Nicole Jordan Page 11

  “You are too generous, my lord,” Deverill replied with only a hint of sarcasm.

  “Think nothing of it.”

  The nobleman’s face was impassive, his expression one of perfect innocence. But for the barest second, a faint smile flitted across his mouth, while a gleam of pure triumph shone in his eyes.

  That sly smile disappeared instantly, but Deverill suddenly knew the truth without a doubt: The killing had been orchestrated to frame him and get him out of the way, and Heward was responsible.

  It made a perfect, perverted sort of sense. Deverill had been getting too close to Antonia, attempting to raise suspicions in her mind about Heward, trying to turn her against her betrothed. But the baron was extremely clever. He couldn’t kill Deverill outright because it would be too obvious, so he’d devised a more cunning plan, to murder a high-class prostitute and see that Deverill was blamed for it.

  And if Heward was willing to kill an innocent bystander, then what would become of Antonia when she was his wife, at his mercy, when he was in full control of her fortune?

  A simmering rage swept over Deverill. He had allowed himself to be gulled like the veriest green mark. But just now he had to repress his anger and determine how to get himself out of this mess. If he was thrown in prison, even if he could eventually clear his name, by the time he got out, Antonia could likely be Heward’s wife. The prospect made his stomach heave with dread.

  The Runner spoke then, interrupting his turbulent thoughts. “I have a carriage waiting below, Mr. Deverill, to convey you to Bow Street.”

  Unresisting, Deverill rose to his feet. Feeling Heward’s triumphant gaze digging into his back, he allowed himself to be escorted downstairs by the four brawny footmen and out onto the street, with the Runner following. But when they reached the carriage, Deverill acted.

  Sweeping out a leg, he tumbled one guard to the ground and let fly his fists at another. As Linch drew a pistol from his belt, Deverill lunged and rammed a shoulder at the remaining two footmen, shoving them both into the Runner and sending all three men toppling backward.

  The pistol discharged harmlessly, allowing Deverill to make his escape.

  He sprinted into the shadows of a nearby alley, the sounds of curses and shouts following him. But his unexpected assault had bought him enough time to disappear into the unlit warren of alleys behind the club and elude his pursuers.

  As he negotiated the dark London streets, his cold fury returned. Until now, he hadn’t been solely convinced of the baron’s evil nature. Nor was he willing to accept that Samuel Maitland had been murdered. But this latest inexplicable death left him with little doubt: Heward had killed Antonia’s father to keep Maitland from preventing their marriage.

  Deverill’s basest instincts were urging him to turn around and find Heward; ten minutes alone in a room would be enough time to beat a confession out of him. But he might fail. And his first concern had to be for Antonia. He couldn’t leave her in London with Heward. Nor could he stay here as a wanted man, he realized, his mind planning furiously.

  They would both be better off away from England. The Isle of Cyrene seemed a good choice, since he had plenty of allies there, including the Guardians’ elderly leader, Sir Gawain Olwen. But being such a great distance from London could prove a major disadvantage.

  He would have to think of someplace closer, where he could work to clear his name and prove Heward’s guilt. More importantly, where Antonia could be protected and be kept safe from her murderous betrothed. Deverill wasn’t nearly as concerned about absolving his name as he was about protecting Antonia.

  But either way, he had to act now, immediately, so they could sail with the midnight tide, before Bow Street could mount a hunt for him. . . .

  He paused to get his bearings. He was in London’s Covent Garden district, and he’d instinctively been moving west toward Mayfair. Making a decision, Deverill shifted course slightly, heading for Macky’s lodgings on St. James Street.

  What he needed most at the moment was trusted allies, and who better than his fellow Guardians to rely on in dangerous times of trouble?

  Six

  Macky’s manservant was not overly distressed to see the blood on Deverill’s clothing, since it was not a unique event. And Deverill was not surprised to find Macky away from his lodgings for the evening, reportedly playing cards at a nearby gaming hell.

