The Black Widow (3 page)

Restraining his impulse to toss the dandy out the nearest window, Demetrius moved a few feet away until he had a clear view of his brother, who was still standing in front of Miss Meribe Prestwich. He was saying something, but whatever it was, she did not appear to be pleased. Her eyes still downcast, she was shaking her head repeatedly.

“Got to stop your brother before he ends up cold in his grave like her other suitors,” Uncle Humphrey said in a loud whisper.

While Demetrius watched, Miss Hester Prestwich said something sharply to her sister, who gave a start, then stood up and with obvious reluctance allowed Collier to lead her out to join a set that was forming.

Having seen enough, Demetrius took his uncle’s arm and began to urge him toward the door. Behind them Rudd snickered nastily.

“Are you not going to make a push to rescue your brother?” Uncle Humphrey protested. “Are you intending to leave him in that woman’s clutches? Have you no sense of duty? You are the head of the family, after all.”

“My brother can go to the devil with my blessing,” Demetrius retorted, continuing out of the room and down the stairs. “And while he is starting on his journey, you and I are going to have a long talk.”

“I am not sure I wish to get involved,” his uncle said. “It is bound to upset my digestion.”

Pausing briefly to retrieve their hats and Uncle Humphrey’s cane, they soon emerged into the cool night air, which was a welcome relief. It was hard to believe that the same people who complained about the smell of horses and the “stink” of the stables could spend hours in stuffy, overheated rooms that reeked of hot wax, stale sweat, and musky perfumes.

“Did you bring your carriage?” Demetrius asked.

“No, I came with Mannlius, and he is going to think it dashed queer of me to take off this way without a word to him.”

Shrugging, Demetrius began to walk in the direction of Grosvenor Square. His uncle hesitated, then hurried to catch up. “You cannot expect me to converse while galloping along like this.”

Obediently Demetrius shortened his stride to match his uncle’s slower pace. “Begin,” he said curtly.

“The question is, precisely what
is
the beginning?” his uncle tried to hedge, but a sharp look from Demetrius made him clear his throat and start over.

“Well, I suppose it began three years ago when Miss Meribe became betrothed to Collingwood. He was quite a catch for a young lady of seventeen in her first Season. Son of an earl, and all.”

“You are referring to Lord Wittingham’s heir?”

“Not any longer. Less than a week before the wedding, he was thrown from his horse and broke his neck. Fortunately, he has three younger brothers, so there is no problem with the succession.”

“I am not concerned about the succession, I am interested in Miss Meribe Prestwich.”

“Well, after that disaster, she retired to the country, of course. I believe they have an estate in Norfolk or Suffolk or some such place. Well, what else could the poor girl do? She could hardly be expected to finish out the Season. Wouldn’t have been proper, don’t you know. Although,” his uncle continued reflectively, “I am not sure how long one is expected to mourn for one’s betrothed. Undoubtedly not as long as for a husband, of course. But you can ask your mother; I am sure she would know.”

“You are wandering off the subject, uncle.”

“Hmmm? Oh, yes. Well, the next Season, she got betrothed to Lord Thurwell. Only a baron, and not nearly as well-funded as Collingwood, but still and all, a decent catch.”

“What happened to him?” Demetrius prompted.

“Got run down in the street by a dray three days after the betrothal was announced in the
Morning Post.
The driver claimed it was an accident—insisted Thurwell just stepped out in front of him. Most people disagreed.”

“Did they think there was foul play? Was there any investigation?”

“Foul play? No, no, nothing like that. Most people thought that she was under an evil spell, and Thurwell was merely an innocent victim of that curse, don’t you know. And time has proved them right. Miss Prestwich removed herself from London again, and I, for one, never thought to see her turn up here again last Season. Well, stands to reason, don’t it? A girl has two suitors die on her—who’s going to want to risk his neck getting betrothed to her?”

Apparently someone, Demetrius thought. Prompting his uncle, who had paused overly long in his recital, he asked, “Who?”

