The Black Widow (2 page)

Having sent his horses and groom around to the stables, he banged on the front door more vigorously than was perhaps necessary, but then, he had been in a foul mood for every minute of those three days.

He was just lifting his hand to the knocker again when the door was opened by his mother’s starched-up butler, who ignored his scowl and welcomed him quite formally to London.

Stalking past the man into the entrance hall, Demetrius did not bother to disguise his mood. “It is not a good day, McDougal. I have not had a good day since my mother sent for me. Fetch me a bottle of brandy and then tell her I am in my study. The sooner this farce is played out, the sooner I can return to Devon.”

“Your mother is out, m’lord.”

“Out?” Demetrius paused in the doorway of his study.

“She always goes for a drive in the park at five, m’lord.”

“I see. The situation with my brother is desperate, yet she has not let it interrupt her social activities. I was a fool to have come here. You may tell her that if she wishes to speak with me, she may visit me at Thorverton Hall.”

Turning on his heel, he retraced his steps, but escape was not to be that easy. By scurrying in a most undignified manner, the butler managed to reach the front door before him and blocked his exit.

Looking embarrassed by his own temerity, McDougal spoke up, his voice quavering with unbutlerish emotion. “Begging your pardon, m’lord, but I fear your brother has indeed gotten himself into mortal danger. We have all been praying you would arrive in time to save him. He appears to be so infatuated with the Black Widow, Lady Thorverton is afraid that if she allows him even to suspect she has sent for you, he will take offense at her interference and be goaded into doing something rash.”

“Something rash? Surely he cannot be seriously contemplating matrimony at his age?”

“That is precisely what is worrying us all, m’lord. Even Lady Thorverton is convinced that young Master Collier intends to offer for that woman as soon as he is twenty-one, which will be in another six and a half weeks. They do say that the odds in the clubs are now three to two that your brother will not survive the Season.”

Demetrius could not believe how overly dramatic everyone was acting. What had this widow done—poisoned several husbands? If so, why had she not been brought to justice?

“So how am I to persuade him to give up this woman without letting him suspect that I am opposed to the match?”

“Lady Thorverton is hoping that you will pretend you have come up to London for some business reasons.”

“That is all well and good, but has she figured out what I am to do after that?”

The butler looked completely miserable. “She has not made me privy to all her plans.”

“Which means she does not have any plans.” Biting back an oath, Demetrius turned away from the door. “I do not suppose my brother is in?”

The butler cleared his throat, then said, “I regret to inform you that young Master Collier no longer resides under this roof. He has taken rooms at the Albany.”

Demetrius began to suspect that he had at last discovered the real reason his mother had summoned him to London—not, as she was trying to pretend, to save his brother from the clutches of a scheming widow, but rather to coerce Collier into residing once again under the parental roof, where she could more easily control his every activity.

* * * *

Demetrius had no difficulty tracking down his brother, who was with two friends in his rooms at the Albany. Unfortunately, the guilty expression on Collier’s face did not bode well for the quick accomplishment of the task assigned to Demetrius.

“What are you doing in London?” Collier blurted out.

“Mind your manners,” Demetrius answered, more than a little put out by his brother’s obvious discomposure. How deeply was the boy involved with this Black Widow?

“Oh, of course. Uh, these are my friends, Ernest Saville and Charles Neuce.”

“Your brother and I have already met,” Neuce immediately told Collier.

Demetrius cast his mind back, but could dredge up no recollection of the other man, who was watching him with all the eager expectancy of a young, untrained foxhound.

“I bought a hunter from you four years ago,” Neuce prompted. “A chestnut gelding, name of Hey Go Mad.”

“Ah, yes, I remember.” Demetrius did not bother to mention that while he could recall the horse quite clearly, he still had no memory of the man who had bought it.

“Quite the best hunter I ever owned, in fact. Shame I lost him to Nethercott on a wager.’’

Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Collier repeated his question. “So, uh, what are you doing in London? Thought you never came here during the Season.”