  While the servant summoned a closed hackney carriage to await Deverill on the street, he scribbled a quick note for the captain of his ship, with orders to round up his crew and ready his schooner to sail within the hour. Then he sent the servant to fetch Macky home and carry the note down to the London docks where his ship was located.

  After washing the blood from his hands, Deverill sat at the desk to pen a list of instructions, outlining the steps that needed to be undertaken while he was away. Macky was already privy to the current investigation of Heward, but after tonight, there were several more actions that Deverill wanted executed as soon as possible.

  As he compiled the list, he crushed his smoldering remnants of anger as emotion he couldn’t afford; anger altered judgment, caused errors. Instead he focused on the threat of danger, welcoming the rush in his adventurer’s soul that kept his mind sharp and his senses wary. The gauntlet had been thrown down and he was happy to pick it up, but at this moment, he had one mission only: He would see Antonia safe or die trying.

  When he was done, Deverill washed his face and cleaned the gash at his temple, then shed his bloody waistcoat. The rest of his clothing couldn’t be helped. He couldn’t borrow a coat or trousers from Macky, since he was taller and had wider shoulders than his fellow Guardian. And returning to his hotel room was out of the question, since it might possibly be watched. But he had sufficient clothing on his schooner, which would be more difficult for his pursuers to locate. He needed to be armed, however, in case he encountered his adversaries.

  When Macky appeared moments later, Deverill had just begun to load and prime a set of pistols from among his colleague’s cache of weapons.

  Beau Macklin was a former provincial actor turned Guardian. A few years older than Deverill’s age of thirty, Macky boasted curling chestnut hair and a handsome visage that, combined with his roguish charm, made him a great favorite with the female sex. His excellent thespian skills allowed him to play numerous roles, although his most usual guise these days was that of a gentleman about town.

  Macky listened intently as Deverill related the grim events of the evening.

  “I gravely underestimated that bastard Heward,” Deverill said at the conclusion.

  “I suppose staying to fight him is not an option?”

  “With a warrant out for my arrest, my effectiveness will be limited at best, since I can’t show my face. Moreover, I’ll be at a disadvantage, opposing a nobleman of Heward’s consequence. As a social rebel, I’ll be given little benefit of the doubt, as I would if I

  bore a title and pandered to the nobility.” Deverill frowned. If he left London, his flight would make

  him appear guilty, but that couldn’t be helped. “If it were only my skin at risk, I would chance staying, but

  Antonia Maitland is in Heward’s clutches. I’ll be damned if I will let him take his sweet time arranging her demise.”

  “Obviously, drastic action is called for,” Macky agreed. “What will you do?”

  “Take her to Cornwall. To Lady Isabella’s castle near Falmouth. Heward will never find her there.”

  “Will she go?”

  Deverill’s mouth curled. “Not willingly, I expect. I’ll need to come up with some story to get her on board my ship tonight.” He gestured toward the desk. “I’ll rely on you to handle matters here. I’ve written down my instructions. Read that list and tell me if you have any questions.”

  As Deverill finished loading the pistols, Macky glanced down the list. “I’m to start with Madam Bruno—to discover why she was so insistent that you committed the murder.”

  �
�Yes. She had to be part of Heward’s plot. Her accusations were too pointed for her to be merely an

  innocent bystander.”

  “She was an actress before she took to the demimonde,” Macky divulged.

  Deverill grimaced. “That doesn’t surprise me. Her performance tonight was quite convincing. I’ll leave it to you to determine how best to persuade her to confess her role.”

  Macky pursed his lips as he reviewed the second item. “Find the coves who actually killed the girl.”

  “That scarred face shouldn’t be difficult to trace using your contacts in the underworld. But then we need to prove that Heward hired him and his fellow ruffians.”

  “I understand. And this doctor?”

  “Heward’s physician examined Samuel Maitland’s body for cause of death, so he might also have supplied the poison that killed Maitland. Find out the doctor’s name and where he purchases his medicines. As for the rest, you can enlist the aid of Ryder when he returns from his latest mission, and Thorne, when he arrives from Cyrene,” Deverill said, naming two of their fellow Guardians. “I will stay in touch by courier. If my strategy works, I should be able to return to London in a matter of weeks to implement the rest of the plan myself.”

