The boy laughed, obviously pleased to discover that for once his brother had not gotten his own way.
“Had you heard about the boxing match being held in a little village near Reading this week?” Thomas asked casually.
Baineton was no dummy, that was obvious. “Do you know,” he replied at once, “I have just become an ardent fan of pugilism.” Grinning cheekily, he took his leave and strolled away, whistling softly under his breath.
Collier inspected the brief note he had just written. “Betrothed: Miss Meribe Prestwich and Demetrius Baineton, Lord Thorverton.” Well satisfied with his efforts to imitate his brother’s hand, Collier sanded the note, then folded and sealed it. After clearing away all signs of his presence in Demetrius’s study, Collier sought out one of the footmen and gave him instructions to deliver the missive to the offices of the Morning Post.
An hour later, after packing the necessaries in a small portmanteau, he slipped out of the house and went cheerfully off to meet Charles Neuce and Ernest Saville, with whom he was driving down to Reading.
It was unfortunate that he could not be a fly on the wall and hear the thunderous oaths that were bound to be uttered when his brother found out what he had done. But it was more prudent to be absent until Demetrius’s wrath had cooled to manageable levels.
* * *
Chapter 9
Aunt Phillipa lowered her newspaper and glared over the top of it at Meribe. “Well, missy, I see your splendid lord has come up to scratch.”
Hester gasped, and Meribe looked at her aunt in bewilderment. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“The list of betrothals in the Morning Post includes your names: Miss Meribe Prestwich and Demetrius Baineton, Lord Thorverton. Well, I cannot say that you did not warn me, but it is still rather shabby of you not to have apprised me of the agreement between the two of you before I read about it in the Post. But it is all of one piece since I have long known that the younger generation has no respect for the proper way of doing things. It has become such a helter-skelter world, there is no telling where it will end. In my day, gentlemen had the decency to cover their heads with wigs, or at the very least they powdered their hair, but now they lark about with their hair clipped indecently short.”
As much as she hated deceiving her aunt, Meribe could not reveal that the betrothal was nothing more nor less than a hoax—undoubtedly a trick on Lord Thorverton’s part to catch the murderer. Would that Lord Thorverton truly wanted to marry her—how wonderful it would be in that case!
Except she was forgetting: by announcing their betrothal, whether legitimate or a clever bit of deceit, Lord Thorverton was making a target of himself—setting himself up for another assassination attempt.
If only he had asked her permission first! Not that she would have given it, of course. Not even the income from her father’s investments was great enough to warrant taking such a foolhardy risk, and so she would tell Lord Thorverton when she saw him.
Aunt Phillipa rattled her paper indignantly, then said crossly, “And as for you, Niece, you would have done better to take my advice and shun the company of men. Well, that is all I shall say on the subject, except for this: you have made your bed, and now you must lie in it.”
Meribe felt her face grow hot at the thought of lying in bed with Lord Thorverton. It had been uncommonly pleasant to have him hold her in his arms ... what would it be like to sleep beside him? To see his face on the pillow beside her? To wake up in the morning in his embrace?
“You are assuming, of course, that nothing untoward will happen to his lordship between now and the wedding,” Hester said, interrupting Meribe’s pleasant daydreams. “I am surprised he is willing to risk being struck down by the curse.”
“There is no curse,” Meribe blurted out. She almost said it had been a hired assassin who had killed her other suitors, but fortunately she bit back the words in time. Under no circumstances could she allow Hester to learn that they had discovered her wicked machinations.
Hester’s expression was now so icy, she seemed a complete stranger, and Meribe wondered if she had ever truly known her sister.
“If I were you,” Hester said, “I would cry off before it is too late to save Lord Thorverton’s life.”
She is threatening me, Meribe realized with amazement. She is actually warning me that she will have him killed if I do not jilt him. Was Hester really the heartless monster she appeared to be? Was there nothing left of the kind older sister who had helped Meribe with her lessons? Who had tucked Meribe in at night after their mother had passed away? Who had smuggled food up to Meribe when she was sent to bed with no supper? Was that sister gone forever?
The love of money is the root of all evil. Did Hester want to be rich so badly that she was willing to condone—no, to solicit—murder?
“If you are quite done picking at your food, then I suggest we call for the carriage,” Aunt Phillipa said, interrupting Meribe’s thoughts. “Madame Parfleur is expecting us at eleven so that we can pick out the fabric for your riding habit. Unless you have come to your senses and given up such ridiculous notions?”
“No, I have not changed my mind,” Meribe said, although she could no longer feel the slightest excitement at the thought of learning to ride. She doubted, in fact, that she could find enjoyment in any activity—even gardening—so weighed down was she by fear for Lord Thorverton’s life.
“Do you come with us, Hester?” Aunt Phillipa asked, rising to her feet.
“No, I have made other plans,” Hester replied, her voice betraying no emotion.
* * * *
Humphrey Swinton rehearsed his speech while he walked along with jaunty step toward his sister’s residence. As head of the family, he would say, it is my decision who—whom?—we shall recognize and whom we shall turn our backs on. And I have decided that Miss Meribe Prestwich is a delightful young lady, quite worthy of Demetrius’s attentions.
