There was a soft sound beside him—a sudden intake of breath—and he instantly wished that he could call back his intemperate words. But how could he explain away the hurt he had obviously caused her by mentioning marriage, while at the same time making it obvious that he did not wish to marry her? He could not very well say, “I would be happy to marry you, but you do not meet the standards I have set for my future wife.” Nor could he say, “It is not that I do not like you. I am indeed quite fond of you. Unfortunately, I do not love you.”
“You need not worry, you know,” she said quietly. “When this is all over, I shall release you from any obligation. I shall not take advantage of your brother’s foolishness to trap you into a marriage not of your liking.”
She sounded calm enough, but when he looked at her, her head was lowered and all he could see was her bonnet. Blast it all! Why had he not thought before he brought up the subject of marriage? He was proving to be as heedlessly rash as Collier.
They drove in silence for what seemed like an eternity. “Would you like to stroll a bit?” he finally asked, unable to think of anything else to do to heal the breach between them.
“No, thank you,” she said, her voice still barely above a whisper. “I think, if you do not mind, I should like to return home now. The sun is really quite hot, and I forgot to bring my parasol.”
The drive back to Berkeley Square was uncomfortably tense, and to add to his disquiet, Demetrius spotted two men following them. Big bruisers, they looked as if they had been cast from the same mold as the late Black Jack Brannigan. It would appear that Miss Hester Prestwich had found herself a pair of hired assassins this time.
Demetrius had learned his lesson well enough, however, that he did not mention the two ruffians to his companion. She was already worried enough about his safety that she did not need additional cause for alarm.
With a little luck—and with the help of his friends—he should be able to capture one of the brutes and force him to disclose who had hired him. Once the plot against Miss Meribe Prestwich was made public, he, Demetrius, could return to his horses and allow her to announce that their betrothal was called off. Which would make it twice that he was jilted—enough to make any woman wonder about his suitability as a husband.
On the other hand, there was bound to be a scandal when the elder Prestwich sister was arrested for murder. Could he in all decency take himself off to Devon and leave Miss Meribe to face the malicious gossip alone?
In fact, now that he thought about it, it would be better for all concerned if her sister were not arrested and tried for murder. With a little judicious handling of the situation, Miss Hester could undoubtedly be persuaded to immigrate to Jamaica or Canada or some other suitably distant part, after first signing over to her sister all her rights to their father’s estate.
Clearly it behooved him to stand by Miss Meribe until everything was settled. Then she could jilt him.
He was frowning when he returned his horses to the stables.
* * * *
She had to convince Lionell it was all a hum—that some prankster had inserted the announcement of the betrothal in the newspaper. Hester looked around the crowded ballroom trying to spot the dandy whom she could no longer dismiss as nothing more than a posturing, conceited fop.
Finally espying him dancing with Miss Quailund, Hester waited impatiently for the music to cease. Then she moved as unobtrusively as possible around the room, so that she would be properly positioned to intercept him when he returned the young lady to her chaperone. For the first time in her life, Hester felt self-conscious, and she found it difficult to believe that everyone in the room was not watching her when she “accidentally” bumped into Lionell.
“Excuse me, my dear, are you all right?” Lionell took her arm to steady her, and his words were all concern.
Fixing a smile on her face and desperately hoping he did not mark how false it was, she giggled nervously, then blurted out, “The most amusing thing—you will positively die when I tell you.” Die—whatever had possessed her to use that word?
Resolutely she continued, “Some prankster has inserted an announcement in the Morning Post that my s-sister is betrothed to Lord Thorverton.” With difficulty she kept smiling, praying that he had not noticed her stutter—that he did not suspect she was trying to mislead him.
“Hartwell, who stands to lose five thousand guineas if his lordship is still alive on the first day of July, informed me that the announcement was delivered by a footman wearing the Thorverton livery. How odd,” Lionell commented absently.
“A disgruntled servant,” Hester improvised quickly. “The insolent jackanapes has, of course, been let go.”
Raising his eyebrows in mock astonishment, Lionell said, “But you are singularly informed about the doings of Thorverton’s household. I had not realized the two of you were so close.”
“He s-sent a note to my sister—an apology, as it were.”
“There is another possibility, you know.” Lionell looked at her speculatively.
Hester felt her gorge rise up into her throat—surely he did not, like Wimbwell, think that she had anything to do with promoting the curse!
“One of the numerous gentlemen who have wagered small fortunes on the early demise of my Lord Thorverton may have bribed the servant.”
He had accepted her explanation! She was flooded with relief. “Yes, of course, that is more than likely the case,” she agreed, then quickly, before he could question her further, she changed the subject and began talking about the outrageous gown Mrs. Gilmoreton was wearing, which made her look like the veriest ladybird.
Her feelings of relief did not last out the evening, however. Lord Thorverton, with blithe disregard for his own safety, danced not twice, but three times with Meribe, acting the entire time as if he did not notice how everyone was staring at him in ghoulish anticipation—how they were all waiting for him to be struck down by the fatal curse.
The only thing she could be thankful for was that Lionell had left the party before the newly betrothed couple danced with each other a third time. With a little more luck, by the time he heard any gossip, she would have come up with another prevarication with which to soothe his suspicions.
