Nicole Jordan (40 page)

“Indeed?” Phineas raised an eyebrow. “How did you manage to convince an officer of the law to defer fulfilling his sworn duty? Bribery?”

Ryder flashed a dangerous smile. “I promised him an arrest either way. If he isn’t persuaded of Heward’s guilt, then he means to arrest Deverill. Linch wasn’t happy to have allowed his prisoner to slip through his fingers, and Deverill’s escape only supported the suspicion that he was the murderer.”

Listening, Antonia felt her stomach clench at the reminder of what was at stake: If they couldn’t succeed against Heward, Deverill could very well hang for the Cyprian’s murder.

“It would be best,” Macky added, “if we could expose the real culprits. I’ve kept watch on the three bruisers who likely committed the murder. I’ll lay odds that in exchange for leniency, Scarface or one of his accomplices could be persuaded to give up his cohorts . . . and even to testify that Heward hired them.”

“But the word of felons,” Viscount Thorne said, “will hold less weight with the Lords.”

Phineas Cochrane frowned thoughtfully. “Mr. Barnaby Trant, the Director of Maitland Shipping, may be eager to assist us in order to escape criminal prosecution for his illegal activities in transporting slaves.”

“I am counting on it,” Deverill said. “I intend to use Trant to help bait our trap when we are ready, but until then, I don’t want Heward alerted of our suspicions.”

Deverill glanced at Lord Thorne. “As soon as Heward learns Antonia has returned to London, he will want to discover where their betrothal stands—although after her monthlong absence with no word, he’s probably concluded she means to repudiate him and even suspects she is in league with me. If so, he will be irate and possibly vengeful enough to do her harm. Therefore, Thorne, you will be in charge of assuring her safety. I would like her to stay tonight with you and Diana. And I want armed footmen stationed among her servant staff when she returns home tomorrow.”

Thorne smiled. “Consider it done. Unfortunately I have ample experience protecting Diana of late.” He turned to Antonia. “I’m certain my wife will be delighted to meet you and have you as our guest tonight, Miss Maitland.”

The viscount had recently celebrated his nuptials, Antonia knew, but she and Lady Thorne had yet to cross paths. “I will be delighted to meet her as well,” Antonia said. “But is an armed guard truly necessary?”

“Unquestioningly, remember?” Deverill reminded her of her promise to obey his every order without protest.

She subsided with a nod. “Very well, what do you wish me to do, Deverill?”

“I expect Heward will try to garner an audience with you at once. You’ll make it known that you have returned home, but you will deny Heward if he calls. Rouse his frustration even more by shunning him. Then we’ll arrange for you to meet him in a public place, where you can be guarded.”

“The Marquess of Legmore is holding a masquerade ball on Thursday evening,” Thorne said. “We can better safeguard Miss Maitland if we go armed as part of our costumes.”

“And Dev can even attend in disguise,” Macky chimed in.

“No,” Ryder dissented. “With his height and build, Dev would be too readily recognized.”

“I am afraid so,” Deverill agreed. “But I trust you all to protect her in my absence.”

“So what do I tell Heward when I meet him at the masquerade?” Antonia asked.

“First, you will officially break your betrothal to him. Then you’ll hint that you intend to wed
me
once my innocence is proven.”

Antonia looked piercingly at Deverill. “You mean no such thing, of course?”

“But what better way to further enrage Heward?” he asked.

“True. What happens then?”

“Then,” he added with a dangerous gleam in his eye, “we will bait our trap by letting him learn when and where to find me. Mr. Cochrane, on Thursday afternoon I wish you to present our offer to Director Trant: we’ll forbear from prosecution if he can convincingly play a role.”

“A role, sir?”

“Yes. Trant is to call on Lord Heward Thursday evening after the masquerade, requesting protection from me. He’ll say that I’m seeking incriminating evidence against Heward, and that I’ve threatened Trant with bodily harm if he doesn’t comply. He will reluctantly disclose that he is to meet me late Friday night, at a certain time and location. If Heward swallows the bait, he will immediately begin plotting to come after me.”

“Friday is only three days from now,” Thorne said. “Will that allow you enough time to prepare?”