“Arleton and Fellerman, that’s who. Not at all up to the level of Collingwood and Thurwell, but then, the girl probably counted herself lucky that she still had any suitors at all. Didn’t even manage to get an announcement in the
Morning Post
last year, though. Right from the first week of the Season, the betting was heavy in the clubs as to which of them would make the first offer, but only four weeks into the Season, Arleton was killed by a highwayman on Hounslow Heath.”

“A highwayman? In this day and age?”

“Probably about the last one left in England, which just goes to show how unlucky it is to associate with Miss Meribe Prestwich. When they fished poor Fellerman out of the Thames, even the last diehards were willing to admit that she is afflicted with a fatal curse—fatal for her suitors, that is. It was after Fellerman’s funeral that everyone started calling her the Black Widow.’’

They walked in silence for a few moments while Demetrius thought about the story his uncle had related. “But I fail to understand—why the Black Widow? It would seem she has never actually been married, much less widowed, and her hair is a glorious chestnut rather than black.”

“It was Mannlius who rather cleverly came up with that sobriquet. Related it all to me. Explained how they’ve got a spider over there in the colonies called the black widow. Not only deadly poisonous, but the female eats the male after they ... well, you know ... after he does what he is supposed to do ... well, when she’s done with him as her bridegroom, so to speak, she turns him into dinner, as it were.”

“That is the most disgusting thing I have ever heard.”

“Well, can’t be helped—rather hard to persuade spiders to behave in a more civilized manner. No way to communicate with them, don’t you know. Best just to step on them.’’

“I was referring to Lord Mannlius. He should be ashamed to have added fuel to the gossip. Why, this is all nothing more or less than a witch hunt. I am amazed that people could be so superstitious—present company included.”

Uncle Humphrey hurried to justify himself. “Well, you will have to admit, it is somewhat peculiar that the girl—”

“I shall admit nothing of the kind. Rather it is typical of the blind cruelty displayed by ignorant mobs when they engage in such sports as bearbaiting.”

“Oh, come now,” his uncle blustered, “you are exaggerating. No one is being cruel—they are just being cautious.”

Remembering the look of sadness in the poor girl’s eyes, Demetrius said, “I disagree. They are acting like the most superstitious of savages and are managing to ignore all the progress civilization has made in the last thousand years.”

“But ... but really, Demetrius, how can you expect a man with the slightest common sense to risk his life? No, no, it is clearly your duty to rescue your brother from the Black Widow.”

The rage that had been building up in Demetrius now spilled over. Catching his uncle by the front of his waistcoat, Demetrius pulled him up until their faces were mere inches apart. “Do not ever
—ever—
let me hear you call her by that disgusting nickname again. Her name is Miss Meribe Prestwich, and I shall thank you to use it.”

Uncle Humphrey’s mouth gaped open and he stared at Demetrius in amazement. “But what about Collier?” he finally blurted out.

Obviously it would take something more than rational arguments to persuade his uncle to abandon the superstitious nonsense he was spouting. Feeling frustrated beyond measure, Demetrius released him. “I shall take care of Collier tomorrow.’’

“Thank the dear Lord, the boy has a chance of surviving.”

“Not really,” Demetrius answered, his voice grim. “I intend to have his head on a platter.’’

* * * *

Riding home in the carriage, Meribe counted the number of days left until her twenty-first birthday. Five weeks and four days. Only thirty-nine days until she would be free to return to Norfolk. And never again, under any circumstances whatsoever, would she return to London.

She loathed everything about the Season—every evening party, where the young men dared each other to dance with her, every ride in the park, where people pointed her out and whispered behind their hands about her, every morning call, where the conversation ceased the minute she walked into the room.

“Did you see that gown Lady Fosterwell was wearing?” Hester asked. “Someone should tell her that her carroty hair is not best set off by mulberry silk. Of course she will insist that her hair is actually blond. And Mary Douglas was wearing azure blue again. Her folly, I fear, is all the result of a certain young man telling her several years ago that blue brought out the beauty of her eyes. She has worn that color exclusively ever since, even though the young man who complimented her offered for Helen Chesterfield and is now the proud papa of two children. But then, Mary was always such a fool, even when she was two years ahead of me at Mme. Millicent’s School in Bath. She is never going to catch a husband, and I wonder why she has not yet put on her caps.”