If indeed he was in any way connected with the assassinations. Perhaps it was, as Lionell had suggested, the work of someone who had wagered a large sum on the shortness of Lord Thorverton’s life expectancy. Men, especially ones cursed with the gambling fever, were known to behave rashly on occasion.
Was it not more likely that one of them—one of the Corinthians who were willing to risk life and limb in a curricle race or to watch with glee while two men pounded each other’s faces into bloody pulps—was it not more likely that someone like that had hired some ruffian to attack Lord Thorverton?
Indeed, now that she thought on it, that attack was not necessarily even connected with her sister, despite what the gossips around town were so quick to whisper. The deaths of the other suitors had undoubtedly been nothing more dreadful than the accidents everyone assumed them to have been. And Lord Thorverton, at an earlier period in his life, might easily have aroused the enmity of someone who now was seeking vengeance.
If such were the case, then all that remained unexplained was Wimbwell’s murder, which had happened the day after he visited her. But other than the time element, was there any reason to connect one event with the other? Doubtless Wimbwell had a great number of clients, one of whom might have cause to hate the old man.
For all she knew—and despite his assertions of innocence—Wimbwell might very well have embezzled money from some other client. Then again, she had seen signs of incipient senility; perhaps he had merely made an innocent but costly blunder with someone’s investments?
There was, of course, the fact that the killer had sent chocolate bonbons with cream centers—the poisoned chocolate bonbons—but then, Wimbwell had made no secret of his fondness for the sweets. Dozens of people, including all of his office
staff, must have known he would gobble them down immediately.
More than likely, when the authorities investigated, they would discover a disgruntled employee, a dissatisfied client, a plethora of other suspects, any one of whom was a more likely candidate for Tyburn than Lionell, who was too involved with his own person—with the polish on his boots and the folds of his neckcloth—to worry himself with the ramblings of a silly old man.
It must have been the shock of hearing about the murder that had made her suspect Lionell in the first place, because now that she thought about it, the very idea was absurd. If Lionell had poisoned Wimbwell, then that would mean he was also behind the attack on Lord Thorverton, and that was where her suspicions faltered and failed.
While she could be brought to believe Lionell might have poisoned some bonbons, she could not, with the best of efforts, picture him consorting with a scapegallows from Soho. Although Lionell prided himself on knowing the best supplier of snuff in London, she could not imagine that the dandy would have the slightest idea where to go to find an assassin for hire. Even the thought of it now made her smile, so amusing it was.
Around Hester people were whispering, and she could hear scattered snatches of conversations—”wouldn’t wager a groat he’ll see his next birthday” ... “that’ll make five dead, won’t it?” ... “the devil’s mark is on her” ... “I wouldn’t be in his shoes for all the tea in China” ... “the Black Widow” ... “how long?” ... “doomed” ... “the curse will bring him down, you mark my words”—
“Good evening, Miss Prestwich.”
Hester recognized the man addressing her. Mr. Hennessey was an upstart Irishman who five years ago had astounded everyone by winning the hand of Lady Delilah. “I do not believe we have been introduced,” she said coldly, but instead of bowing politely and moving on, he took a seat beside her.
“Since Lord Thorverton is one of my dearest friends,” he said glibly, “I am sure we are destined to become well-acquainted once he is your brother-in-law.’’
“I am willing to wait until after the ceremony,” she said, keeping her eyes averted from his face. She did not at all like the knowing way he was looking at her—the open appraisal in his glance.
Did he, like Wimbwell, suspect her of hiring an assassin? But no, he could not possibly have any knowledge of the terms of her father’s will, and so he would have no reason to connect her with the death of the old man.
She glanced at the Irishman out of the corner of her eye, but was not reassured. He looked like a fox ready to pounce ... and he was making her feel like a rabbit about to be gobbled up.
“So you believe there will actually be a wedding ceremony?” he asked. “The majority of the people here think Thorverton will be struck down by the fatal curse, but I would like your honest opinion. Is Lord Thorverton brave or merely foolhardy? Tell me, Miss Prestwich, are you superstitious enough to believe in such things as fatal curses?’’
Turning to look at him, she said coldly, “What I believe, Mr. Hennessey, is that people who play with fire often get burned. And now, if you will excuse me. I fear I have torn my flounce.” She stood up and hurried from the ballroom, pursued by the whispers of the crowd.
* * *
Chapter 10
“Do not look behind you, but we are being followed,” Demetrius murmured to Hennessey as soon as they had left the dance and begun walking the few short blocks to the Thorverton residence. “I have spotted the pair of ugly bruisers several times in the last few days, but so far they have not made any attempt to waylay me.”
Ignoring Demetrius’s warning, the Irishman casually looked over his shoulder, then broke out in a large grin. “Malone and Mulrooney,” he said. “I would have to agree with you that they have no pretensions toward beauty, but on the other hand, each is virtually strong enough to pick up a horse and throw it over a fence if the beast refuses to jump.”
“So they are the stout lads you mentioned earlier? And without my permission, you have set them to follow me like a pair of watchdogs. I remember quite distinctly telling you I have no need of bodyguards.”
