The Black Widow (6 page)

Once in his room, he took a swig from his bottle, then retrieved the note from his pocket. Untwisting it, he stared in frustration at the letters written on it. Then he pounded on the wall and bellowed, “Peg!”

A few minutes later, his neighbor and occasional mistress appeared, already dressed for an evening on the streets. “Read me this,” he said, thrusting the paper at her.

“It’ll cost you a penny,” she said, but he raised his fist and she immediately reconsidered. Walking over to the table, she peered at the note in the light of the single candle. “It don’t make much sense. It just says ‘Lord Thor-ver-ton,’ and underneath is writ ‘fifty guineas.’ Coo-ee, that’s a lot of money.”

She looked at him with speculation in her eyes, but he made no effort to explain. The fewer people who knew about this business, the better. Taking back the piece of paper, he sent Peg on her way with a scowl that promised she’d be sorry if she ever mentioned a word of his business to anyone else.

* * * *

Meribe paced back and forth in the sitting room. Aunt Phillipa and Hester had gone to Madame Parfleur’s to order some new dresses, leaving her behind, and all because she was afraid that if she went out, Lord Thorverton would once again “chance” to meet her. Why, she was becoming little more than a prisoner in her own house. Things had clearly gone too far.

But what could she do? That wretched man persisted in playing the hero. Hadn’t anyone ever told him that heroes were quite often killed while performing their acts of bravery? Why could she not make him understand that it was not worth risking his life just so that she would not have to endure being stared at and whispered about?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door, which was opened a moment later by Smucker. “Beg pardon, Miss Meribe, but there is a lady here to see you.”

Meribe looked at him in astonishment. None of her friends had paid a single call since she had been dubbed the Black Widow. The few visitors they’d had this Season had come to see either Aunt Phillipa or Hester.

“Are you sure she wishes to see me, Smucker?”

“Quite sure, miss.”

“Very well, I shall see her.” Perhaps it was a friend from back home—someone only visiting in London for a few days. Or perhaps ...No, she could not think of any other possibilities.

A few minutes later the butler ushered Lady Hazelmore into the room, and it was all Meribe could do to hide her astonishment—and her curiosity. Whatever had compelled this woman to approach her?

Lady Hazelmore’s greetings were not only profuse but also couched in such terms that anyone hearing her might easily mistake the two of them for bosom bows. Then Meribe waited with impatience while the other woman rattled on, expressing her views on the weather (unseasonably hot) and the dance the night before (a terrible crush) and the new dress she had ordered (a delightful confection in silver and pink).

Finally, after about ten minutes of idle chitchat, Lady Hazelmore came to the point. “I noticed you were with Lord Thorverton last night.”

Somehow Meribe was not at all surprised that his name had come up—in fact, she had been expecting it ever since Lady Hazelmore had entered the room. “Yes,” she said briefly. She had never before taken anyone in instant dislike, but she now had a strong premonition that this woman was not here to offer her friendship—that Lady Hazelmore had some ulterior motive for her visit.

“I felt it was my Christian duty to come and warn you.” Lady Hazelmore smiled, but Meribe could see neither good humor nor kindness in the smile.

“There is no need to warn anyone,” Meribe said rather sharply. “Lord Thorverton is well aware of the rumors connected with my name.”

“No, no, my dear, I was not thinking of
that.
Knowing how you have suffered from your terrible affliction ...”

Meribe felt herself stiffen, and she began to hate the other woman for her casual remarks, whose cruelty was scarcely concealed by the smiles that accompanied them.

“... and knowing what scandalous gossip has already been spread far and wide about your, uh, misfortunes, shall we say?” She smiled sweetly, revealing matching dimples. “I felt it was no less than my duty to come here and warn you, lest you suffer even more on my account. I should feel forever guilty if I caused you even a second of additional pain. You see ... Demetrius and I ... How shall I say this?”

Meribe suspected that Lady Hazelmore knew exactly how she was going to say whatever spiteful words she had come prepared to spill out. More than likely she had practiced each little hesitation, each falsely sweet smile in front of the mirror.

