Nicole Jordan (37 page)

It should not have hurt so much to hear him dismiss their love affair so cavalierly, Antonia thought miserably, yet it did. Clearly Deverill had never felt the same depth of passion that she had.

What a fool she had been to think she might win his love! Deverill had closed his heart to her before she’d even had the chance to try to rouse his affections.

But she refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing how close she had come to forsaking her long-held vow and abandoning all her common sense.

Antonia raised her chin, determined to salvage her pride and to ignore the savage ache inside her. “Very well, then, tell me what you plan to do. You said you received a report from your colleagues in London. What did they say? Have they managed to gather any definitive evidence against Heward?”

A shadow crossed Deverill’s face, although Antonia couldn’t tell if it was due to disappointment that she hadn’t protested further, or relief that she had changed subjects and used a marginally reasonable tone. And at least he deigned to answer her question.

“Madam Bruno, the club owner who accused me of murder, is prepared to recant her charges against me. She now alleges that Heward masterminded the whole affair, and she’s willing to testify to that effect if we can promise her protection.”

“Protection?” Antonia repeated, her thoughts whirling at this new development.

As if conceding that she wouldn’t give up until he explained, Deverill let out a sigh of resignation and stepped into the parlor. “Protection from Heward. Madam Bruno is terrified of him—which is why she endured his cruelty to her sirens all these years, and why she lied that night about my committing the murder.”

“But she now says that Heward is guilty?”

“Yes. She claims Heward brought his hirelings to the premises that night and ordered her to summon a Bow Street Runner long before there was any sign of trouble.”

Despite her own misery, Antonia felt a surge of elation at this incredibly hopeful news. “Then you will be able to prove your innocence.”

“Possibly. But Bruno cannot say for certain that Heward actually ordered the killing. And her suspicions alone won’t be enough to convict him of murder.”

Antonia’s brow furrowed in dismay. “Then what do you mean to do?”

Deverill’s hesitation lasted a long moment, suggesting his reluctance to have her involved with his plans. “I’ll try to incite him to make a public confession.”

“How? By challenging him to a duel? By provoking him to call you out?”

Deverill shook his head. “Heward wouldn’t have the courage to meet me on the dueling field. He knows I am too good a shot and too skilled with a sword.”

“But he is a deadly shot himself,” Antonia said worriedly. “Heward frequently practices at Manton’s Shooting Gallery.”

Deverill’s mouth twisted. “You needn’t worry for me, love. I don’t fear death overmuch, but I have no intention of giving anyone, most certainly Heward, the pleasure of killing me.”

She scowled at his nonchalance. “Then how will you make him confess?”

“I plan to set a trap for him.” Clearly growing impatient, Deverill held up a hand. “Enough questions, Antonia. I told you I will keep you informed of my progress once I reach London.”

Her lips pressed together in disapproval. “That is not good enough, Deverill. I intend to go with you.”

“You won’t. You’ll remain here, where you will be safe.”

“I can be safe in London.”

“I can’t guarantee that. I have no idea what Heward will do, what new schemes he will invent.” When she started to object, Deverill regarded her grimly. “Heward’s very unpredictability makes him dangerous. He contrived the murder of an innocent woman to eliminate my interference—because I sought to stop you from wedding him and handing over control of your fortune. How do you think he will respond if you come waltzing back to London after being in my company for nearly a month? I didn’t go to all this trouble merely to put you back in Heward’s clutches. I promise, as soon as we have him safely behind bars, I will send for you.”

Antonia regarded Deverill in sheer frustration, a dozen arguments rushing through her mind. The chief one was that she simply could not let him return to London without her. She would go mad not knowing what was happening to him.

The truth was, she was afraid for him, afraid of what might befall him. Heward had already proved how cunning and treacherous he was. Deverill could be hurt or possibly even killed by trying to bring Heward down. Or he could hang for a murder he had never committed. She couldn’t bear the thought.