“Since you have seen fit to thumb your nose at the murderer—I refer, of course, to the announcement you sent to the Morning Post—it will be small comfort to your friends if we catch the culprit after he has already dispatched you to a cold and solitary grave,” the Irishman said. “Trapping the villain is a laudable pursuit, but I intend to see that the bait does not get gobbled up in the process.”
“I did not write that announcement.”
“Wheesht, and here I thought you’d come to your senses and asked that lovely girl to marry you.”
“My brother took it upon himself to interfere yet again. This time, however, he has gone too far, and it will probably take both your stout lads to keep me from wringing the boy’s neck when I find him.”
Turning the corner onto Grosvenor Square, Demetrius asked, “Will you come in for a bit of brandy? I am sure that if we put our minds to it, we can find a more enlivening topic of conversation than my younger brother.’’ So saying, Demetrius began to describe a new colt he had—a promising two-year-old he was considering keeping for his own use.
The discussion of horses came to an abrupt end when the butler opened the door to admit them. “Your mother is waiting to speak to you in the drawing room,” McDougal informed him, his face haggard. “It is Master Collier—he has totally vanished. His bed was not slept in last night, and your mother is most distressed. She fears he has been kidnapped or even murdered.”
“What nonsense is this?” Demetrius said, pushing out of his mind a fleeting fear that his brother might actually have met with skullduggery.
“I know your mother has a penchant for dramatics, my lord,” the butler said, wringing his hands, “but this does appear to be serious. No one saw Master Collier leave the house, and he told no one where he was going or when he would be back, which is most unlike him. Lady Thorverton has sent footmen to all the clubs, inquiring after him, but they have all denied knowledge of his whereabouts.”
Demetrius gave a bark of laughter. “As my mother should have expected. Does she not realize that the doormen in all the clubs have standing instructions to say that a member is not present even if he is? More than likely my brother is at this very moment ensconced in a comfortable chair in White’s playing cards with his cronies. My mother would do better to worry about the gambling fever that seems to have infected Collier’s brain, for I tell you flat out, I shall not open my pockets to him again until he shows signs of having developed at least a modicum of common sense.”
“Well, old friend,” Hennessey said, clapping Demetrius on the back, “I believe I shall decline your offer of brandy and conversation. Perhaps another day.”
“Deserting under fire?” Demetrius asked with a rueful smile.
“Knowing when to retreat is ofttimes more crucial for success than charging blindly ahead,” his friend said before departing.
A short time later Demetrius found himself in the unaccustomed position of defending his brother’s actions. “Collier lacks but a few days of being one-and-twenty, Mother. I find nothing odd about it that he has neglected to account to you for his every movement.”
His mother rose up out of the chair where she had been reclining in a tragic pose and advanced on him in a complete rage. “Since you have never shown me the slightest consideration, I can well believe that you have been encouraging my darling boy to cast me aside like a ... like a discarded neckcloth!”
“Well put, Mother, since you will persist in hanging around the poor boy’s neck. Collier will never become a man if you continue to treat him like a child.”
At his mocking words, she puffed up like a broody hen protecting her chick from a marauding fox. “I do not wish to hear a lecture from you about the proper way for a mother to act. You are not now—nor will you ever be—a mother. Knowing your attitude, I find it in me to pity that wretched Miss Prestwich. Did she know how cold-hearted you are,
she would jilt you tomorrow and count herself lucky to have escaped. And as for your brother, I demand that you hire a Bow Street runner to find Collier, and we can only pray that the runner is in time to save my darling child’s life—a life that you have endangered by consorting with a young lady who everyone knows is afflicted with a fatal curse.”
“A Bow Street runner? Surely you jest. I can think of nothing that would alienate Collier more surely than having a runner sent after him to drag him home like a naughty child.”
“It is all your fault, you know. If you had not given that announcement to the papers, your brother’s life would not now be in jeopardy, but you have refused to take the advice of your elders and avoid that wretched woman. Perhaps you will believe in fatal curses when you discover your brother’s lifeless body—or will you even then deny responsibility?”
With those parting words his mother stalked out of the room, her rigidly straight back proclaiming her displeasure with her elder son.
Little did she know that her angry words had reminded Demetrius of the bone he had to pick with his brother. Collier was undoubtedly—and very wisely—hiding out until Demetrius might be expected to have forgotten all about that infamous betrothal announcement.
Left in peace, Demetrius rang for some brandy, then settled himself in front of the fire. His thoughts were far from peaceful, however. As much as he was convinced that he understood perfectly why Collier had felt it necessary to sneak out of the house, still the possibility existed that Miss Hester Prestwich might have found herself another hired assassin—who in turn might have snatched the wrong brother.
Now he was being as foolish as his mother, seeing villains behind every bush. He took a sip of brandy, but found it tasteless. Finally he admitted to himself that he could not rest easy until he made an effort to find his brother.
With regret he abandoned his comfortable chair and set out to check at the clubs for his brother. He was not best pleased when he heard footsteps behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he recognized Malone and Mulrooney, and their presence did nothing to improve his mood.
The Black Widow Page 14