“I have known Demetrius since I was quite young. We were, in fact, childhood sweethearts, and everyone knew that someday we would marry.”

She paused, watching Meribe out of the corner of her eye to see what effect her words were having, but Meribe managed—she hoped—to keep her smile bland. “How nice,” she murmured, not wishing to let this woman know exactly how much pain her words were causing.

“Three years ago, we became formally betrothed, and dear Demetrius swore that he would love me forever. Indeed, I thought at the time that I loved him also.” She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, but Meribe could see no sign of tears.

“But alas, I was young and did not know my own heart. I certainly did not plan to fall in love with Hazelmore, but he was so persistent, and I could not resist his entreaties. A week before I was to have wedded dearest Demetrius, I eloped with Hazelmore to the Continent.”

Meribe stared in astonishment. “You
jilted
Lord Thorverton?”

“Oh, you must not think badly of me,” Lady Hazel-more cried out, affecting deep distress. “I was quite young and so much in love, I could see no other way out. I did not wish to break Demetrius’s heart, but how could I marry him when my own heart was given to another?”

“You could have simply asked him to release you from the betrothal,” Meribe said.

“I was not brave enough to face him,” Lady Hazel-more said, again dabbing at her eyes. “I could not bear to see his grief. I was so young, barely eighteen, and since I had ceased to love him, somehow it seemed as if he must also have stopped loving me. If I had known I was breaking his heart—alas, I do not know what I would have done, for Hazelmore threatened to kill himself if I wedded another. As it was, we were forced to flee to France, lest Demetrius challenge my dearest Hazelmore to a duel. He is a deadly shot, you know—Demetrius, that is. But Hazelmore is more adept with a clever rhyme.”

How ridiculously dramatic this foolish woman is, Meribe thought. It amazed her that anyone could be so silly and yet take herself so seriously.

“It was only later that I realized I had broken dear Demetrius’s heart, but by then there was nothing I could do to ease his pain. I returned from France to discover that he had withdrawn from society completely, shutting himself away in Devon, finding what consolation he could with his horses.”

“I fail to see how this concerns me,” Meribe said flatly. “I am not at all interested in old gossip.”

Looking a trifle sulky that her efforts were not achieving the proper effect, Lady Hazelmore continued. “When I heard Thorverton was again in London, I was properly astonished. I thought—I hoped, I even dared to dream—that perhaps his heart was mended. But when I saw him last night, I could not doubt that he still loves me. What am I to do, Miss Prestwich?”

“Well, you and your husband could leave London for a while,” Meribe said. Her matter-of-fact answer did not at all please her visitor.

“Leave London? But it is the height of the Season! Surely you are not suggesting I forgo all the festivities?”

“It would seem to be the proper thing to do if you truly wish to avoid causing Lord Thorverton any unnecessary pain.”

Lady Hazelmore pouted, which she did most becomingly. “I cannot believe that dear Demetrius would want me to suffer also. Loving me the way he does, I am sure he would want me to be happy.’’

Meribe shrugged. “It would appear that one or the other of you must suffer, then.”

Standing up, Lady Hazelmore said rather crossly, “I came here out of the goodness of my heart to warn you that if you are so foolish as to fall in love with Lord Thorverton, you will also know the pain of unrequited love.”

“Why is that?’’ Meribe asked, deliberately playing the part of a naive little fool.

“Because he will never love anyone but me!” the beauty cried out, displaying for the first time an honest emotion unaccompanied by any practiced expressions.

Watching her visitor stalk out of the room, Meribe did not know whether to laugh or to cry. It was hard to believe that Lord Thorverton could ever have loved such a silly, posturing nincompoop as Lady Hazelmore. On the other hand, it was common knowledge that love made fools of men ... and women.

It was quite likely that she herself was the biggest fool. Without admitting it to herself, she had been hoping that Lord Thorverton would fall in love with her—that the pretense would become reality and that he would court her in earnest.

How ridiculous. Even if he had recovered from his broken heart—and the expression on his face yesterday evening when he had first seen Lady Hazelmore suggested that he had not—then why on earth would he fall in love with her?