  Macky nodded. “You can count on us, sir.”

  “I never doubted it.” He trusted Macky and his other friends to set his plans in motion. When he returned, he would ascertain if the Director of Maitland Shipping could be induced to bear witness against Heward. But regardless, he would concentrate on devising a trap to lure the baron into revealing his crimes.

  Deverill suddenly paused. “I just recalled, I left out something. Talk to Venus and discover what she knows about Heward’s sexual predilections. The dashers at Bruno’s seemed somewhat frightened of him, which only supports the rumors you uncovered about him.”

  As the proprietress of one of London’s most exclusive sin clubs, Madam Venus would have made it her business to observe her potential clientele among the gentry and aristocracy. And only last month she had agreed to work for the Guardians in exchange for staying out of prison after committing treason.

  “Anything else?” Macky asked.

  “You should keep an eye on the Maitland housekeeper, Mrs. Peeke. I doubt she’s in any danger, since Heward isn’t aware of her accusations, but let her know how to contact you should she require help. We’ll need her to testify against Heward if we build a case against him. And when Sir Gawain arrives in London next week, brief him on what happened and relay whatever instructions he has for me.”

  In his capacity as leader of the Guardians, Sir Gawain Olwen usually traveled to London once or twice a year. This time he was visiting to participate in the ongoing festivities celebrating Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo.

  Pocketing one of the pistols, Deverill handed the other to Macky. “Now I’d like you to ride down to the docks and keep watch on my schooner until I can get there with Antonia. Dispatch any of Heward’s minions who might come there searching for me. We have barely an hour.”

  Macky grinned, obviously relishing the challenge of knocking heads with Deverill’s enemies.

  They both went downstairs, but Macky left for the docks, while Deverill took the waiting hackney to Antonia’s mansion barely two miles away.

  He left the carriage standing down the street and knocked at the servants’ entrance. A sleepy scullery maid admitted him and went to fetch Mrs. Peeke, who invited him to her rooms for privacy.

  The housekeeper immediately understood the implications of the Cyprian’s killing. “So he likely did murder the master,” she muttered darkly.

  “I’m convinced now that that’s the case.”

  “Thank God you came, Mr. Deverill.”

  He shook his head. “So far I’ve accomplished nothing but getting myself arrested and branded a fugitive. I’ll deal with that eventually, but first I have to see to Miss Maitland’s safety. I want your blessing to take her away from here.”

  “You have it, dear sir.”

  “I will be delivering her to Lady Isabella Wilde in southern Cornwall, since I’d like to shield her reputation as much as possible. Lady Isabella should be in residence any day now—at her late husband’s castle near Falmouth. She’ll provide adequate chaperonage.”

  He didn’t point out that the voyage would take at least two days, and that Antonia would be alone in his company all that time. But at the moment, getting her away from the deadly Heward was more crucial than keeping her reputation spotless.

  “I expect Heward will call on her tomorrow,” Deverill continued, “so we need to supply a reasonable explanation for her disappearance.”

  “Have you thought of something, sir?”

  “I suggest you put about the tale that Miss Maitland is making an urgent visit to the country to provide solace to a dying friend. And to support the ruse, it would be best if her companion could be induced to follow her to Cornwall. Miss Tottle could travel by coach tomorrow. You could tell her that Antonia wishes her to come, but it would be wiser to mislead her about the destination until after she is on the road, so Heward will have no chance of following her.”

  Mrs. Peeke nodded in approval. “You leave Miss Tottle to me. She will be eager to see that Miss Maitland’s character remains unblemished.”

  “Good. Now if I might speak to Miss Maitland alone? I have to convince her to come with me tonight, and we have no time to lose.”

  Mrs. Peeke evidently understood the need for secrecy, for she gave him a candle and showed him upstairs to Antonia’s bedchamber door.

