Nicole Jordan

by Wicked Fantasy

  While eating, Deverill steered the conversation to the baron’s plans for Maitland Shipping, and was both surprised by Heward’s candor and rather impressed by his mutual belief that the future of the maritime industry was in steam. After a dessert course of fruit and cheese, footmen unobtrusively cleared the dishes and brought a selection of prime wines.

  Just as he’d done with the women, Heward selected his preferences of the various vintages, claiming that the Spanish port was exceptional.

  “So you are a connoisseur of wines?” Deverill asked, recalling Mrs. Peeke’s assertion that Heward had brought a bottle of French brandy to Samuel Maitland immediately before the magnate’s death.

  “Indeed, I am. There are few things I appreciate more than a good wine . . . or a skilled woman. But of course, once I am wed, I will have less need to patronize establishments such as this one, since my bride is capable of satisfying my requirements.”

  It was a deliberate jab, although delivered with a charming smile, and Deverill had difficulty repressing a scowl. With the wedding date moved forward, the urgency of discovering any sort of incriminating evidence against the baron that would make Antonia reconsider had just increased tenfold.

  The port was as good as claimed, at least. Deverill had just drained his second glass when Heward rose to his feet.

  “I expect you prefer privacy, Deverill, so I will take the lovely Dawn and retire to a different chamber.”

  Seeing the two demireps exchange a glance, Deverill had the impression that Dawn would have preferred to remain in the parlor rather than leave with Heward. But she made no protest as the baron escorted her from the room and shut the door behind them, leaving Deverill alone with the blond Felice.

  At once, she rose and moved to stand beside his chair. Through her diaphanous gown he could see her full, ripe breasts and dusky nipples as she bent to whisper a husky question, “What is your pleasure, sir?”

  Deverill hesitated, debating whether he wanted to share her favors. He knew why he found himself curiously unenthusiastic. The only woman he wanted to bed was a flame-haired heiress, and the blond beauty offering herself to him was a poor substitute. But it was possible she could make him forget Antonia. . . .

  “Please, sir . . . his lordship will be extremely provoked if I do not satisfy you, and he is not a man to cross.”

  Her dark eyes were filled with worry, Deverill noted. “What will Heward do if you cross him?” he asked, very interested in the answer.

  A shudder swept through Felice’s lush body, but her expression became guarded. “I don’t like to tell tales about our clients. . . . But I am glad he chose me for you, sir.”

  Deverill decided not to push her, although he made a mental note to question the club’s madam at a later date about the baron’s sexual preferences. When Felice reached to untie his cravat, he didn’t stop her.

  Instead, he let his eyes drift shut. To his dismay, he found his senses assaulted by an entirely different fantasy. One where it was Antonia bending to kiss him seductively, teasing her tongue over his lips. Antonia kneeling before him, running her hands down his chest to the placket of his breeches. Antonia drawing her fingers over the bulge of his erection beneath the satin, stroking him, arousing him.

  After what had happened between them yesterday, the need to make love to her still fiercely stung his body, and he leaned back in his chair, letting himself indulge the heated images that flickered in his mind. Antonia naked in his bed, her blue eyes dark with desire, her creamy ivory skin flushed, her tangle of dark-flame hair spread wildly over his pillow. Antonia lithe and wanton, arching against him as he explored the mysteries of her silken body . . .

  The sensual images set him on fire. A throbbing ache began to pulse in his swollen cock as she grasped his hands and guided them to her now bared breasts.

  “Tell me what you like, sir. . . .”

  The moment she spoke, a sharp stab of disappointment speared through Deverill. The beauty kneeling between his thighs was not Antonia. The hair was pale yellow, not lustrous auburn. The eyes gazing up at him so slumbrously were light brown, not sparkling blue.

  Reaching down, he closed his fingers over Felice’s naked shoulders and drew her onto his lap.

  “There’s no rush,” Deverill murmured in response to her questioning look. “I want to enjoy this wine first.”

