said, “I still say this attack was a direct result of your hanging around that Prestwich woman.”
“I am afraid you are correct. The only other explanation is that Fabersham is mad at me for outbidding him for the filly at Tattersall’s this morning.”
“Nonsense. Fabersham may be hotheaded, and he would probably challenge you to a duel if you outbid him for an opera dancer, but not for a four-legged filly. No, no, it is bound to be the curse.”
“Not a curse, I am afraid, but a flesh-and-blood villain. It is not fate that is disposing of Miss Prestwich’s suitors. As insane as it sounds, it would appear that some person is determined to keep her unwedded. Which brings up the interesting question: did Fellerman fall into the Thames after imbibing a few too many, or was he pushed?”
“Pushed? Whatever are you talking about?”
“I am talking about a murderer,” Demetrius said. “Was it truly a highwayman who waylaid Arleton, or was it perhaps our oversize friend who is now sporting a sore arm?”
“Now that I think on it, I recall that the driver of the dray that struck down Thurwell was reported to have been an excessively large man. But how could Miss Prestwich have earned the enmity of such riffraff?”
“You miss the point, Uncle. That man was undoubtedly well-paid for his efforts this evening.”
“The devil you say! Well, if that is the case, I trust I have put him out of business for a good while. And with a little luck, the wound will become infected, which will dispose of him for good.’’
“But the question remains: who hired him?”
* * * *
The mist was rising from the grass, and the park was virtually deserted except for a few grooms exercising their masters’ horses. It would have been quite pleasant were it not for the fact that Demetrius’s neck was still sore enough to keep him constantly reminded of the events of the night before.
“So who do you think is behind the attack?” Hennessey asked after hearing the whole story.
“I confess, I have not yet got the vaguest suspicion,” Demetrius replied.
“It could be any one of the men who have wagered large sums of money on your early demise.”
“That thought had occurred to me, and if it is true, then it is exceedingly unlikely that we shall ever identify the culprit. On the other hand, there is some circumstantial evidence to indicate that the same assailant may have been used on previous occasions, which, if true, would eliminate anyone involved merely because of a current wager.’’
Hennessey nodded his agreement. “So what do you propose to do?”
“Try to discover a more plausible motive, I suppose. What else can I do?”
“In that case, I shall see what I can do about finding your overlarge friend. I have some contacts in Soho who may be able to provide us with a name. There cannot be too many men his size residing in London, and even fewer who have sword wounds in their arms.”
“I thank you for your help, and I wish you luck.”
“And if you think you would be needing a bit more protection, I’ve a couple of stout lads with me.”
“Are you suggesting bodyguards? Thank you, but that will not be necessary. I think merely taking reasonable precautions will suffice. I shall take care not to wander around London alone at night, of that you may be sure. And I am seriously considering the purchase of a brace of pistols.”
“Actually, the only real solution is to discover the villain, and you may count on me to do all I can.”
* * * *
Greed ... revenge ... ambition ... expediency ...
Sitting alone at his desk, Demetrius looked down at the list he had written. There were not actually very many motives for murder. One by one he considered them.
“Expediency”—was it possible that someone wished to marry Miss Meribe himself, and so was permanently eliminating all of his rivals? Rather a farfetched idea since there did not appear to be any spurned suitors lurking about. Also, the method was a bit more drastic than necessary. Flowers and poetry were usually more effective than murder.
Drawing a line through “expediency,” Demetrius turned his attention to “ambition,” but no matter how he racked his brain, he could not come up with a single area where Miss Meribe might conceivably be standing in the way of someone else’s goals.
She was not the reigning beauty—the Incomparable—of this Season or any previous Season, nor was she engaged in trade. She was not attempting to corner the market in wool or control the trade routes to China, or any such thing. Which meant he could eliminate thwarted ambition.
“Revenge” ... that was a bit more difficult to determine. He could not, of course, say for sure if she had seriously harmed or even deeply offended anyone, although it seemed highly unlikely. To begin with, she had spent most of her life in a small town in Norfolk. If she had acquired an enemy, it would most likely have been there. But nothing untoward appeared to have happened to her in Norfolk, which meant the problem was centered in London. If she had done something horrible here, doubtless the gossips would have long ago spread every detail all over town.
