The Black Widow

by Charlotte Louise Dolan

  “I was just thinking that meddling in other people’s affairs can be risky.’’

  “Et tu, Brutus?” Demetrius asked, feeling very much older than when he had gotten out of bed that morning.

  “What’s this?” Uncle Humphrey asked. “Have you taken to spouting Latin, Nephew? If that’s your pleasure, then here is where we will part company, for if there is one thing I will not tolerate, it is listening to folks jawing on in a heathen language. Speak in English or hold your tongue, that’s what I say.”

  “It appears,” Demetrius explained, “that Mr. Hennessey here has also been meddling in my affairs.”

  “Playing the role of deus ex machina, as it were,” Hennessey said impudently.

  “Blast it all, now he’s started it too! Did you not listen to what I just said?” Uncle Humphrey’s voice had risen almost to a shout. “Not one word of Latin! Do I make myself clear?’’

  “Quite clear, Uncle,” Demetrius said. “Now, if you would also be a little more clear about what you have been up to, Hennessey?”

  “Well, it was nothing much. I merely mentioned to your brother that there was to be a bout of fisticuffs in a little village near Reading yesterday,” the Irishman said.

  “And you said nothing about this to me when you knew I was worried about Collier? You let me waste hours searching all over London for him?” Demetrius could not keep all the anger out of his voice, but he did manage to maintain a reasonable degree of control until a sudden suspicion struck him. “Wait—when did you mention this pugilism match?”

  “Right after I pointed out to him that it was not necessary for you to marry Miss Prestwich, so long as the murderer thought you were going to,” Hennessey replied. Then, holding up his hands in mock surrender, he quickly added, “No, no, you must not strike me! Remember Malone and Mulrooney—in a fight between us, their loyalty would be to me.’’

  “Ah, but you forget,” Demetrius could not resist saying, “that I have my uncle on my side, and he carries a lethal cane.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence; then Humphrey objected, “Now, see here, Nephew, don’t expect me to slash up this rogue, for I tell you flat out, I will not do it, even though he is an insolent Irishman too full of blarney for his own good. Why, if I was to start cutting up people right and left, first thing you know, all the young bucks would be calling me out to test their mettle. No, I will not oblige you in this matter, and do not think you can persuade me, for you will find my mind is quite made up.”

  Hennessey and Demetrius both burst out laughing. “Relax, Uncle,” Demetrius said, clapping the older man on the back. “I was only jesting.”

  “Well, I must say this is a strange time to be making a joke,” Humphrey said indignantly.

  “When things are looking blackest, what else is there to do?” Demetrius replied. “My brother has vanished, my mother is prostrate with anxiety, I have threatened her shamelessly, my best friend has just brazenly confessed to meddling, the woman I wish to marry will not even speak to me, and to top it all off, someone is undoubtedly at this very moment plotting ways to kill me. Pray, what can I do but laugh?”

  “I could use a stiff drink,” Humphrey muttered. “Do you still have any of that port your father laid down in ‘87?”

  “I imagine McDougal can find a bottle or two. It is not my favorite tipple, so I have not made vast inroads into it,” Demetrius replied.

  “No, no, you cannot refer to such magnificent port as ‘tipple,’” Humphrey objected. “Disrespectful, don’t you know. One must treat such a blessing from the gods with the honor it deserves, don’t you agree, Hennessey?”

  “To my great regret, I have never had the pleasure of sampling any ‘87 port,” the Irishman replied.

  “Never tasted it? But that is shocking! I had not realized Ireland was so uncivilized! You must come in and sample a glass. Demetrius will not object,” Humphrey said with assurance. “I will say this for the lad, he’ll never offer you inferior champagne or that disgusting swill they serve at Almack’s.”

  Demetrius was about to offer his uncle an entire case of the aforementioned port, when about thirty yards ahead and a little to the right a shadow separated itself from the deeper darkness. Just as he was beginning to realize the import of what he was seeing, a pistol shot rang out.