When her chattering did not elicit a response from either Meribe or Aunt Phillipa, Hester altered her tactics. “I was surprised to see that Thorverton has come to town. He seemed quite taken with you, sister dear—staring at you as if you were ... how did Aunt Phillipa phrase it? ... As if you were in a raree show.”

Knowing full well that her sister was baiting her, Meribe bit her tongue and remained silent.

Aunt Phillipa was not so reticent, however. “That wretched man! You are not to have anything to do with him, Meribe. I have discovered he is nephew to that horrible Humphrey Swinton, and I shall not allow either of you to associate with any member of that family. I still shudder at the memory of how Swinton treated me thirty-two years ago when I was a young thing like you.”

“Just what did he do that was so terrible, Aunt?” Hester asked, but as usual when the subject of Humphrey Swinton came up, Aunt Phillipa refused to divulge the circumstances.

“My lips are sealed,” she said as dramatically as ever Mrs. Siddons declaimed her role on the stage at Covent Garden. “I have vowed to carry that secret to my grave. But as for you, Meribe, you are not to do anything to encourage Thorverton, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Aunt Phillipa, I hear you,” Meribe replied, remembering the kind eyes of the gentleman in question—kind eyes that unfortunately were filled with pity. Pity. Somehow that hurt worse than any of the whisperings and wagers and being stared at. She would have given anything to leave London before her birthday, but to her lasting regret, she had no say in the matter.

“Do not worry, Aunt,” Hester said gleefully. “I will wager Lady Thorverton sent for him after she heard that her precious son Collier danced with Meribe twice at the Bridgefords’ ball last Friday. Doubtless we shall never see either of those two young men again.” At least she hoped not, Hester thought, clenching her fists in her lap.

Thorverton had been in London six years ago, and seeing him again tonight had brought back too many memories. Luckily no one in the
ton
had ever suspected that Peter had jilted her—that he had waited until the marriage settlements were ready to sign before he had informed her that he was going to marry his childhood sweetheart instead—an insignificant little nobody back in Dorset.

Apparently fearing a scene if he informed her in the privacy of her own home, he had taken her aside at a dance and in a low voice had told her he had sent a retraction to the paper the next day. Unfortunately for him, she had not been so devastated that she had been unable to turn the tables on him.

He had obviously expected her to beg and plead with him, but instead in a scathing voice, which was not moderated in the slightest, she had denounced his character without ever mentioning the fickleness of his affections.

Enough people had heard quite clearly when she called him a hardened gamester and a libertine, that when his retraction had appeared in the paper, he was the one who was the object of the titters and the whispers, and no one had suspected that her heart was broken.

But as bad as he had hurt her, her father’s subsequent betrayal had been even harder to bear. She had thought that he loved her, but after his death she had discovered she meant nothing to him. His love and affection had been as much an illusion as had Peter’s.

The carriage came to a stop in front of their house, and Hester rubbed her forehead, futilely trying to ease the headache that had come over her as soon as she’d seen Lord Thorverton staring at her.

She hoped that he would soon go back to Devon. Seeing him brought back too many unpleasant memories. In the years since she had been jilted, she had acquired a reputation as a hard-hearted, sharp-tongued female, but she did not care. Nothing mattered as much as concealing from everyone how deeply she had been hurt by the two men she had loved.

* * * *

“You wanted to discuss something with me?” Collier asked, his tremulous smile betraying a slight nervousness.

At least Collier had come promptly in response to the note Demetrius had sent around to the Albany, but that was not sufficient to put Demetrius in charity with his brother. “Sit down. Have some breakfast. The grilled kidneys are quite good.”

With alacrity Collier dropped down into a chair, but declined to partake of any of the food spread out on the sideboard. With a bow, the footman left the two of them alone, closing the doors behind him.

Staring at his brother, Demetrius continued to eat, and the longer the silence stretched out between them, the more uncomfortable his brother became. First Collier began to fidget in his chair; then, abruptly getting to his feet, he filled a plate for himself.