  Breathing a bit more easily, Deverill silently let himself in and shut the door behind him. Now he had to lure Antonia on board his ship, and quickly. He had little time to spend on accusations or explanations, in case Heward decided to search for him here. He wanted Antonia to accompany him willingly rather than be forced, however, so he resolved to use reason first, and prevarication if necessary.

  He planned to tell her he had a letter on his ship that contained evidence of his allegations, which was not wholly a lie. The housekeeper’s original letter recounting her fears about Samuel Maitland’s death by poison was in his schooner’s cabin, although Deverill knew that alone would never be enough to convince Antonia of Heward’s guilt. But it would be far too complicated and time-consuming just now to call Mrs. Peeke in here to relate her tale. And Antonia still might not believe her suspicions and thus would refuse to accompany him to his ship.

  No, even if he had to use underhanded means, he had to act. Antonia would not be happy to discover she’d been tricked, but he would deal with her wrath once they were safely at sea.

  Holding the candle aloft, he crossed to the bed, where she lay fast asleep. The sight of her caused an unwelcome jolt to the rhythm of his heart. Deverill halted, desire clenching in his gut.

  A cloud of shimmering auburn hair framed her face, drifting about her shoulders and the ripe swell of her breasts. Since the night was warm, she’d drawn the sheet up to cover only the lower half of her body, and through the thin cambric of her nightdress, he could see the sweet globes crowned with dusky-rose nipples.

  He swore softly as a hard ache settled in his loins. Yet he knew his reaction was more than carnal. Admittedly he’d always had a fiercely protective streak. And he had a definite weakness for vulnerable beauties. Yet his raw desire to protect and cherish Antonia was not due solely to his sworn duty as a Guardian, or his own personal vows, or even his obligations to his good friend, her father.

  Shaking himself, Deverill forcibly returned his focus to his purpose. Depositing the candle on the beside table, he settled one hip on the mattress, then pressed his hand gently over Antonia’s mouth to keep her silent when he woke her.

  Her eyes fluttered open, while her body tensed.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” he murmured, easing his hand away.

  “Deverill . . . ?” Antonia asked in confusion.

  Fighting the cobwebs of sleep that befuddled her mind, she blinked at
the grave, handsome face hovering over her. Then she suddenly came fully awake, realizing that Deverill’s presence was real and no sensual dream. He was actually here, in bed with her, while she wore only a nightshift.

  Every inch of her body flooding with acute awareness, she dragged up the sheet to cover her breasts as she sat up and scooted back against the headboard. “What the devil are you doing in my bedroom?”

  “Mrs. Peeke knows I am here.” When Antonia eyed him warily, he added with a humorless smile, “I’m not here to ravish you, if that is what worries you.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Urgent business. I need you to listen to me, Antonia.”

  She searched his rugged face, suddenly noticing the gash on the right side of his forehead . . . and the dark stain on his shirt collar. “Is that blood?”

  “I’m afraid so. But it isn’t mine.”

  “Whose, then?”

  “I was at a club tonight with your betrothed—”

  “Oh, my word. Did you fight with Heward?”

  “No. I was with a woman. . . . She was attacked and killed. And I believe your Lord Heward was responsible.”

  Antonia stared at Deverill in blank bewilderment, seeing a slight tension to his jaw, a bleak flatness to his eyes. “What do you mean . . . responsible?” she finally said.

  “I suspect Heward ordered her killing and set it up so that it looked as if I had done it. I barely managed to avoid arrest afterward. I’m wanted by Bow Street for murder.”

  “Murder?” Her confusion only increased. It was alarming to see the blood on Deverill’s clothing, and for an instant, she wondered if he might even be a danger to her. He looked dark and formidable just now. . . .

  Trying to gather her scattered wits, Antonia raised a hand to her forehead. She had no doubt Deverill was capable of violence, but never murder. Yet he seemed to be accusing Heward of the same thing. Perhaps she was dreaming after all.

  “There’s more,” Deverill said grimly before she could think of any response.

  “More?” Her voice was a mere rasp.