  Settling her there, he used one hand to pour another glass of port. When he offered a sip to the woman in his arms, she drank a little, then wet her finger in the wine and ran the tip over his mouth.

  It was an erotic gesture that did little to rouse Deverill’s amorous instincts. Swearing silently at himself for becoming too damned discriminating, he let Felice kiss him again.

  She was working his lips with her tongue when he became vaguely aware of the sound of the door opening. Presuming a footman had returned to finish clearing the table, Deverill lifted his head in time to see three hulking figures, all masked and hooded, slip into the room and quietly shut the door behind them.

  Their appearance was evidently part of the entertainment offered, but Deverill felt annoyed by the interruption. It flashed through his mind that Heward might have requested this particular diversion for him, since some adventurous patrons enjoyed special stimulation such as bondage and flagellation and sexual games such as abduction and multiple partners.

  He was about to decline their services and order them out when one of the ruffians rushed forward and grabbed Felice’s arm, roughly yanking her from Deverill’s lap. She gasped in startled pain, automatically resisting, while Deverill surged to his feet and reached for her assailant, instinctively determined to protect her.

  He caught the glint of a knife in the ruffian’s hand an instant before the blade stabbed upward, into Felice’s chest, directly between her naked breasts.

  Shock speared through Deverill, swiftly followed by raw horror. This was no game.

  And he was too late to save Felice.

  Her lips parting in a cry of agony, she clutched instinctively at the knife handle as blood spurted between her fingers.

  Catching her limp form as she sank to her knees, Deverill stared at her white face. The entire incident had taken barely three seconds. Then the ruffian turned to flee. . . .

  Shaken out of his paralysis, Deverill eased Felice down on the carpet and lunged for the port wine on the table. Grasping the neck, he threw the bottle at the fleeing villain’s head. It landed with a satisfying crack, felling the man.

  The other two were brandishing knives, Deverill saw, and were moving toward him menacingly. He glanced quickly around, searching for a way to defend himself. Snatching up his discarded cravat from the table, he wrapped the cambric around his right forearm. . . .

  But they didn’t come at him directly. Instead, one circled around the table with the obvious strategy of coming up behind him. Deverill grabbed the back of a dining chair and threw it at the opponent in front

  of him, sending him sprawling backward.

  Then trying to catch his assailants by surprise, he leapt up on the table, knocking over decanters and wineglasses haphazardly. The second man stared up in shock and raised his arms as Deverill launched himself into the air. Their bodies collided with a thud, the hooded man giving a whooshing grunt as he landed hard on his back.

  Sitting up to straddle the ruffian’s bulky chest, Deverill let his fists fly, then yanked off the masking hood. His assailant had black hair and an ugly face marred by a scar that ran from temple to chin, Deverill saw an instant before the back of his neck prickled in warning.

  He glanced back just as a chair came crashing down upon him. Blinding pain shot through his head . . .

  and then his ribs as a booted foot connected with his side.

  “Yer to stay here, guv’nor,” his attacker declared, bending to rescue his colleague.

  They fled the parlor, stopping only to haul their other, half-conscious compatriot with them.

  Shaking off his painful daze, Deverill s
tumbled to his feet and followed. He heard boots clattering down the stairs, but by the time he reached the corridor, it was deserted and all was quiet. A dozen doors along the hall were closed.

  Behind him, Felice made a small sound. She was still alive, Deverill realized.

  “Fetch a doctor!” he shouted down the hall, hoping someone heard.

  Returning to the injured woman, he dropped to his knees. Her hands were still clutched around the knife that protruded from her breast.

  “It hurts,” she mewled, blood wetting her lips.

  “I know, sweetheart,” he said hoarsely, his own voice ragged with fury and grief.

  As gently as possible, he withdrew the blade, but he had seen too many fatal wounds to mistake this one. When blood gushed from the wicked gash, Deverill grabbed the tablecloth and yanked, sending fine crystal shattering to the floor. He pressed the linen to Felice’s chest and gathered her to him, hopelessly trying to offer her comfort.

