“Oh, what a shame. And he looked quite healthy when he came to speak with your sister. But then, none of us can know the number of our days upon this earth.”
His words caught her completely by surprise, and Meribe felt her knees weaken and her heart begin to race. “When ... when did Mr. Wimbwell come here?”
“Why, yesterday, Miss. He wished to speak privately with your sister, but I have no idea what they discussed.”
Meribe had a very good idea what Mr. Wimbwell had said to Hester. Doubtless he had told her of their attempt to discover the terms of the trust, which meant that Hester had indeed had a motive to remove him from the scene—permanently. In her heart of hearts, Meribe no longer had any doubt but that the chemist would discover the candy had been poisoned.
* * * *
“You dance very well ... for an ogre,” Miss Prestwich said with a smile.
Humphrey could not hold back his own smile. He no longer had any trouble understanding why his nephew was infatuated with the chit—she did have a certain appeal. “Ogre?” he asked with a chuckle.
“So my aunt has led me to believe. Alas, I fear she has wronged you, for I find you quite charming and a delightful partner.’’
At her words, Humphrey felt himself completely in charity with Miss Prestwich. Actually, he was charming—there was no need for him to have false modesty—and quite in demand as a dance partner. It was unfortunate that this sweet young thing was burdened with such an aunt and that her sister was likewise not to be endured. But at least the child was perceptive enough to see through her aunt’s poisonous lies.
“Indeed,” she continued earnestly, “when one stops to consider that my aunt hates all men, and that she hates you most of all, one would have to assume then that you are more ... more manly than most.” She lowered her eyes quite demurely.
Humphrey puffed out his chest. Really, there was a great deal of logic in what this young lady said, and he, for one, was more than willing to do everything he could to aid and abet his nephew. Indeed, now that he thought on it, Demetrius was being remarkably slow to put an end to all this nonsense about a curse.
Well, he would just have to have a word with the lad ... point out his responsibilities ... see to it that the boy did not waste any more time before bringing the assassin to account.
* * * *
Meribe stared down at the words in the Morning Post: “solicitor murdered in his office.” Yesterday she had sent Lord Thorverton a note telling him that her sister had, after all, spoken with Mr. Wimbwell just the day before he died. And by return messenger Lord Thorverton had informed her that the chocolate candies had in truth been poisoned. But somehow, seeing the facts laid out in print gave the murder a reality that Meribe could no longer deny, no matter how desperately she did not wish to believe it.
Across from her Hester continued to eat and converse with their aunt as if she, Hester, had not a care in the world. Was she perhaps secretly gloating at the success of her scheme? Did she feel she was completely safe from detection? Was she so selfish, so hard-hearted, that she felt no remorse for what she had done?
If her sister had looked the least bit nervous, Meribe would have held her tongue. But the sight of Hester chattering away about the new gowns she had ordered while poor Mr. Wimbwell was not yet even properly buried was too much to endure.
Carefully watching her sister’s expression, Meribe said, “Oh, my, how dreadful.”
“What is that, my dear?” Aunt Phillipa asked.
“Mr. Wimbwell died the day before yesterday.”
“Mr. Wimbwell? The name sounds familiar, but I cannot place him. To whom is he related?” Aunt Phillipa inquired.
Meribe paused, but her sister made no effort to explain. In fact, Hester was so still, only the trembling of her hands served to differentiate her from a statue carved of marble.
“Do you not remember him, Hester?” Meribe asked, keeping her voice bland, when all she wanted to do was shriek with rage.
Quickly tucking her hands out of sight below the edge of the table, Hester replied, “I? Why, no, I do not recall the name either.” She uttered the blatant lie in a most casual voice, as if she were declining an invitation to walk in the park.
“Do you not? I am surprised. He was our father’s solicitor, and I remember him quite well,” Meribe said, still watching her sister’s expression most carefully. “It is quite shocking to read that he was murdered by eating some bonbons. Some anonymous person sent him chocolates with cream centers that were laced with poison.”
