Bedazzled. Bertrice Small

      Prologue

      LONDON, 1616

      “Is he dead, Mother?” The boy peered closely and curiously at the body slumped in the dark-blue tapestry chair.

      The woman held a small looking glass attached to the gilt cord about her waist up to the man’s nostrils. The mirror remained clear, not the faintest hint of breath upon it. “He is dead, my son,” she replied matter-of-factly. Then, reaching into the bosom of her gown, she drew forth a dagger with a beautifully carved and bejeweled handle. She looked at the weapon a moment, admiring its artistry, regretting it would be lost to them. Handing it to the boy, she commanded, “Put it into his heart as I have shown you.”

      The boy stared down at the blade in his hands. “I always wanted this dagger,” he mused. “Why must it be this dagger, Mother? I shall not be allowed to have it now, shall I? It isn’t fair!”

      “We have been over this several times, my son,” the woman said quietly. “This weapon is known to belong to your older brother. As he and Lord Jeffers have had a very public falling out over Lady Clinton, when this dagger is found in Lord Jeffers’s heart, it will be assumed that your brother killed him.” She smiled. “You do want to be your father’s heir, caro mio, don’t you? How much nicer to be his heir than just his second son. There is little satisfaction in being a second son.”

      “I suppose so,” the boy said, and he sighed. “Will they hang Dev for this murder, Mother?”

      “If they catch him,” the woman replied. “But hopefully they won’t. I really don’t want your elder brother’s death on my conscience. I just want my darling little boy to be his father’s heir. It isn’t our fault that your father was married, had a son, and was widowed before I wed him.”

      “But if they don’t hang my brother, then how can I be our father’s heir? What if Dev proves his innocence?”

      “Your brother will have no chance to prove his innocence, dearest,” his mother explained patiently. “We have been over this before. Your brother is rash, and he will be convinced to flee England before he can even be arrested. He will never dare to come back with the threat of execution hanging over him. Now push the dagger into Lord Jeffers’s heart, dearest.” She lightly touched his hand encouragingly.

      The boy did as his mother had bid him, twisting the blade with some pleasure, she noted, not particularly shocked. The woman took the goblet from which her victim had been drinking, splashing the remaining contents into the fireplace, where they hissed briefly, then died away. Using her own handkerchief, she wiped the goblet free of the residue of finely ground glass and hair—the items she had used to kill her prey. Then she poured fresh wine from the decanter into the goblet, and replaced it upon the table opposite a second goblet, which she tipped over to give the appearance of both anger and haste on the part of the victim. “There,” she said, well satisfied with her efforts.

      Her son was growing fretful. “Can we leave now, Mother?” The boy whined impatiently.

      She nodded. Taking his hand, the pair slipped unnoticed from the house that Lord Jeffers had