Nicole Jordan (45 page)

Antonia squeezed her eyes shut, knowing Deverill was right. She had desperately needed the emotional satisfaction of wringing a confession from Heward.

Fresh tears welled in her eyes, while her throat burned. A small part of her had wanted Heward to be innocent. Her renewed grief was somehow harder to bear, knowing her wonderful father had given his life to protect her.

“It still will haunt me,” she whispered. “He killed my
father,
Deverill.”

“I know, love.” Deverill drew her into his arms and held Antonia comfortingly as she forced back her sobs. “But he will pay for it now. In a scant few hours, Heward will be locked in Newgate Prison.”

After a long moment, she regained a measure of control, but she kept her face pressed against Deverill’s coat. “I suppose I should thank you for making me see what a true villain he is. I would have taken him for my husband if not for you.” She shuddered. “Oh, God, what if I had wed that serpent? You saved me from a fate worse than death, Deverill.”

“So now we’re even, since you likely saved my life tonight. However, your choice of matrimonial candidates leaves something to be desired. I hope your next betrothed will be more trustworthy.”

Antonia drew back to stare up at him, wondering how he could talk about her marriage prospects at a time like this. But then she realized why: Deverill was saying good-bye. Now that his innocence had been affirmed and Heward’s guilt established, Deverill no longer had any need for her. The danger and uncertainty was over, and so was their affair. Their passion.

A savage pain clawed at her heart, a pain that only deepened when he reached up to brush a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “Now, go home and get some sleep, Antonia.”

She wanted to protest. She wanted to cry and plead with him to reconsider. She wanted to tell Deverill of her stunning self-revelation tonight—that she loved him with all her heart. But she didn’t think she could form a coherent argument at the moment after her emotions had suffered such turmoil.

In any event, this was not the appropriate time to press Deverill. He had just escaped death, and he had to deal with Heward and Bow Street, besides.

No, what she needed most was to be alone with her thoughts—so she could determine how to deal with her shocking insight.

Mutely, Antonia nodded and let Deverill escort her from the courtyard and along the dark alley to the front of the building. At the street, he bent to place a chaste kiss on her forehead before handing her into Thorne’s town coach and walking away.

Inside the dim interior, Antonia leaned back wearily against the leather squabs, glad the carriage lamps had not been lit. She suddenly felt limp and drained after the tumult of the past few hours.

As if sensing her exhaustion, Mrs. Peeke patted her arm and pressed a handkerchief into her hand. “A mug of hot milk is just what you need, my dear,” the housekeeper said bracingly, just as she’d done when Antonia was a girl.

Smiling faintly, Antonia murmured, “I will be fine,” and turned her head to stare out the coach window, evading Mrs. Peeke’s solicitous cluckings and Thorne’s shrewdly sympathetic gaze. She needed a little coddling just now, perhaps, but she wanted more to reach the privacy of her own home before she broke down in tears. She was mourning the loss of her father all over again.

Even more, she was mourning the likely loss of Deverill.

Antonia bit her trembling lip as she recalled the chaste, brotherly peck he had just given her. He hadn’t even kissed her farewell when they were alone together, even though he’d had the chance. But Deverill was withdrawing from her for good, Antonia realized. He was making it simpler for them to part.

And why not? He was a free man. Free to walk out of her life without looking back. He had done his duty in protecting her, so now he could return to his own life, the one he had dedicated to the Guardians.

She was also free, Antonia reminded herself. Free to seek a husband from the ranks of the nobility, just as her father had always wished for her.

The damning truth was, however, she didn’t want a nobleman for her husband.

She only wanted Deverill—and her realization might very well have come too late.

Twenty

Upon arriving home, Antonia turned her bow and quiver of arrows over to her butler and declined Mrs. Peeke’s offer of warm milk after all.

“Would you mind if I went directly to bed?” she asked the housekeeper as they stood alone in the vast entrance hall after dismissing the stately butler and two waiting footmen for the night.

Mrs. Peeke clucked sympathetically. “Of course not, my dear. You must be worn to the bone after your worries these past few days. I am eager to seek my bed myself, if I do say so.”

“Mrs. Peeke . . .” Antonia forestalled the servant with a light touch on her arm. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did. If not for you, we never would have suspected about my father’s death and I would now be married to Lord Heward.”

The elderly woman shuddered. “God forbid. There’s no telling what that terrible man would have done to you once he had his hands on your fortune. But he will get his just rewards now, thanks to Mr. Deverill.”

“Yes,” Antonia said in fervent agreement before she turned toward the sweeping staircase. “Well, good night.”

“Good night, my dear,” Mrs. Peeke echoed. Then hesitating, she cleared her throat. “Miss Antonia? ’Tis none of my affair, of course, but I was hoping now that you are no longer betrothed . . . I mean, your father thought the world of Mr. Deverill, you know. I would be honored to call him ‘master.’ ”

Antonia managed a faint smile at the housekeeper’s not-so-veiled hint that she should marry Deverill. “Unfortunately, I imagine Mr. Deverill will be leaving England soon, now that he has rescued me and discharged the obligations of his conscience.”

“Well, I for one will be right sorry to see him go,” Mrs. Peeke said sadly.

It will be agony for me.
Antonia couldn’t stop the unbidden thought.

She took up the candle the butler had left for her and slowly mounted the stairs, noticing how quiet the mansion seemed. At this late hour, however, the rest of the servants were doubtless in bed asleep. And Miss Tottle, who regularly waited up for Antonia to return from whatever entertainments she had attended for the evening, had not yet arrived from Cornwall.