“I have come to see a man about a horse,” Demetrius said vaguely, wishing he could have discussed strategy with his mother before this confrontation. Actually, it was doubtful if she had any useful ideas on the subject. What he should have done was have a long talk with Anne before he left Devon. If she could not have come up with a foolproof plan to separate Collier from the Black Widow, doubtless the twins could have. Two more ingenious boys he had never met ... nor ever wanted to meet.

“How fortunate!” Neuce exclaimed. “I have my eye on a team of matched grays that is being auctioned off at Tatt’s. Would you perhaps have time to accompany me tomorrow? I would appreciate the advice of an expert.”

“Since I raise hunters, I am not an expert on carriage horses,” Demetrius pointed out. Then, seeing the look of relief on his brother’s face, he changed his mind. If Collier did not want him hanging around, then Demetrius was determined to stay as close to his brother as sticking plaster. “But I shall be happy to go along and check them out for you. I can at least see if they are sound and not broken in wind.”

“Capital! I say, why don’t you come with us this evening? We are dining at White’s and then dropping by the Cholmondseys’ ball. I am sure they would have extended an invitation to you, had they known you were in town.”

Deliberately ignoring the horrified expression on his brother’s face, Demetrius readily agreed to change into evening dress and meet the other three at White’s at seven.

* * * *

Demetrius stared in amused disbelief at the Cholmondseys’ ballroom, which was decked out to resemble the grounds of an Italian villa—or perhaps a Spanish grandee’s estate? It was difficult to determine exactly what had been intended, but the labor involved in dragging in garden statues and large marble urns had to have been immense, not to mention the cost of the hundreds of flowers that competed with the guests for elbow room.

The last three years might well have been three days, so few changes could he see in the people around him. To be sure, there was a new row of eager young things seated beside their chaperones. But the look of desperation on their faces so precisely duplicated the expressions worn by the girls being presented three years ago that, with very little effort, one could convince oneself that they were the identical young ladies.

Looking around, he gradually began to recognize a few people he had been acquainted with before, although he could not put names to all the faces. There was, of course, the usual assortment of perennial bachelors and bored husbands, eager mamas and ancient beldams, dandies and Corinthians, high sticklers and dashing young matrons.

Unfortunately, no matter how he studied the other guests, Demetrius could not determine which of the women was the one called the Black Widow. For a moment he thought he might be wasting his time—that she might not even be in attendance this evening. But then he remembered the look of dismay on his brother’s face. No, Collier’s inamorata was sure to be here already, or she would be before the evening was over.

His job would be immensely easier if he had some idea what she looked like. Perhaps if he circulated through the room, he might overhear a conversation that would give him an indication as to whom he was looking for.

Heading in the general direction of the refreshment table, he listened carefully to what people were saying, but none of the gossip he heard mentioned the fatal widow.

In the corner, halfway hidden behind the statue of a wood nymph, he spotted the former Miss Everard, one of Diana’s bosom bows, batting her eyelashes at Lord Huxmere, whose wife was dancing with Major Thomas. Although Demetrius could not remember the name of the man Miss Everard had married, he was reasonably sure it was the man presently flirting with Lord Buckner’s second wife. Which meant Miss Everard was not a widow, and so she could be eliminated.

Demetrius could not completely hold back a smile when he approached Lionell Rudd, who was sitting with the chaperones. Three years ago Rudd had aspired to be the leader of fashion. This evening he had definitely achieved the dubious distinction of being the most foolish-looking fop at the ball.

Underendowed by nature, the skinny little man was wearing a coat that had been padded to give him a most impressive set of shoulders, then nipped in so sharply at the waist, it was a wonder the man could breathe. To add to his magnificence, the colors he was sporting would have made a peacock blush, plus he had at least twenty fobs and seals dangling from his waistcoat.