Walking across the room to the fireplace, she stared at herself in the mirror above the mantel. There was nothing in particular wrong with her looks, but on the other hand, there were dozens of other girls equally pretty or even prettier. Moreover, she was getting rather long in the tooth—why, she was almost one-and-twenty!

Returning to her seat by the window, she picked up her needlework and stared at it in disgust. It was really time to admit that she was never going to become proficient at embroidery ... or tatting ... or watercolors ... or playing the piano ... or speaking French and Italian. Aunt Phillipa insisted that she had the ability to learn if she would only set her mind to it, but that was the problem: she just could not bring herself to care about any of those things.

Maybe when they returned to Norfolk—since she would then be of age—she could insist that she have a garden plot of her own. Maybe once she put on her caps and admitted to the world that she was a spinster, then it would not matter so much if she grubbed about in the dirt? Maybe she would only be thought eccentric, which was surely allowable for an old maid, was it not?

Maybe she could even stand up to Aunt Phillipa and
demand
that she be allowed to make her own decisions. And maybe pigs could fly.

She knew herself well enough to admit that she would never be able to win an argument with her aunt, or her sister either. Which was another reason Lord Thorverton was not likely to fall in love with her. A man of his courage and strong convictions would want a woman who was brave, who was resolute, who could stand up to people and stare them out of countenance. He would definitely not want to marry a girl with no backbone at all.

Angry with herself, she stabbed the needle into the cloth so hard, one of the cross threads broke, creating a small hole. She looked at it in dismay, well aware that her aunt would be most annoyed with her.

Then, with resolution she had not known she had, she removed the piece from its frame, carried it down to the kitchen, and threw it into the fire. She felt more satisfaction watching it burn than she had ever felt while she was working on it.

* * * *

Demetrius looked up from his desk to see his mother enter the library without knocking, a militant expression on her face.

“I want a word with you. How
dare
you refuse to come up and take tea with my guests! When McDougal told me you said you were too
busy,
I was so mortified I almost
died. “

“I regret if I caused you any embarrassment, but I have already told you repeatedly that I am not interested in meeting the daughters of any of your friends.”

“And yet you are apparently eager to
throw
yourself at that brazen hussy, that Black Widow!”

“Be careful what you say. I will not allow you or anyone else to use that disgusting nickname, Mother.”

“I shall call that wretched female anything I like!”

Demetrius stared at her coldly, wondering what he had done to deserve such a mother, whose idea of Christian charity consisted of giving ten pounds to the poor of the parish once a year during the yuletide season. “Understand this, Mother: If you ever again refer to Miss Prestwich in such a way, I shall no longer allow you the use of this house.”

“You would not dare do such a thing! Why, what would people say?”

“Do you know, Mother, I have never especially cared what ‘people’ say. Please believe me—I am quite serious about this. Do not think to test my patience, for on this subject I have none.”

“You are an unnatural son to speak so to your own mother. And I am sure you are encouraging your little brother to disregard my wishes also.”

“Collier is no longer little. He is almost one-and-twenty and quite capable of being disobedient on his own.”

“Oh,” she moaned, clutching her handkerchief to her breast, “you are going to be the death of me. It is a good thing your dear papa is not alive to hear you speak to me in such a manner!’’

With that parting shot, she left the room before Demetrius could remind her that “dear papa” had been every bit as insubordinate as his elder son.

Being in Tattersall’s was not quite as good as being in his own stables back in Devon, Demetrius admitted to himself, but it was the next best thing. Not only were there horses here, but also men who knew horses, which made it a welcome change from the ballrooms of London.

“Now, why would you be so interested in watching a pretty little filly like this be put through her paces?”

Recognizing the voice behind him, Demetrius was smiling even before he turned around. “Hennessey, well met! What brings you across the Irish Sea? Are you buying or selling?”

“Now, that’s a daft question—if it was another horse I’d be needing, it’s Dublin where I’d be finding meself. Not that there’s anything wrong with an English horse if an Irish one is not available.”