At the top of the stairs, Antonia headed toward her bedchamber. Then suddenly changing her mind, she instead made her way to the portrait gallery. Silently entering the hushed chamber, she set down her candle and settled in the chair before her parents’ portraits, just as her father had done for so many years.

A huge, choking knot tightened in her chest as she gazed up at Samuel Maitland’s image. It was small consolation that they had obtained justice for his murder. She missed him so terribly, even more now that she knew his senseless death could have been prevented.

“I am so sorry, Papa,” Antonia whispered, her eyes blinded by scalding tears. “We were both fooled by Heward’s appearance of nobility and honor.”

A strangled laugh caught in her throat when she realized she was conversing with her late father exactly the way he had always done with his beloved late wife.

Her tears fell freely then. Antonia buried her face in her hands and gave way to heart-racking sobs.

Yet they were cleansing tears. Comforting and cathartic. After a long while, she sat up and fished in her pelisse pocket for the handkerchief Mrs. Peeke had given her.

She blew her nose and wiped her eyes and damp cheeks, then gazed deliberately up at her father’s portrait. “We must have a talk, Papa. A
serious
talk.”

Antonia hesitated, trying to formulate the words that had been building in her like an explosion for the past several weeks. “I know what you wanted for me, but I cannot do it. I cannot marry a nobleman.”

The portraiturist had captured Samuel Maitland’s likeness well—his bright red hair, his ruddy complexion, his bold demeanor—but Antonia had to rely on memory to summon to mind her father’s booming voice and accent that betrayed his lower-class origins. She could just imagine, however, his blustering response to her pronouncement:

What do you mean, missy, you cannot marry a
nobleman!

“Just what I said, Papa. I realize now what a dreadful mistake it would be. I would be utterly miserable in a marriage of convenience.”
Especially now that I know what passion is. What love is.
“You see, Papa, I fell in love.”

Her father made no answer but seemed to stare down from his portrait with a disapproving frown. Antonia wrung the damp handkerchief between her fingers as she tried to explain. “I understand why a noble marriage was your dream for me, but it isn’t
my
dream, Papa. I’ve known that for some time now. Yet I realized something more tonight. Life is too short to forsake your dreams.”

Swallowing the ache in her throat, she went on. “Mama was taken before her time, and so were you. And Deverill could have been killed tonight.
I
could die tomorrow and never know what it is to truly live. Deverill makes me feel truly alive, Papa—for the first time ever in my life. When I’m with him, I feel as if I could conquer the world. Perhaps that sounds foolish, but I can’t give him up. If you knew how I felt about him . . .”

Antonia closed her eyes, remembering the terror in her heart earlier this evening when Deverill had faced death. She had known then how badly she had deceived herself. She loved Deverill. Utterly, wholly, completely. She no longer had any doubt.

She also knew that what she felt deep in her heart for him was the same immutable emotion her father had felt for her mother. The same yearning, the same joy.

Opening her eyes again, she gazed up at her father’s image. “I want what you and Mama had. You had a wonderful marriage, even though you were a commoner and she a lady. I only want a chance for the same happiness you found. Deverill isn’t titled, but he is a gentleman. And while he is estranged from his family, their consequence is significant.”

The silence in the room was rife.

“I regret disappointing you,” Antonia added softly. “Sincerely I do. But if you were still here, you would realize that acquiring a noble marriage isn’t as important as love, as happiness. I could have convinced you of it in time, I’m certain. In truth, you had already changed your mind about Heward. Mrs. Peeke told me what you said . . . that you would rather me wed a chimney sweep than a man with no principles. Well, Deverill has principles, Papa. He is the best, most honorable, most wonderful man I know.”

This time the portrait’s silence didn’t dismay her. Antonia smiled faintly, her calm growing; she was right to break her solemn vow to her father. “I believe you would not want me to put my promise above my heart. You would not ask that sacrifice of me if you knew how I felt. You wanted my happiness most—and my happiness lies with Deverill.”

She would never be happy with anyone but Deverill, she knew that now.

She was not so confident, however, that Deverill could ever feel the same way about her. “I don’t know if it is even possible to win his love, but I cannot let it end between us without at least trying.”

She wanted Deverill for her husband, no one else. Her heart yearned for it. If she couldn’t have him, well then, she would never marry. But there was a chance she could convince him to wed her, even if he couldn’t love her.

“Deverill is not interested in love or marriage, he’s made that very clear. He has dedicated his life to a cause and will let nothing interfere. But I cannot let that stop me from trying.”

Rising, Antonia crossed to the portrait and pressed her fingers gently against the dried oils of her father’s dear face. “I just wanted you to know, Papa. I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you can . . . I would like your blessing.”

Wiping her eyes once more as she turned away, Antonia picked up her candle and left the gallery, this time going to her bedchamber. Her mind was utterly lost in contemplation as she mechanically undressed and prepared for bed.

What was it Isabella had told her about winning the heart of an adventurer? That she needed to be as brave and daring and adventurous as he was? That she needed to prove herself his match?

She wanted more than anything to be Deverill’s match.

Upon donning her nightshift, Antonia left the windows open against the warm summer night and blew out her candle, then climbed into bed, drawing up only a sheet. She was weary to the bone, yet she lay there wide-awake, her thoughts churning.

She wanted Deverill’s admiration and respect—the same admiration and respect he had always willingly given her father. She wanted his love. Desperately.

Deverill might not love her now; indeed, he might never be able to. But she had to try to win him.

But how? What would make her worthy of his respect and love? What was the way to his heart?

He cared nothing for her fortune, she knew, since he had one of his own. Indeed, she had only one asset that might attract his interest. Her shipping company. Deverill had not wanted to manage the firm himself, but what if she used it to champion his endeavors?