  “Why?” she rasped, bewildered pain in her dark eyes.

  He had no answer for her. This whole moment seemed surreal. He might have thought he was experiencing a nightmare, except that the copper scent of blood was all too pungent in his nostrils. And the rattle of her breath was all too recognizable.

  He knew Felice was breathing her last.

  A hollow anguish knotted in his chest. He’d held dying men in his arms, just this way. Felt this same helpless agony . . .

  Then her body went limp against him. Her head fell back and her mouth went slack as she stared unseeing up at the ceiling.

  For a moment, Deverill remained unmoving, shock still gripping him. Then slowly, a red fog of rage swamped him at her senseless death, while his mind roiled with questions.

  Their attackers could have killed him, or at least severely wounded him. But all three men had suddenly turned and fled before they did him any serious injury. They had murdered this beautiful young woman instead.

  Just then he heard a gasp from the doorway. When he glanced over his shoulder, the raven-haired Madam Bruno stood just inside the parlor, a look of horror on her face. The same horror that Deverill knew was reflected on his own face.

  “What have you done?” she demanded in a hoarse whisper. She moved closer to stare down at the dead woman. “You killed her.”

  Deverill stiffened, vaguely wondering why the madam had leapt to that conclusion so readily.

  “I did not kill her. Three men burst into the room—” He stopped short, realizing how absurd the tale sounded.

  Tossing the tablecloth aside, he lowered Felice to the carpet and drew up her bodice over her bare torso for modesty. Then he closed her eyelids with gentle fingers. “I assure you, I did not kill her.”

  But Madam Bruno was scrutinizing the blood on his hands, his brocade waistcoat, his white satin breeches. She took a step back and shouted for help.

  Barely an instant later, several burly footmen ran into the room, almost as if they had been posted in wait. The club doubtless employed bruisers to control unruly patrons, as well as the usual male servants, but these were definitely the former.

  Madam Bruno pointed at Deverill but addressed her bruisers as she backed toward the door. “He murdered Felice. Watch him. Don’t let him leave the room. I intend to summon the Bow Street Runners.”

  Obediently her brawny underlings came to attention, their stance belligerent, arms crossed over their massive chests as they stood blocking Deverill’s path.

  Yet he had no intention of leaving. Because he wasn’t guilty. Rather than give the appearance of running from the law, he wanted to get to the bottom of this.

  Lifting the dead woman in his arms, he carried her to the daybed in the corner and laid her down, draping her arms over her stomach. She looked uncommonly pale but at peace, as if she were merely sleeping.

  Another stab of pain sliced through Deverill. She hadn’t deserved slaughter. She’d merely been an innocent bystander.

  Turning away, he began to pace the room while the bruisers warily watched his every move. When he realized what he was doing, Deverill forced himself to return to the dining table and take a seat.

  His mind was racing, though, as he tried to determine just what the hell had occurred. How had the attackers even known where to find him? He couldn’t believe he had been their target. They had gone straight for Felice, stabbing her with ruthless efficiency and then leaving him virtually unscathed. Yer to stay here, guv’nor.

  Why? So he could be charged with her murder? Who even knew he was here at the club besides Heward?

  Deverill suddenly stiffened, all his instincts screaming. Heward had arranged this trap for him, he felt it in his gut.

  He spent the next ten minutes pondering other possibilities, but he kept coming back to the baron. At the end of that time, Madam Bruno returned to the parlor, accompanied by a tall, wiry man with thinning brown hair and shrewd eyes—exactly what one might expect of an officer of London’s private police force that had been formed to apprehend thieves and criminals.

  Identifying himself as Horace Linch, the Bow Street Runner gravely inspected the scene, asking no questions at first but paying particular attention to the dead female body on the bed, the mortal wound in her chest, and the bloody knife that still lay on the carpet near Deverill’s feet.

  Linch was just straightening when Baron Heward strode into the room. He wore no coat or waistcoat, and his shirt-tails hung over his evening breeches, as if he had rapidly dressed.