We should be thankful, he would point out, that Demetrius’s affections have been engaged by someone whose manners are above reproach, whose countenance is pleasing, and whose station in life is commensurate with that of Demetrius.
A firm tone, that would be best. Override Dorathea’s objections before she had a chance even to utter them. And he would project his voice the way Babette, an opera dancer who had been under his protection for a delightful two years, had taught him.
One must be open-minded, he would explain—though actually, as the head of the family, he owed his sister no explanation. To condemn an innocent young girl because she has the misfortune to have a harridan for an aunt is not only unfair but also ... also ... What was the word he needed?
Unjust... pernicious ... reprehensible ... That was not quite what he wanted to say. He stopped walking and scratched his head with the end of his cane, almost knocking his hat off in the process.
Shameful—that was the word he was looking for. To exhibit such prejudice brought shame upon the fair name of Swinton.
Satisfied at last, he began walking again, muttering his speech over and over, lest the proper words escape into the ether.
He could not help smiling. He could see it all in his mind: himself, standing straight and dignified, laying down the law; his sister cringing back in her chair, fearful of arousing his ire.
Yes, yes, he would have no trouble carrying out his assignment. Demetrius would be quite proud to have such a noble uncle who did his duty in the face of forceful opposition, who did not retreat abjectly when under enemy fire.
Arriving at the Thorverton residence, he mounted the steps, rapped on the door with his cane, greeted McDougal with great bonhomie, then commanded majestically, “And tell my sister that I wish to speak with her at once.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but that would not be wise.”
“What’s that?”
“Lady Thorverton is in a perishing temper. I cannot say what has touched her off, but she threw her breakfast tray at the wall this morning, and then she boxed the
maid’s ears—and my lady has never before been given to physical violence. If I were you, I would come back another day.’’
The picture of himself as a general, fearlessly leading his troops into battle, stayed with Humphrey, however, and he said in a firm voice, “Nonsense. I am not now, nor have I ever been, afraid of my sister.” Which was bending the truth considerably, but the new, resolute Humphrey was not afraid of any woman—or any man, for that matter.
“But—”
“But me no buts, my good man. I wish to speak to my sister without delay.’’
“Very well, if you will wait in the drawing room, I shall inform her that you are here.”
The look on the butler’s face was not exactly admiration, but that would change after Humphrey had bearded the lion—that is to say, the lioness—in her den. McDougal would be struck dumb with awe, in fact, when he saw how easily Humphrey handled his sister.
“Lioness” was not quite the word for Dorothea, he discovered to his own consternation. “Avenging angel” was a better description, and he could only be thankful she had seen fit to leave her flaming sword in her dressing room.
Before he could even open his mouth, she rolled over him like a cavalry charge, screaming imprecations—although luckily not directed at him—spouting nasty threats, uttering dire warnings. Relentlessly she forced him to retreat, until he found himself with his back to the wall.
Glaring up at him like one of the Furies, she said, “I expect you to do something about this immediately.’’
“D-do something? About what?”
“Have you not been paying attention? About the betrothal!” She shook a piece of newspaper in front of his face, and with relief he grabbed it.
It was not easy to read since it had already been savagely mangled, crumpled, torn, twisted up ...
“There—there! Read the announcement for yourself! Oh, that any son of mine should have done such a deceitful thing! Betrayed by my own child! Does a mother not deserve even a modicum of respect? Have I nursed a viper at my bosom all these years?” To Humphrey’s relief, she moved away from him and began to pace around the room.
He immediately started breathing again, and his heart slowed down to merely double its normal pace. Then, with fingers that trembled only slightly, he smoothed out the offending piece of newsprint and scanned it quickly. In the middle of the list of betrothals recently entered into, the names Miss Meribe Prestwich and Demetrius Baineton, Lord Thorverton, popped out at him.
By Jove, but his nephew had bottom! He’d actually done it—thumbed his nose in the murderer’s face. Demetrius was a credit to the Swinton family, even though technically he was a Baineton and not a Swinton. Still, the boy was his nephew, and Humphrey was quite proud of him.
“I demand that you put an end to this nonsense! You will go at once to the newspaper offices and threaten them with a lawsuit if they do not print a retraction, do you hear me?’’
Stiffening his backbone, Humphrey glared down at his older sister. For years she had pushed him around—browbeaten him unmercifully—but no longer. “I hear you,” he said in a calm but firm voice. “And I doubt not but that all the servants can hear you also.” He took a step forward, and staring up at him in amazement, Dorothea took a faltering step backward.
Pressing his advantage, he advanced remorselessly. “As head of the family, I order you not to meddle in this business in any way.”
“How ... how dare you talk—” she attempted to say, but he cut her off ruthlessly.
“Furthermore, you will not only welcome Miss Prestwich into the family but also give a party for her and for her aunt.”
Losing ground rapidly, Dorothea still essayed a defense. “Never,” she said, but her voice quavered weakly, and it was obvious to Humphrey that he almost had her routed, foot, horse, and gun.
“Do not say ‘never’ to me—say, ‘yes, sir, at once, sir.’” His voice now sounded menacing even to his own ears.