Knowing, however, that Deverill wouldn’t want to hear of her fears, Antonia replied with her next best argument. “I have every right to go with you, Deverill. This affects my life nearly as much as yours. Heward framed you for murder, but he likely killed my father. My claim to justice is just as great as yours, perhaps greater.”

“I will make certain he pays for that crime as well.”

“But I cannot let you face him alone.” Antonia regarded Deverill imploringly. “You are only in this disastrous position because of me . . . because you cared enough to rescue me from Heward’s diabolical schemes. Do you expect me to remain safely behind while you fight all my battles for me?”

“Yes, exactly.”

Remembering Sir Gawain’s theory, Antonia softened her tone a measure. “Deverill . . . I understand better now why you are so intent on protecting me and keeping me safe. Sir Gawain told me about your order. About the Guardians.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “What exactly did Sir Gawain say?”

“That you are a league of protectors who heed a heroic calling to fight tyranny and defend the weak. And that you have made it your personal mission to champion their cause.”

“I have dedicated my life to the Guardians’ cause, true,” Deverill admitted.

“Because you are driven by the need to assuage your guilt.”

At her quiet declaration, Deverill visibly flinched. When he remained grimly silent, however, she pressed on. “Sir Gawain believes you have avenged the men you lost a hundred times over. You needn’t keep punishing yourself, Deverill.”

His expression turned ice cold. “I don’t need you to grant me dispensation, sweetheart.”

Her own jaw tightened. “I never said you did. I merely think that you have served your penance.”

Deverill’s voice was hard when he replied, “I’ll thank you to mind your own affairs and let me handle mine. Go home, Antonia, and quit interfering where you are not wanted. I have a great deal of work to do before I can rest tonight.”

Antonia glared at him, but Deverill only stared back at her with chill eyes.

“Very well,” she said finally. “If that is what you wish—”

“I do wish it,” he snapped, his tone betraying his anger.

Her own emotions smoldering, Antonia swept regally past him and out of the parlor. She wouldn’t fight him, she vowed silently, but no matter what Deverill said, she was not about to be left behind.

She made her way to the entrance hall, where the butler opened the front door for her, then hurried down the steps to Isabella’s waiting carriage. Without waiting for the coachman’s assistance, Antonia ordered him to take her home and climbed inside.

She had a great deal of work to do tonight as well. Fletcher had told her that Deverill’s schooner was docked at Falmouth Harbor and that his crew was on board, preparing to sail in the morning as soon as Deverill concluded some final business with Sir Crispin in town.

Antonia sank back against the cushions, her mind feverishly planning. She hoped that Sir Gawain had retired early so she could speak to Isabella privately, for what she was planning would require the countess’s full cooperation.

Bella was likely to comply. A humorless smile touched Antonia’s lips as she recalled their conversation yesterday, when Isabella had exhorted her to be daring if she hoped to win Deverill’s heart. She intended to be daring indeed, but not because she wanted Deverill’s heart.

It had been the height of lunacy to think she might be able to win his love. Thank heaven she had come to her senses in time, before she made a complete fool of herself.

Biting her lower lip to stop it from trembling, Antonia turned her head to stare out the carriage window at the dark night. She didn’t care if Deverill was so stubbornly wrapped up in his quest for redemption that he could allow no room for love in his life. She didn’t!

So what if the ache in her chest felt as if savage claws were raking at her own heart?

She intended to ruthlessly quell every one of her tender feelings for Deverill . . . starting this very moment. Just as soon as her eyes quit burning with a wetness that infuriatingly resembled tears.

In the parlor, Deverill remained unmoving, staring sightlessly at the Aubusson carpet.

He’d been startled to learn that Sir Gawain had revealed the order’s existence to Antonia—and he questioned the wisdom of it, although in the past, even their leader’s most obscure decisions had invariably proved astute.

Why had Sir Gawain chosen to divulge the closely held secret to Antonia? And at this precise moment? Her father had been one of the Guardians’ greatest supporters, so perhaps the baronet wished her to follow in Samuel Maitland’s footsteps. Antonia had inherited his vast shipping empire, after all, and could be of enormous benefit to the order if the alliance continued.