“That should be adequate,” Deverill answered, “if we orchestrate the details carefully enough. By then, Heward will be gnashing his teeth to have my head on a platter. And it’s best to act quickly and deny him the opportunity to devise any complex schemes of reprisal. Ryder, you will take charge of arranging an audience for our confrontation with Heward on Friday night. We’ll need some peers present to observe his confession, if I can manage to draw one out of him.”

“Gladly. Who did you have in mind?”

“The undersecretary of the Foreign Office, Lord Wittington, would make a good candidate. And perhaps some other nobleman unaffiliated with the government . . . one with social consequence.”

“What about Lord Ranworth?” Antonia suggested. “His wife is an undisputed leader of society.”

Deverill nodded in approval. “Now here is what I propose . . .” he said, leaning forward.

For the next hour they discussed the plan in detail, beginning with the location for their trap. When Phineas Cochrane suggested his law offices in the City, Antonia agreed they would be ideal, since they were located in a rabbit warren of alleyways and would be dark and secluded at night. At the rear, there was a courtyard where Deverill could await Heward if he took the bait.

When they were satisfied with the plan, the company rose to go their separate ways. Phineas took his leave first, then Ryder, then finally Lord Thorne and Antonia. For tonight she would stay with Thorne and his new bride, Diana. Tomorrow, she would return to her own home, safeguarded by a small army of Thorne’s well-trained footmen.

Deverill assisted Antonia into her cloak, then followed the others down the lodgers’ stairs and out the front entrance, where he delayed her at the steps.

Antonia felt apprehension clamoring inside her—the result of regret at having to leave Deverill and uncertainty at what might happen to him during the next few days.

“I won’t see you before Friday, will I?” she murmured.

“I doubt it.” His eyes were dark with concern as he gazed down at her. “Don’t take any risks when you encounter Heward at the masquerade. I simply want you to direct his ire toward me.”

“I will do my best.”

Taking her hands, Deverill let his gaze drop to her lips, almost as if he might succumb to the urge to kiss her. When he refrained, disappointment swept through Antonia. She wanted very much to kiss Deverill, to throw her arms around him and beg him to change the dangerous course he had set upon. But she settled for saying, “Deverill . . . please take care.”

He shook his head. “I am more worried for you. At the masquerade, Heward will likely try to get you alone, but don’t leave Thorne’s sight for a moment. And make certain you go armed with a pistol in your reticule.”

“I will. But please promise me you won’t take any unnecessary risks with Heward yourself when you confront him.”

“I promise.”

She stared at Deverill a long moment, wishing she knew how to keep him safe from harm. “I intend to bring my bow on Friday night. I am a much better shot with a bow than a pistol.”

Deverill’s mouth curved in grim amusement. “Suit yourself, but you won’t have a chance to use it, since you won’t be anywhere near Heward. You will be attending only as an observer.”

He took her elbow and ushered her toward Thorne’s waiting town coach. After handing Antonia inside, he turned to his friend and fellow Guardian.

“Keep her safe,” Deverill said in a low voice.

“I will,” Thorne vowed, before settling beside Antonia and rapping on the roof as a gesture to his coachman to depart.

As Deverill watched the carriage rumble off down the dark street, he felt as though he were cutting out a little piece of his heart. It went against every protective instinct he possessed to let Antonia out of his sight, where she could be vulnerable to Heward’s recriminations.

Deverill raked a hand through his hair. He trusted Thorne unquestionably with his own life; he just wasn’t certain he trusted anyone but himself with Antonia’s life.

But that was what the Guardians did best—protect lives. And as he turned back toward Macky’s lodgings, Deverill reminded himself that wild horses could not have kept Antonia uninvolved.

He mounted the dimly lit stairs and let himself into Macky’s apartments, where he would lay low for the next few days, since he couldn’t show his face around town without risking arrest and imprisonment.

When he reentered the parlor, he saw that Macky had settled comfortably in a chair with a snifter of brandy. Deverill went straight to the brandy decanter himself. This would be the last time he indulged until his final confrontation with Heward, for he wanted nothing fogging his mind when he came up against the treacherous baron.

“So tell me, old chap,” Macky said, breaking into his thoughts, “are you nigh on landing yourself an heiress?”

Deverill’s head jerked up. “What do you mean?”