What was the expression on her sister’s face? Horror, to be sure, but was there also guilt? Or was it only fear? Fear of being discovered? Only one thing Meribe was sure of: whatever the emotion causing her sister to become pale as death, it was not remorse for what she had done.
“How dreadful,” Aunt Phillipa said. “First Thorverton was attacked right in Hanover Square, then this Wimbwell person was murdered at his office in the City. Whatever is this world coming to?’’
Without responding to their aunt’s comment, Hester excused herself and left the room, her breakfast barely touched.
“I do not know, Aunt,” Meribe said. But she did know. She could no longer pretend that her sister was not involved in the murders. Why else would Hester have lied about remembering Wimbwell, when she had seen him only two days before?
* * * *
Climbing the stairs to her room, Hester felt so weak she clung to the banister to keep from falling. The news in this morning’s paper made her feel positively ill, and she was not at all sure she could make it to her room before collapsing.
Thoughts raced through her head at a dizzying speed: Wimbwell had suspected her of murdering Meribe’s suitors, and now Wimbwell was dead ... Wimbwell had suspected, and Wimbwell was dead ...
As if that were not appalling enough, no matter how she tried not to listen, a little voice in the back of her mind kept repeating, “You told Lionell Rudd that Wimbwell suspected you of being a murderer, and now Wimbwell has himself been murdered. You are to blame for his death....”
No, she had had nothing to do with it! She had just told Lionell as a joke, because the ridiculous fancies of a senile old fool had seemed so amusing. But murder was never a laughing matter, and poor old Wimby, who had always favored her over Meribe—dear Wimby, who had been like a kindly old uncle to her—was dead, poisoned by eating his favorite chocolate candies with cream centers.
Reaching her room at last, she closed the door behind her, turned the key, then leaned back tiredly against the panels. Would that she could lock up her thoughts as easily! But there was no way to deny that she was the one who had been a fool, thoughtlessly turning the solicitor’s visit into an amusing anecdote.
Had she at any time told Lionell about Wimbwell’s partiality for that particular kind of bonbons? She could not remember for sure.
There was, however, no question but that she had told him the terms of her father’s trust. All those years ago, when she had discovered how her father had virtually disowned her, she had poured out her misery and anger into Lionell’s ear.
He had been the only one who had known how bitter she had been when Meribe’s first betrothal was announced.
To make matters worse, she had even joked with him about her good fortune after Collingwood was killed in a riding accident. Joked? No, if she were to be honest with herself, she had secretly gloated, actually reveled in the knowledge that she would inherit the greater portion, which should by rights go to the elder daughter.
Lord Thorverton’s words echoed in her mind: “Someday you will come to regret every unkind word you have ever uttered.”
Regret? She covered her face with her hands, remembering the thoughtless way she had used words to wound other people’s sensibilities ... the way she had delighted in the cutting phrase, the maliciously amusing story ... always egged on by Lionell to say something even more unkind.
Suddenly the most appalling realization struck her, and her heart be
gan racing in her chest. She had told Lionell of Wimbwell’s suspicions, and now Wimbwell was dead. If, as she suspected, Lionell had killed the old man, then what would Lionell do to her if he knew she suspected him? Would he again resort to murder?
Hester began to shake all over, and then in a blind panic she darted across the room and climbed into her bed, pulling the covers over her head. Huddled there in the soft darkness, she tried to reason away her fears.
Lionell could not possibly have done anything so monstrous as poisoning an old man—Lionell could not have. Not only had he been her friend all these years, but he was the consummate dandy, worrying about nothing except the cut of his waistcoat or the polish on his boots.
But was he her friend? To be sure, he was always at hand when she needed a dance partner, and he frequently took her up in his phaeton for a turn around the park. But if she were in trouble, could she turn to him for help? No, the mere idea of asking Lionell for even the slightest favor was ludicrous. A more self-centered person she had never met.