Second, unlike her sister, Miss Meribe was such a gentle person, he could not picture her deliberately slighting anyone. Which meant the offense, if it had happened, would have been unintentional. Motive enough for the cut direct, but scarcely adequate for murder.
Which left “greed.” The love of money is the root of all evil, or so the Bible said. So how much money was involved? And was Miss Meribe already rich, or did she merely stand to inherit a fortune? And more important, who would benefit if she died?
No, he was forgetting. None of the attacks had been directed against her. The question was better stated: who would benefit if she remained single?
He was still considering the possibilities when the door to his study was thrown open and Collier came storming into the room.
“Why did you not tell me this morning that you were attacked last night? Ecod, but I wish I had been there.” Striding around the room, he made wild slashing motions with his arm, as if wielding a sword. “I would not have settled for wounding his arm, I would have run the blackguard through and through and left him lifeless on the ground.”
“It needed only this,” Demetrius muttered. Throwing down his quill, he said quite firmly, “Do cease this ridiculous posturing, Collier. I have no time for such childish nonsense.”
“Childish!” Collier drew himself up and glared down at Demetrius. “I am not a child! I am nearly one-and-twenty.’’
Demetrius rubbed his forehead, where the beginning of a headache was announcing its presence. “I should have instructed Uncle Humphrey not to tell you, but I assumed he had more sense.’’
“I have not seen Uncle today,” Collier said, his voice icy. “But the story of the attack against you is all over town. The talk in the clubs is of nothing else.”
“The devil you say! Uncle cannot have been that indiscreet.” To his chagrin, Demetrius abruptly remembered the second man who had rushed to his aid. The butler would naturally have told his employer, Lord Mannlius, who in turn would not have hesitated a moment to tell a hundred or so of his nearest and dearest cronies, who in turn ...
With mounting horror Demetrius realized that if the story was indeed all over town, doubtless it had spread even to the Prestwich household. “Meribe,” he said in a whisper. “What must she be thinking?”
Without stopping to soothe his brother’s ruffled sensibilities, Demetrius dashed from the room. Hurrying to the mews behind the house, he saddled his horse and set off at a headlong gallop through the streets of London.
* * * *
“Well, I hope you are satisfied.”
Meribe looked up to see her sister enter the room and remove her bonnet, which she cast down onto a convenient chair.
“You
are late for tea,” Aunt Phillipa said crossly.
“It could not be helped,” Hester replied. “You could hardly expect me to take my leave before I heard the entire story.”
“What story?” Meribe asked, although in the deepest part of her soul she knew what Hester was about to say—and knew also that she did not want to hear even one word of Hester’s tale.
“It is all your fault, you know,” Hester said, sitting down and accepting a cup of tea from her aunt. “Goodness knows, you have been warned enough times that you were playing with fire.’’
“No, no,” Meribe whispered, feeling her hands begin to shake, rattling her teacup in its saucer.
“Lord Thorverton was attacked last night in Hanover Square,” Hester said bluntly.
“It is disgraceful that such a thing should have occurred, and in Hanover Square no less. It is the outside of enough that we in Mayfair pay good money to hire watchmen, and yet when one is needed, there is nary a one to be found. Still and all, it is nothing more than a relative of that horrible Humphrey Swinton deserves, I am sure,” Aunt Philippa commented coldly. “And I am sure I told him on numerous occasions to stay away from you, Meribe. You cannot be blamed for that young man’s death.”
“Death?” Meribe croaked out, at once as chilled as if the blood in her veins had turned to ice water. “He is dead, then?”
Hester shrugged. “I heard he is still clinging to life by the skin of his teeth, but his family is in hourly expectation of bidding him a final farewell. They say he was set upon by three giants who beat him unmercifully and then hacked him to pieces. Would you please pass that plate of macaroons, sister dear?”
Feeling as if she were about to shatter into a million pieces, Meribe set down her teacup and rose to her feet. Without saying a word, she walked out of the room.
Behind her Hester called out, “Of course there are others who are insisting that his injuries are not really serious.”
* * * *
Demetrius galloped up to the Prestwich residence, sprang from his horse, tossed the reins and a shilling to a street urchin who was loitering nearby, and ran up the five steps leading to the front door. Banging on it vigorously with the knocker brought the butler, but not quickly enough to suit Demetrius.
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