“Miss Maitland. She is a beauty, that one. And rich, too, with a good head on her shoulders, apparently. Even better, she seems partial to you. Will I be wishing you happy anytime soon?”

If I can convince her to have me,
Deverill reflected silently. Aloud he said, “Her father had other plans for her marriage.”

“So what do you mean to do about it? I am agog with curiosity.”

“It’s none of your affair,” Deverill said tersely, downing half a glass of prime brandy in one long swallow, with no thought of appreciation for the quality.

Macky let out a low whistle. “You have it bad, my friend. Come, admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That you are head over heels in love.”

Deverill remained frozen for a long moment, his heart suddenly pounding against his ribs. He found it strangely hard to speak; the constrictive ache in his chest seemed to be interfering with his breathing, his heartbeat.

Unsettled and agitated, he tried to calm his turbulent thoughts as he slowly replenished his glass. Having little success, Deverill crossed the parlor and sank down onto the sofa.

“Is it so bloody obvious?” he asked, his voice unintentionally gruff.

“Only to me,” Macky answered. “I am an actor, you’ll recall. Made my living studying human nature. And there are small signs that give you away. The way you look at her, for one.” Macky surveyed Deverill with dancing eyes. “How droll. Never thought I would see the day. What happened to the determined adventurer who claimed he would never settle down?”

He had met Antonia, that was what had happened.

“Keep your tongue between your teeth, you old bleater,” Deverill ordered, unamused.

“Very well,” Macky said, chuckling. “But I pray that your affliction isn’t catching. First Caro, then Thorne, and now you.” He shook his head as he rose to his feet. “I intend to remain a bachelor for a long time to come. There are too many pretty fish in the sea to swim with only one. I commend you on your taste, however . . . beauty, brains, charm, and wealth. If I had to marry, I could only hope to do half so well as Miss Maitland.”

Deverill cast a darkling glance at his colleague. Biting back a smile, Macky raised his hands in submission and exited the room.

Sinking deeper into the sofa, Deverill took another long swallow of brandy. Antonia possessed all those qualities Macky had named and more . . . but they had little to do with why he had succumbed to her.

It was because Antonia had made him
feel.
She had pried and prodded and provoked him at the most primal level, stirring the darkest emotions he had tried to keep buried . . . and the brightest as well. Feelings of desire and yearning and passion. Of tenderness and warmth and affection.
Of love.

He’d fought against loving her. Fiercely ignored the unspoken need she kindled in him. But she had burrowed into his heart against his will. Now he could only wonder what kind of fool he’d been to deceive himself so badly. Just two days ago he had resolved to wed Antonia, not for
her
sake as he’d tried to convince himself, but for his own. Because he didn’t want to live without her.

He was still a bloody fool, though, to think he deserved happiness with her, Deverill thought, a fist knotting in his chest. He stared down into his brandy, wondering bleakly if he dared permit himself to imagine a future with her.

But regardless, there was no way in hell he would relinquish Antonia to another man. She would marry him and no one else.

Antonia belonged to him. And if he managed to defeat Heward, he would pursue her with every breath in his body.

Deverill took one last swallow of brandy, feeling the burn down to his stomach. A future with Antonia was one worth fighting for.

The difficulty was, if he couldn’t vanquish Heward, he might hang for murder, and then he would have no future at all, with or without her.

Antonia gazed across the crowded ballroom at Lord Heward and wondered how she could ever have been eager for a future with him. Now merely sharing the same room with him made her shudder.

He was not in costume, as were most of the other ball guests. Instead, he wore a plain black satin domino over his evening clothes. The half mask covering the upper part of his face didn’t fully conceal his dark scowl as he surveyed the crowd, doubtless in search of her.

Antonia felt her jaw clench in apprehension when Heward glanced her way. As yet, however, he hadn’t recognized her in her shepherdess attire. Her costume had been specially commissioned for its dual advantages: The voluminous powdered wig covered her distinctive, fiery hair, while the hooked staff she carried to guide her imaginary flock of lambs gave her nominal protection if necessary.

She also had the protection of Deverill’s friends this evening. Currently Antonia was flanked by Lord and Lady Thorne on one side, and Alex Ryder garbed as a highwayman on the other. The roguish Macky was also hovering nearby, disguised as a footman.