As silly as Rudd looked, the dandy was apparently not lacking in mettle—he was conversing with Hester Prestwich, whose sharp tongue had left scars on many an inoffensive young man. Her looks were not to be despised, and they had even gained her a number of suitors during her first Season, which had been—Demetrius counted back—about six years ago, when he himself had been an unlicked cub like Collier, set loose in London for the first time and determined to make a fool of himself.

If memory served him right, she had even been betrothed for a short period of time, but a few weeks later a retraction had appeared in the
Morning Post.
No one had been terribly surprised since any man who married her could expect to live under the cat’s paw.

Demetrius’s attention moved on to the girl sitting beside Miss Prestwich. There was enough resemblance to make it likely that she was a younger sister.

Her hair was a rich chestnut and was piled on top of her head, exposing a very graceful neck. She had not the classic beauty of her older sister—her nose was definitely not regal, and her upper lip was a bit too short, while her lower lip was too full. Actually, her lips looked quite kissable.

Overall, her features were softer, more rounded, and definitely more appealing than those of Miss Hester Prestwich. Idly he wondered what the younger sister’s given name was.

Unexpectedly the girl glanced up and caught him staring right at her. Her eyes were dark and appeared over-large for her face, like those of a newborn foal. For a long moment he was able to look deep into her eyes. He saw such sadness there—such a look of injured innocence—that it was disconcerting, and he felt almost relieved when she again lowered her eyes to her hands, which were busily engaged in twisting up a handkerchief to its obvious detriment.

“Young man, I will thank you to go about your business,” the hatched-faced woman sitting next to the two girls snapped out at him. “My niece is not a raree show, to be gawked at so rudely.’’

Recognizing Miss Prestwich’s aunt, also a Miss Prestwich since she had never married, Demetrius bowed and murmured all the correct apologies, but the old harridan was not to be appeased. She seemed determined to blame Demetrius for all the shortcomings of the male of the species—failings that in her mind appeared to be innumerable.

Giving up the obviously futile task of coaxing her out of her bad temper, he moved on and resumed his quest, feeling a moment of pity for the youngest Miss Prestwich, trapped as she was between a sharp-tongued sister and a man-hating aunt. It was small wonder none of the young bucks were crowding around, eager to sign her dance card.

Finally reaching his ostensible goal, he helped himself to a glass of champagne, then turned to survey the crowd once again. Belatedly it occurred to him that all he actually needed to do was pay attention to his brother and notice which of the ladies
he
paid attention to. With luck, Collier would betray himself.

Demetrius should have remembered that luck was what he no longer had. By the time the evening was half over, Collier had done nothing more reprehensible than dance with a few young ladies, none of them twice. Demetrius was about to give it up as a lost cause and go home when he spotted his mother’s brother, Humphrey Swinton, signaling him frantically from the other side of the room.

With great resolution and determination, Demetrius once again began to squeeze his way through the press of people, but this time he moved as quickly as the crowd allowed.

Before he could indicate his desire to speak privately with him, his uncle caught him by the arm and dragged him behind a pillar. “Demetrius, my boy, thank the dear Lord I have found you. Your mother insisted I come here this evening to help you rescue your brother, but it is too late—he is already asking that wretched woman to dance a second time. Either Collier is dicked in the nob or he has grown tired of this life. I cannot help thinking he should be locked up.”

Demetrius peered around the column and spotted his brother not fifteen feet away, bowing in front of ... No, that was clearly impossible!

Ducking back behind the pillar, he questioned his uncle further, thinking there had to be some mistake. “You cannot mean to tell me that Miss Hester Prestwich is the Black Widow?”

“No, no, of course not. It is her younger sister, Miss Meribe Prestwich, whose charms are so fatal.”

Among all the women Demetrius had suspected that evening, the youngest Miss Prestwich had definitely not been included.

“They are doing it on a dare, you should realize.”

A man’s high-pitched voice spoke right behind him, and Demetrius turned to see Lionell Rudd, who was smiling with malicious glee.

“The young bucks think they are proving their courage by dancing with her. Your brother is pushing his luck even further than most by asking for a second dance. It does raise a question about his intelligence, would you not say, Thorverton?”