Could he have been so altruistic as to have killed someone just so that she could inherit a fortune? Hester felt herself relax. Whatever her suspicions had been, she found it impossible to believe that Lionell would be willing to exert himself in the slightest to help her or anyone but himself.
On the other hand, might it not be to his benefit if she inherited a fortune? He was far from well-off, and in her first Season he had made a push to capture an heiress, who had ended up marrying a pair of broad shoulders. Had Lionell had an ulterior motive for cultivating her friendship all these years? Might he not think it possible that she would share some of her inheritance with him? That if he played his cards right, he would be able to dip his fingers into her purse whenever he wished?
No matter how hard she tried to believe he was not guilty of murder, there was still that damning coincidence: she had told Lionell of Wimbwell’s suspicions, and the next day Wimbwell was poisoned.
If there was a chance that Lionell had used poison on one occasion, how could she drink champagne if he were the one to fetch it for her? Knowing how Fellerman had fallen into the Thames, how could she be brave enough to step out on a balcony with Lionell when a ballroom became too stuffy? After what had happened to poor Lord Thurwell, how could she accept Lionell's escort when shopping without fearing every moment that he might trip her up—might “accidentally” thrust her under the wheels of a passing vehicle?
Even more crucial, how could she talk to him normally, how could she look him in the eye, without inadvertently revealing that she knew his evil secret?
Shivering from fear rather than from cold, she pulled the covers more tightly around her, wishing she could leave London and never see Lionell again ... wishing Wimbwell had never told her the terms of her father’s trust ... wishing she had had the good sense to keep a civil tongue in her head all these years.
* * * *
As usual, Tattersall’s was crowded, but most of the men were in the yard where the auction was being conducted, and Demetrius had easily managed to find a quiet corner where he could meet with the only three men in London whom he trusted completely. Having informed them of the recent developments, he was hopeful that one of them could suggest a plan for catching the murderer.
“I say we should do something,” Uncle Humphrey said indignantly as soon as he heard the full story of the poisoned candies.
“I think we are all agreed on that. But the question is, what should we do?’’ Demetrius said irritably.
“I don’t know, but we cannot let that blasted, sharp-tongued female succeed with her infamous plan.”
“The worst of it is,” Hennessey pointed out, “if we do nothing, then in a few short weeks the older sister will simply inherit the fortune, and that will be that.”
“Well, I think the best thing would be for you to marry the young lady,” Collier said emphatically.
“Splendid idea,” Humphrey said. “You should marry the gel, Nephew.”
Amazed by his uncle’s total change of heart, Demetrius said, “Are you seriously suggesting I should ally myself with that family? That I should take one of those dastardly Prestwich females for a wife?’’ Then he could not keep from grinning at the older man’s immediate discomposure.
“Well, we’re certainly not suggesting you marry the older sister!’’ Humphrey blurted out, obviously appalled at the mere thought of such a union. “But the younger Miss Prestwich is not a bit like the other two, don’t you know. She doesn’t appear to hate men in the slightest, and moreover, she keeps a civil tongue in her head. Pleasant sort of female, in fact. Remarkably discerning too,” he added, but did not explain in what way she was discerning.
“I think it is a perfectly good plan,” Collier said. “Marry Miss Prestwich and with one blow you will foil her sister’s infamous plan.”
“And find myself leg-shackled for life,” Demetrius said. “No, thank you. We must think of another plan to unmask the villain.”
“Can’t understand why you don’t want to marry the gel,” Uncle Humphrey muttered. “Wonderful gel like her needs a husband, don’t you know.”
“She can inherit her father’s estate without marrying anyone if we can prove her sister is a murderer,” Demetrius replied.
“Wasn’t referring to the trust,” Uncle Humphrey said indignantly. “I meant it would be a pity if that sweet little thing were left on the shelf. She’ll be a loving mother and a warm armful in bed, I can tell you.” Becoming aware that the other three were staring at him in astonishment, Humphrey added rather lamely, “There’s passion in her, don’t you know. Just because I’m a bachelor doesn’t mean I don’t know females.”