  “What the devil is happening here? I heard a woman was murdered—” He broke off as he caught sight of Felice.

  If it was a performance, Deverill thought, then it was worthy of Drury Lane Theatre, for Heward’s face was the picture of bewildered shock and horror.

  Linch identified himself again to the baron and explained the facts as he knew them—that he’d been summoned to the club because one of the madam’s employees had been stabbed to death. “Perhaps Mr. Deverill will give us his account of her demise,” the Runner suggested.

  Deverill calmly explained how three masked intruders had burst into the room and stabbed the girl, with no provocation whatsoever. He had fought them and hurt two of them slightly, but then they had fled.

  Linch looked rather skeptical, while Madam Bruno shook her head.

  “Do you expect anyone to believe such an outrageous tale?” she demanded. “You murdered that poor girl.”

  “It does look bad for you, sir,” the Runner said more respectfully.

  “Why would I want to kill her?”

  “Mayhap your play got too rough? I was told you have a propensity for violence.”

  Deverill lifted an eyebrow. “Told by whom?” When the Runner glanced at the madam, Deverill realized where the spurious information had come from. “I have never met Madam Bruno before this evening, so she can hardly know my propensities, violent or otherwise.”

  “Your reputation precedes you,” she insisted stubbornly.

  “If you considered me dangerous,” Deverill replied in a silken tone, “I wonder that you not only allowed me entrance but encouraged my patronage.”

  Her face flushed. “Lord Heward sponsored you.”

  “Did you witness me killing Felice?”

  “No, but there was no one else here.”

  “Because they fled before you arrived.” Deverill returned his attention to Linch. “So your theory is that I stabbed a willing beauty in a fit of excessive sexual violence? What of the state of this room?” He gestured at the overturned chair and broken crystal. “Am I supposed to have caused that as well?”

  “An altercation appears to have taken place here, sir, but it could have been staged to make it look as if ruffians had attacked you.”

  “Or I could be telling the truth.” Deverill reached up to touch the painful gash on his temple that was still welling blood. “If you will inspect that chair closely, Linch, I’ll warrant you’ll find a stain that corresponds to my wound. Moreover, it seems rather apparent that a woman like Fel
ice was too delicate to be capable of throwing a piece of heavy furniture at me.”

  “True,” Linch conceded, “but that does not exonerate you, sir.”

  “Would you care to hear my theory? Someone—obviously an enemy of mine—sent his minions here in a premeditated attack, to kill her and make it appear as if I was the culprit.”

  “Why would someone frame you that way?”

  Deverill had his suspicions, but absolutely no proof. He glanced at Heward, who had stood silently observing. “Where is Dawn?”

  “In bed, where I left her.”

  Very convenient, Deverill thought, that Heward had arranged such a solid alibi for himself.

  For a moment, Linch hesitated before finally appearing to make up his mind. “I am afraid I must place you under arrest, sir, until this is all sorted out.”

  To Deverill’s surprise, Heward stepped in to champion him. “There is obviously some mistake. I can vouch for Mr. Deverill. And I am certain it happened just as he said.”

  “It is possible,” Linch said, “but I still must take him in.”

  Heward looked intently at Deverill. “Perhaps you should go with him. I promise I will do everything in my power to see that you are freed at once.”

  Even if he believed such assurances, Deverill’s every instinct was howling at him to resist. He would spend the rest of the night in prison at the very least. . . . Reflexively, his fingers clenched on the wooden arms of his chair. He’d endured a hellish Turkish prison once and that was more than enough. And once he was locked behind bars, it would be difficult to prove his case.

  Which no doubt was exactly what Heward intended.

  So he would be free to wed Antonia without interference.

  What better way to deal with a rival than by framing him for murder?

  A cold, hard knot settled in Deverill’s stomach as he locked gazes with the baron.

  “I will tell Miss Maitland,” Heward said sympathetically. “Pray, don’t worry. She would never believe you capable of murder. She is too good-natured and innocent to think ill of anyone.”