  Instinctively he started toward the assailant, but before Demetrius could take even two steps, his friend and his uncle threw themselves on him and bore him to the ground. As he fell, a second shot whistled over his head, and the two Irish grooms lumbered past the three of them where they lay on the pavement. Strong they might be, but unfortunately they were not notably fleet of foot.

  A horse’s hooves clattered away down the street, which made it even more unlikely that Malone and Mulrooney could catch up with the miscreant.

  “Are you hurt, my dear boy?” Uncle Humphrey’s voice boomed out right beside Demetrius’s ear.

  If Demetrius could have moved, he would have winced, but with both Hennessey and Humphrey lying on him, he could barely wiggle a finger.

  “I am ... in danger ... of expiring ... on the spot,” he labored to say. “If ... you both ... do not ... get off me ... I fear my chest ... will be quite ... crushed.”

  Immediately and with profuse apologies his companions rolled off him and stood up. The relief was enormous, and it took Demetrius only a few moments to catch his breath and then get to his feet. Solicitously Uncle Humphrey began to brush off Demetrius’s jacket.

  “Never mind, Uncle, I fear this garment is now fit only for the dustbin,” Demetrius said.

  “Well, at least I was half right,” Hennessey said cheerfully, walking back a few paces to pick up their hats and Humphrey’s cane.

  “How is that?” Demetrius asked.

  “Very few people are good enough shots to hit a moving target in the dark. Too bad I did not also consider the possibility that the assassin might think to provide himself with a horse.”

  Hennessey held out his hat and Demetrius took it and clapped it on his head.

  A few minutes later the two Irish grooms returned. Handing Demetrius an antique silver-chased dueling pistol, Mulrooney said, “It appears that the assassin dropped one of his pistols. I found this lying on the pavement.”

  “I think, Hennessey,” Demetrius said after inspecting it in the light of a street lamp, “that you are undoubtedly correct in assuming that Miss Hester Prestwich has a gentleman accomplice. This is not the kind of weapon used by most residents of Soho.”

  “It is a shame we cannot simply search anyone we suspect, in order to see if he is carrying the mate to this pistol. Of course, there is a chance that some gunsmith might be able to identify it,” Humphrey suggested,

  “It is possible, but considering its apparent age, it is not likely,” Demetrius replied. “In any event, I think we had better come up with a plan that has a higher chance of success.”

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  The carriage pulled to a stop in front of the Prestwich residence, and Meribe sighed with relief. As soon as the door was opened and the steps let down, her sister climbed out and hurried into the house without a backward glance. Meribe, however, waited to see if her aunt required any assistance.

  Descending from the carriage and taking Meribe’s proffered arm, Aunt Phillipa said petulantly, “I wish someone would tell me what is going on. Hester did not utter a single word all the way home, which, although it was quite restful for me, is very much out of character for her. And as for you, young lady, you spent the evening popping in and out of the ladies’ room like a veritable jack-in-the-box. The only thing I can conclude from your behavior is that both of you are coming down with something quite dreadful, which is sure to spoil what little pleasure I am able to find in London these days.”

  Smucker opened the door for them and took Aunt Phillipa’s cloak, but Meribe indicated that she wished to keep hers for the moment.

  “I can only hope,” her aunt continued, “that
whatever you are sickening with, it does not involve spots. I cannot abide watching people scratch themselves. It is so very vulgar.” With these parting words Aunt Phillipa ascended the stairs and passed from view.

  Left alone at last, Meribe wandered out into the garden. Only a few short weeks ago she had thought she could not be more unhappy than she was. Now she knew differently.

  Only twenty-four hours had passed since she had last spoken with Lord Thorverton, but it seemed more like an eternity. Over the course of the last few weeks they had been so preoccupied with solving the mystery of who was permanently disposing of her suitors that Meribe had not noticed how she had little by little become accustomed to being with Lord Thorverton every day—relying on him for advice, turning to him for comfort.