Her mouth moved, but not a sound came out.
“Say it!” he bellowed, and so well did he project his voice that had he been onstage at Covent Garden, he could have been heard even in the back of the farthest balcony. Babette would have been proud of him.
Tears welled up in his sister’s eyes, and he felt all his energy and determination leak away. “Now, don’t cry, Dorothea. I am sorry I yelled at you.”
“Nobody cares about my feelings,” she said, sniffling. “The only reason I did not like Miss Prestwich in the first place was that her aunt treated you so abominably. I am sure she is a very sweet girl if you say so.”
“I do, and I think you will agree with me once you get to know her better.’’
He was very satisfied with himself when he left the Thorverton residence a short time later. Really, it was not at all hard to manage his sister. All that was required was a little gumption.
* * * *
Watching McDougal show her brother out, Lady Thorverton was in such a towering rage she could hardly contain herself. So, Humphrey thought he could strut in here and dictate to her whom she must recognize—bah! The silly fool had not even noticed that she had promised him nothing.
He would be a graybeard before she would allow that contemptible Phillipa Prestwich to set foot in her house. And as for the niece, if Demetrius married that scheming hussy, then he could say good-bye to his mother, because she, Lady Thorverton, would never live in the same house with the pair of them. Not that Demetrius would mind if his mother had to eke out a meager existence in some shabby rented house in Bath. Such an unnatural son he was—so lacking in the proper filial respect.
Thinking about the injustice of it all, Lady Thorverton began to feel quite sorry for herself. But at least she had one son who behaved as he ought. Of a certainty, Collier would never desert his dearest mama. Perhaps he might even be willing to accompany her on her errands this afternoon. Having him for an escort would do much to soothe her jangled nerves.
Ringing for McDougal, she instructed him to inform Master Collier that his mother wished to speak with him as soon as it would be convenient.
“Beg pardon, my lady, but your son is not here at present.”
“Not here? But he would never go out without stopping to wish me a good morning and to inquire about my health.”
The butler cleared his throat and so far forgot what he owed to his position that he actually shuffled his feet.
“The maid has just informed me that Master Collier’s bed was not slept in last night.”
“Not slept in? Has that ridiculous boy taken rooms at the Albany again? If he has, be sure that Demetrius will bring him back directly.’’
Again McDougal looked uncomfortable. “Master Collier’s things are quite untouched, my lady, so I do not believe he has gone so far as to move out.’’
“Then when did he leave? And why did no one ask him where he was going? Surely you have not taken it upon yourself to disobey my instructions?”
“I regret, my lady, but no one saw him leave the house. It would appear that he slipped out secretly.’’
Tears filled Lady Thorverton’s eyes, and this time they were not the crocodile tears she had cleverly produced in order to win the confrontation with her brother. “Slipped out? Rubbish! My dearest son would never have sneaked away like a common thief. How dare you suggest such a thing!”
“But, my lady—”
“Oh,” she wailed, clasping her hands to her bosom, “he has been kidnapped, I just know he has. And it is all the fault of the Black Widow. No matter how often he was warned—and I pleaded with him myself on numerous occasions—Demetrius would associate himself with her. And now the curse he scoffed at has struck down his innocent little brother! My sweet Collier has been snatched out of my loving arms—more than likely murdered most foully! Oh, was ever a poor mother treated so insensitively, so callously, so shabbily as I?”
* * * *
Demetrius had never before been scolded more thoroughly—or quite so delightfully. Fro
m the moment his carriage had pulled away from her house, Miss Prestwich had been ringing a peal over him: he was foolhardy in the extreme; he had made a target of himself; he should have consulted her, and she would have urged caution; if he were killed, she would never forgive him.
He did not think she was at all well-practiced in the art of browbeating a man, however, since in lieu of making him feel cast down, her lecture was only making it difficult for him to suppress a grin.
Glancing down at her was definitely a mistake. One look at her dark eyes glistening with unshed tears, and his urge to smile was replaced by a strong desire to hold her in his arms and kiss her tantalizing lips, which were quivering sweetly.
“You might at least have warned me. I felt a positive fool when my aunt congratulated me, not that it matters, but Hester was sitting right there, and I might have accidentally said something to betray our plan. Really, I cannot think what you were about to send that announcement to the newspaper.”
“You err in your assumption,” he replied, directing his horses to St. James’s Park. He was not in the mood to run the gauntlet of curious, prying, meddling gossips who at this hour were driving, riding, and promenading along Rotten Row. “I sent no announcement to the Morning Post.’’
“You ... But who...?”
“I visited their offices, and they informed me that a servant wearing my livery brought them the note. By their description of the fellow, I recognized him as one of my mother’s footmen.”
“Your mother? But surely she would not have done such a thing. Why, she will not even acknowledge me in public.”
“My uncle has spoken to her about that, and he assures me that she will no longer dare to give you the cut direct. But in any event, you are correct. It was not my mother, but rather my brother who instigated this scheme.’’
“Without consulting you?”
“Oh, he consulted me, all right. He suggested that I marry you so that your sister would not inherit your father’s estate. When I rejected his plan, he deliberately disobeyed me.”
The Black Widow Page 13