Or perhaps Sir Gawain merely wished to show that he trusted Antonia.

Then again, perhaps it had simply been to make Deverill’s task easier if she accompanied him to London, so he wouldn’t need to explain to her why all his friends were so adept at cloak-and-dagger schemes when she witnessed them.

But he wouldn’t be taking Antonia to London with him. He couldn’t risk the danger to either one of them.

His temper simmering with frustration, Deverill plowed his fingers roughly through his hair. He wanted not only to keep Antonia safe from Heward’s possible treachery, but to keep himself safe from his own overwhelming desire for her. He couldn’t bear to have her on his ship for nearly three interminable days of a voyage. Her mere nearness would be too great a temptation.

And her plaguing interference would be too maddening, Deverill thought darkly.

It was true—he
had
been punishing himself all these years. But that was simply what he had to do. His guilt would never be assuaged. It was none of Antonia’s concern, in any case.

With a muttered curse, Deverill turned and left the parlor, trying not to remember her wounded expression when he’d ordered her to go home. He had expected Antonia to be spitting fire at his decision to leave her behind, but she had looked almost hurt, as if he had spurned her instead of merely being worried about her welfare.

Of course, he had ended their affair rather abruptly, pretending that their idyllic interlude had meant little to him.

But she would soon forget any temporary pain he had caused her. Once this was all over—once he had proved his innocence and the real criminal’s guilt—Antonia would marry her stuffy, dull nobleman, and he would return to his life’s work.

And then, Deverill promised himself, he would put her behind him and look back on their passionate time together as merely an enjoyable diversion in his otherwise solitary existence.

The first part of Antonia’s plan proved successful, at least.

Isabella, bless her, not only conveyed Antonia to Falmouth Harbor and watched as she boarded Deverill’s docked schooner, but also had her carriage wait at a discreet distance until Antonia could be certain she would be sailing.

The crew, bustling over the ship in preparation for departure, turned to stare as Antonia carried her small valise and her bow and quiver on board, but no one stopped her.

Captain Lloyd, however, hurried forward as soon as he spied her heading for the companionway. “Miss Maitland? I was not informed that you would be joining us on our voyage.”

“Because I only just decided to, Captain,” she replied, smiling brightly. “Is Mr. Deverill here yet?”

“Not yet. We expect him within the half hour.”

“Would you kindly tell him I wish to speak to him? I will await him below in my former cabin.”

Captain Lloyd looked reluctant but refrained from challenging her. “Very well, miss. I will tell him as soon as he arrives.”

Antonia went directly to the cabin, where she stowed her belongings and removed her bonnet and spencer. She had debated about sneaking on board and hiding until they had sailed far enough away from Wilde Castle that turning around would cause an unacceptable delay. But she wanted to face Deverill now and convince him of her unwavering determination.

When she heard familiar footsteps in the companionway, Antonia suspected that Fletcher had come to take her to task. The wiry old seaman was staunchly loyal to Deverill and would undoubtedly object to her unexpected presence.

Opening her cabin door to look out only confirmed her supposition. As the old seaman tramped down the corridor toward her, Antonia stepped out to meet him.

Halting, Fletcher eyed her grimly before erupting in ire and exasperation. “Do ye have windmills in yer head, missy? What the devil do ye mean, coming aboard a vessel without permission? His nibs will have yer skin!”

“I know he will want to,” Antonia agreed. “Which is why I intend to wait here below in the relative safety of my cabin—so he cannot toss me overboard before I at least have the chance to explain.”

“Very well, ’tis your skin,” Fletcher muttered as he turned and stalked off. “But he won’t be the least bit pleased.”

“That is a vast understatement,” Antonia replied under her breath.

Stepping back inside, she crossed the cabin and drew the desk chair against the far bulkhead, putting as much distance between her and the door as possible, in the event that Deverill came storming through. Then she settled down uneasily to wait.