  Even when she was not with him, her thoughts were centered on him. No matter what she might be doing, she was invariably anticipating their next meeting—planning what she would say to him, wondering what news he might have for her. But mostly just wanting to be near him.

  Especially when things went wrong—and they seemed to be going wrong with increasing frequency—she needed him and only him. His strength supported her and gave her the courage to face the unavoidable and the determination to deal with the unthinkable.

  Looking back on her life before she had met him, she realized now how empty her days had been. And looking ahead?

  Tears filled her eyes at the thought of the endless days ... the empty weeks ... the unendurable months ... the unbearably lonely years. How could she manage without him? How could she even find comfort working in her garden, when everywhere she looked she was reminded of him?

  Love was not supposed to make her feel like this—love was supposed to bring happiness and contentment, not soul-wrenching misery.

  If only there were some safe way to continue seeing Lord Thorverton—some way to marry him that would not endanger his life or the lives of his family and friends.

  In the dark, empty garden, it seemed to Meribe as if her life would always be as bleak and lonely as it was now. For a moment she almost wished her sister had arranged for a fatal accident to befall her. But then she resolutely pushed such unworthy thoughts out of her head.

  Time, she knew full well, did indeed heal broken hearts. It would not be soon, but someday in the future she would be able to look back on these weeks in London and remember Lord Thorverton without pain. She would be able to feel gratitude for his friendship, for his assistance, for the comfort of his arms.

  Someday, but not today. Tomorrow, even, she would try her best to be brave and resolute, but not now. It was too soon—the wound was too fresh, the pain too intense.

  Sinking down onto the stone bench where she had sat with Lord Thorverton, Meribe covered her face with her hands and allowed the tears to flow.

  How long she cried, she had no way of knowing, but when the tears finally ended, she wiped her eyes, sat up straighter, and began to plan her future—a future in which she would not be Lord Thorverton’s wife.

  She was still determined to learn to ride, even though he would not be her teacher. She would also get a kitten, and her aunt would just have to accustom herself to it. But most important of all, she and Bagwell, her gardener, would turn the gardens of Prestwich Hall into such a showplace that people would come from miles around just to see the flowers and shrubs. Perhaps her aunt might even agree to having public days. Perhaps three times each year—once during the spring, once in the summer, and once in the fall—they could open the gates to all and sundry.

  If only Aunt Phillipa would agree! It would be nice to have a goal in life—to have something to look forward to. And more important, if she and Bagwell were to do such a thing, they would have to work very hard, because there was so much that needed to be done, and consequently Meribe would not even have a moment to think about might-have-beens and if-onlys.

  Rising from the bench with the intention of going inside, she happened to glance up and notice that the light was still on in her sister’s room. And what, Meribe wondered, would Hester do with her twenty thousand pounds a year? Would she stay in Norfolk or would she want to travel? Would she live here in London, in this house that would belong to her, or would she perhaps buy a house in Bath or Brighton? What kind of plans did she have for the money, to obtain which she had conspired to commit murder?

  The words from the Bible came to Meribe then: What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the world and lose his soul?

  What is it you want to possess that is worth the cost of another person’s life, Hester? she asked silently, staring up at the lighted window. Have you ever stopped to realize the price you are paying in order to acquire the luxuries that you seem to think you cannot live without? Will you be able to enjoy your ill-gotten gains? Is your conscience completely dead, or are you still feeling some twinges of guilt?

  Even as Meribe watched, the light went out in her sister’s room, and it seemed almost as if Hester had answered her. Even later, when she was curled up in her own bed, the memory of that darkened window stayed with Meribe, as if it were a symbol of the blackness in her sister’s heart.

  * * * *

  Collier waited impatiently in the library for his brother to return from his evening’s entertainment. During the journey back to London, his anger had abated considerably, but he was having little luck curbing his restlessness.

