Nicole Jordan

by Wicked Fantasy

  He covered her mouth, wanting to taste it more than he wanted his next breath.

  He drank of her, wondering if the urgency would ever lessen. He doubted it, though. He had sated himself with her only moments ago, yet he never felt as if he had enough.

  When she parted her legs, welcoming him, he sank in hard, filling her. At her passionate whimper, he gathered Antonia more tightly against him, wanting to absorb her, wanting to draw her inside his very soul. Need pounded through his body, a driving, desperate, mind-blotting need to possess her.

  For a score of heartbeats, she shared the same desperate need as they arched and clung together in frantic, urgent rhythm. Then Antonia shuddered wildly against him, crying out in explosive climax as she drew Deverill over the edge with her.

  It was only when it was over, when he lay collapsed and panting beside her, that he again recalled she hadn’t used the sponges. The next thought that struck Deverill took his breath away: He could have impregnated her. She could be with child at this very moment.

  Emotions he didn’t know he possessed jammed around his heart. If Antonia was carrying his child, he was prepared to deal with the consequences. She would marry him—even if he had to chain her to him until she agreed.

  And if there was no child?

  Then she would damned well marry him anyway, Deverill pledged silently. He would just have to convince her.

  Antonia was set on marrying a title, but she would be better off wed to him than some boring, milksop nobleman. He could give her the exciting adventures she craved, at least. And he could see that her shipping company was well run. He would certainly appreciate her spirit and passion far more than any other man. And he was more qualified than anyone else to keep her and her fortune safe from malefactors.

  Additionally, Antonia was better qualified to be his bride than any other woman. She would understand his need to continue his life’s mission. With her, he would not have to abandon the Guardians or forsake his deep-seated compulsion to atone for the past.

  It would still be a marriage of convenience, of course. There would be nothing more to their union—no deeper bond—than mutual desire and a shared love of adventure.

  Ignoring the faint, scoffing voice in his head that told him he was deceiving himself, Deverill drew Antonia’s languid body closer against him. When she stirred suggestively in his arms, though, he couldn’t ignore the fierce wave of possessiveness that swept through him.

  He wasn’t letting her go, Deverill vowed, finding her lips with his own.

  He couldn’t force the issue of their marriage just now with matters so uncertain. But he promised himself that when this was all over—if it ever was over—he would pursue Antonia until she gave in and consented to be his wife.

  Seventeen

  London, August 1815

  “Are you certain you are all right, my dear?” Phineas Cochrane demanded of Antonia, taking her hands. “I have been prodigiously worried for you this past month.”

  The concern on the elderly barrister’s cherubic face warmed her heart. “Yes, I am perfectly well, Phineas. Deverill took excellent care of me during our stay in Cornwall. You know Mr. Trey Deverill, I believe?”

  “I do.” Releasing her, Phineas turned to pump Deverill’s hand. “I am immensely grateful to you, sir, for keeping Miss Maitland safe from harm.”

  “It was no more than my duty,” Deverill replied.

  The pudgy, balding barrister was a full head shorter than Deverill and at least half a head shorter than the other company in the modest parlor—three gentlemen whom Antonia had herself just met.

  She watched as Deverill performed the introductions. He’d sent his friends word of his arrival as soon as his schooner docked late that afternoon, but had waited until dark before driving Antonia to the St. James Street apartments of Beau Macklin.

  Macky was a handsome, chestnut-haired, roguish fellow who admitted to being a former actor. While they’d waited for the others to arrive, Macky had gallantly plied Antonia with wine and soon had her smiling over his amusing tales of the theater, despite the deadly seriousness of their reason for meeting.

  They were joined shortly by Viscount Thorne and Mr. Alex Ryder, both striking, charismatic men, Antonia noted. She had met Lord Thorne before on several occasions. He was fair-haired and rakishly charming, while the much darker Ryder appeared lean and hard and dangerous. Yet despite their differences, both men had an indefinable quality that set them apart from every other tonnish gentlemen of her acquaintance.

  Without being told, Antonia had somehow known they were Deverill’s fellow Guardians—an instinctive presumption he had confirmed by explaining their various roles in the order.

  When Phineas Cochrane arrived moments later, they resumed their seats and apprised the barrister of their investigation thus far—summarizing the case they’d developed against Heward and listing the witnesses who had been persuaded to testify against him, the most damning being the club owner Madam Bruno.

  Then they began to discuss Deverill’s plan to bring Lord Heward to justice.

  Antonia was troubled that Deverill would serve as the bait to lure the baron into incriminating himself, but she listened silently as he explained his intent to the barrister and answered questions.

  “I mean to beat Heward at his own game,” Deverill asserted. “To use his weaknesses against him.”

  “And those weaknesses might be?” Phineas Cochrane prompted.

  “His craving for wealth and power, for one thing. His jealously of me. And his absolute fury at being bested. Heward has worked too hard to gain command of Miss Maitland’s fortune to abandon his scheme now. When he sees it slipping through his grasp and falling into my hands, he will act decisively to prevent it.”

  Phineas pursed his lips in agreement. “No doubt his lordship is enraged that you eluded his attempt to frame you for murder.”

  Deverill nodded. “And his failure will make him even more determined to succeed now. I suspect he would like nothing more than to kill me. Therefore, I will make myself available as a target—but at a time and place of my choosing, where I can better control the circumstances.”

  “So that you may expose his treachery,” Phineas mused. “You say you will attempt to provoke Heward into confessing his crimes?”

  “Precisely. Even though we have witnesses who are willing to testify against him, convicting Heward of felony will require a high threshold of proof, since he can only be tried by the Lords, and his peers will require conclusive evidence of his guilt. Simply persuading a magistrate to support a warrant against him

  will be difficult. I need to elicit a public confession from Heward—to confirm to any doubters that he’s a murderer—so he can be immediately arrested and imprisoned until his trial, and more importantly, so he is likely to be convicted.”

  Alex Ryder spoke up and addressed the barrister. “We also need to ensure that Deverill is cleared of all murder charges. The Bow Street Runner who tried to arrest him last month has agreed to delay action to allow us the chance to prove his innocence.”

  “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.�
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  “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?”