“I agree with your uncle wholeheartedly,’’ Hennessey said, an imp of mischief in his voice. “She’s just the wife for you, Thorverton. That makes it three to one in favor of the marriage. You’d best see about getting a special license.”
“I do not find your attempt at humor amusing,” Demetrius said. While Miss Prestwich was indeed a pleasant sort of female—not given to chattering or having the hysterics—she did not at all resemble his neighbor’s wife, and he had long ago decided that if he ever got married, his wife must be just as intelligent and knowledgeable, just as resourceful and ingenious, just as fearless and bold, and just as competent and capable as Anne. Surely that was not asking too much—was it?
“I was not joking in the least,” Uncle Humphrey said, and his tone was indeed quite serious. “You had best marry the girl, and the sooner the better. Once you are hitched, you can forget all this murder nonsense and get on with producing an heir.’’
“Are you forgetting my mother—your sister? Since you are so in favor of this marriage, I shall leave it to you to persuade her to accept the young lady in question.” Not that Demetrius intended to marry Miss Prestwich, but he had promised to be her friend, and it would be an easier task if his mother were at least minimally civil.
“I?” Humphrey said, beginning to edge away. “Much as I would like to help, Nephew, I am afraid I am otherwise occupied for the foreseeable future.”
To Demetrius’s amusement, Hennessey caught Uncle Humphrey by the arm and said firmly, “Listen carefully. By tomorrow we expect to hear that Lady Thorverton is calling upon the Misses Prestwich, do you understand?”
Humphrey opened his mouth, but no bluster came out. The Irishman could be most intimidating when he made the effort, although Demetrius knew his friend was quite mild-tempered by nature,
“You have twenty-four hours, Uncle,” Demetrius said with a smile.
Humphrey was not amused. Jerking his arm free, he departed without a backward glance.
“And as for you, my friend,” Hennessey said, turning to Demetrius, “I think you would do well to consider your brother’s suggestion seriously. It appears to me that Miss Prestwich would be an ideal wife for you.”
“And it appears to me that too many people are trying to mind my business,” Demetrius said, his temper flaring up.
Watching his friend stalk away in a huff, Thomas Hennessey grinned to himself. He should not—really he should not—but he knew he was going to. “That was a good idea you had, Baineton. It is too bad your brother would not listen to you.”
Beside him the boy muttered angrily to himself, then said, “He never listens to me. Doubtless if you had suggested it first, he would at least have considered it carefully, rather than rejecting it out of hand.”
“Do you know, it has occurred to me that it is not necessary for your brother to marry the lovely Miss Prestwich.” Thomas paused, then added, “All that is really necessary is that the murderer think that the two of them are going to marry.’’
Collier Baineton looked at him with dawning comprehension, but then he frowned. “My brother would be in an absolute rage if anyone—especially me—did something contrary to his expressed wishes. In fact, I would not be surprised if he were driven to physical violence.”
Thomas shrugged. “He would get over it. One would only have to lie low until the initial explosion had occurred. And besides, had you considered that if the plan works and the murderer is exposed, your brother would have to acknowledge that he was wrong and someone else was right?”
“And if the plan works too well? If the murderer is successful? I am not all that eager to take over my brother’s title and estate.”
“I brought several stout lads with me from Ireland, and I can vouch for their loyalty. I have already offered them to your brother as bodyguards.”
“He said nothing to me about them.”
“Well, you see, he refused to consider using them—said he could protect himself.”
“There, you see—Demetrius is so devilishly determined to have his own way, he will not listen to anyone else’s suggestions, no matter what their merit.”
Thomas grinned. “But you see, my boy, some of the rest of us are equally determined.”
“Do you mean ...?”
“Exactly. There have been two of my men following your brother ever since the first attack.”
The Black Widow Page 12