  While he could not agree that his brother had acted correctly in hiring a Bow Street runner, still and all, it was understandable that Demetrius had been concerned. As much as he hated to admit it, it had never occurred to Collier that anyone would suspect he had been the victim of foul play. Under normal circumstances, Demetrius would have jumped to the correct conclusion, namely that Collier was playing least-in-sight until he was no longer angry.

  But these were not normal times—a murderer was walking the streets of Mayfair, stalking Demetrius, and therefore Collier should not have absented himself from his brother’s side.

  All afternoon he had, in fact, been picturing all the terrible “accidents” that could have happened to Demetrius while he himself was larking about the countryside with his friends.

  He was just starting to run through the possible disasters once again when he heard a commotion in the entrance hall. Hurrying to the library door, he opened it and beheld a strange spectacle.

  Uncle Humphrey, Demetrius, and Thomas Hennessey stood there being fussed over by McDougal. Although the three gentlemen were dressed for an evening at Almack’s, they looked as if they had gone several rounds with the Bedford Bruiser. At second glance, Collier realized it was mostly their clothes, which had suffered from gross mistreatment, rather than themselves.

  “Ecod, what have the three of you been doing—crawling home on your hands and knees?” he said, and instantly there was dead silence and three pairs of eyes turned toward him. Four pairs, actually, if one counted the butler’s.

  After a long moment, during which Collier could feel his cheeks beginning to heat up, Demetrius said mildly, “Welcome back.’’

  Collier had intended to rebuke his brother for sending a Bow Street runner after him, but now he changed his mind. From the manners of the others it was obvious to him that something untoward had happened this evening, and his own righteous indignation at being treated like a child now seemed ... seemed, well, rather childish.

  “Would someone like to tell me what has been going on?” he said.

  “Hum, well, yes.” Uncle Humphrey broke the silence. “Well, you see, my dear boy, while we were returning from an evening at Almack’s—the usual dismal affair, by the way. You did not miss a thing by staying away, but then, I have learned never to have any great expectations of a good time when I go there. Such an insipid place, I cannot think why it is so popular. But be that as it may, while we were strolling along on our way here—not that I would not have preferred to take a carriage, but then, no one consulted me. And do you know, now that I think on it, we would have been much better off to drive
home, because someone took a couple of shots at your brother, and he would have been much safer if he’d been in a closed carriage, don’t you know.”

  “That would explain the hole in his chapeau bras, then,” Collier said, admiring his own sangfroid.

  Demetrius took his hat off and stared at it, then broke out laughing. “Ecod, but the blackguard was a better shot than I’ve been giving him credit for. It appears I have been remiss in not thanking you gentlemen properly for throwing me to the ground and nearly crushing the life out of me.”

  Blast it all, Collier thought, he should never have left his brother’s side! He gave Hennessey a black look for having made his idiotic suggestions about the betrothal announcement and the prizefight.

  The Irishman met his glance and shrugged. Then, looking suitably apologetic, he said, “As much as I admire your hallway, Thorverton, I suggest we retire to the library, and perhaps if it is not too much trouble, we might have a bit of that port I have been hearing so much about.”

  “Capital suggestion,” Humphrey said. “Some of the ‘87, McDougal, if you please.”

  A few minutes later they were all seated comfortably, Hennessey and Humphrey sipping the port, while Collier and Demetrius shared a bottle of excellent brandy.

  “It seems to me,” Collier said, “that this whole affair has dragged on much too long. Something must be done, and done soon, to catch the villain.’’

  “Or villains,” Hennessey said. “We suspect that Miss Hester Prestwich has a cohort—someone to act as an intermediary between her and the ruffians she hires.”

  “You have proof of this?” Collier asked eagerly.

  “Not a bit,” Demetrius replied. “But the pieces of the puzzle fit together better if we assume that someone of our own class is aiding and abetting her.”

  “A gentleman?”

  “Do not sound so surprised, little brother. You know very well that London is full of so-called gentlemen who have not even a nodding acquaintance with honor,” Demetrius pointed out.