Fiercely shaking herself, Antonia shoved her errant thoughts aside. This was no time to be contemplating regrets and feelings, no matter how profound.
She relaxed the bowstring but held the arrow primed as she watched the courtyard below. The Bow Street Runner, Horace Linch, had materialized from inside the building and was assisting Macky in herding Heward’s hirelings into the near end of the courtyard. Macky was moving slowly, but he didn’t appear to be badly injured.
“I think it is safe to join them,” Thorne said, helping Antonia to her feet.
Bending, she retrieved her quiver and slung the strap over her shoulder, then allowed Thorne to guide her over the rooftop and down a dimly lit, narrow stairway, where a candle had been left burning.
Keeping her bow ready, as Thorne did his pistols, she accompanied him outside and across the open court, to where Heward sat clutching his thigh and groaning in pain.
The acrid smell of gunpowder filled Antonia’s nostrils as Deverill looked up and met her gaze. His eyes were warm with understanding and appreciation.
“Allow me to express my gratitude, Miss Maitland,” he said lightly with a nod at her bow and arrow.
Heward’s head jerked up at her name, and he glowered at her. “You bitch! You shot me!”
“Yes, I shot you,” she answered steadily. “You would have killed Deverill otherwise.”
Deverill remarked in a dry voice, “You are fortunate she didn’t aim for some more vital part of your anatomy, Heward. It’s merely a flesh wound. You’ll live, more’s the pity.”
He had cut away the fabric around the injury and finished his examination of the arrow, but when he reached up to untie Heward’s neckcloth, the baron shrank back in snarling protest. “What in hell’s name are you doing?”
“Fashioning a bandage to stanch the flow of blood. There will be a good deal of it once I remove the arrow.”
“The devil you will! I want a surgeon! Immediately!”
“Not yet, Heward. We still have a few matters to settle.”
With a curse, the baron gritted his teeth and subsided as Deverill finished the task he had begun. Untying Heward’s neckcloth, he folded it to make a compress and then removed his own.
“A waste of a good cravat,” Deverill murmured before bending over the baron’s thigh and taking hold of the arrow shaft. “Be still. This will hurt.”
Heward screamed again as Deverill pulled out the arrow. Predictably, blood gushed from the wound, so he used Heward’s hand to press the cravat pad against the raw flesh while he wrapped the other neckcloth around the injured thigh and achieved a neat bandage.
“This should suffice for the time being—while we deal with our unfinished business.”
“What business?” Heward demanded, panting in harsh, uneven breaths.
“Why, the small matter of your confession. Pray direct your gaze up at those windows across the courtyard,” Deverill advised, pointing up at the darkened second floor of the building’s side wing. “We had an audience for our encounter, your lordship. You couldn’t see them, but there were several persons up there observing you.”
He perceived the instant understanding dawned, for Heward’s entire body stiffened in outrage. “You planned this, you bastard.” The baron’s tone was astonished as well as furious.
“Except for your unexpected extra henchmen,” Deverill admitted mildly, “yes, I planned it. You of all people should appreciate my careful scheming. I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange this evening’s entertainment, so I trust you won’t be disappointed.” His arm swept politely toward the rear entrance door, where a half-dozen men and women had emerged, two of whom held lanterns. “Won’t you join us, ladies and gentlemen?”
Obligingly, the group of people traipsed with their lanterns across the courtyard to gather around the baron.
In the bright light, Heward sat blinking at the unexpected spectacle, while Deverill spoke.
“You know Mr. Phineas Cochrane, of course,” Deverill said. “And Lords Wittington and Ranworth. I asked Lord Ranworth to attend as an impartial observer. Madam Nan Bruno”—he indicated the beautiful, raven-haired proprietress of the sin club—“is here on behalf of her murdered employee, Felice Pedigrew. The other lady is Miss Maitland’s housekeeper, Mrs. Dolly Peeke. Mrs. Peeke is prepared to present further testimony against you, if necessary.”
When Heward glowered, Deverill smiled coldly. “You like slinking in the shadows, Baron, but I want the evidence brought out in the open, so you can’t manipulate it to your own benefit.”
Deverill glanced again across the courtyard, where Macky and the Runner stood guard over the five bound ruffians. “Perhaps you remember Mr. Horace Linch, the agent of Bow Street who attempted to arrest me for a murder I didn’t commit? Mr. Linch . . . Mr. Macklin, will you be kind enough to bring your prisoners here?”
Heward stared darkly at Deverill, ignoring the commotion as the five ruffians were brought forward at gunpoint to join the group. All of their masks had been removed.
“I recognize the scarred fellow,” Deverill said to Heward, “as one of three men who assaulted me and killed my companion that evening. You’ve engaged him in the past to perform unsavory tasks for you, as Madam Bruno will vouch. But would you care to explain your version of events of the night in question, my lord?”
“I don’t have to answer to you!” Heward sputtered.
Frowning with impatience, the tall, distinguished-looking undersecretary, Lord Wittington, stepped forward as if accustomed to taking charge. “Perhaps we should ask the perpetrators directly. You there—what do you have to say for yourselves?” Wittington demanded. “Did Lord Heward hire you to do murder?”
Scarface remained stubbornly silent, while his colleagues stared at the ground.
“I suggest that one of you speak up and spare yourself a hanging in favor of prison. Tell me who killed that young woman!”
“My lord?” Macky interjected politely. “If I might have a moment to confer with the prisoners?” When he bent close to the ruffians, murmuring something in a low voice, Deverill suspected he was describing in vivid detail the punishment for murder.
After a long pause, the smallest and weakest of the five stepped forward and tugged on his forelock. “Aye, Lord Heward hired us to do murder . . . but to fix it so’s that Deverill cove snared the blame.”
The other brutes growled in protest at their cohort’s betrayal, but the undersecretary raised a commanding hand to silence them.
“And who are you?” Wittington asked the small one.
The grudging reply was a moment in coming. “I’m Ben Stubbs, yer honor. That scarred bloke is known as Jackal. The one next to ’im is Kater. I dint murder that lass, it was Kater.”
“Hold your bloody weesh!” the man called Kater spat, lunging at Stubbs with his head, since his fists were bound behind him.
It required both Macky and Linch to pull the ruffians apart and force Kater to the ground, where he lay cursing foully until Macky managed to gag him.
Then Phineas Cochrane stepped forward to address the group. “My lord, if I may . . . this might be the appropriate time to examine the case against Mr. Deverill.”
Nodding, Lord Wittington stepped back. “It might, indeed.”
“Mr. Linch?” the barrister said to the Bow Street Runner. “That fellow’s admission corroborates the account you heard earlier this evening from Madam Bruno, you will agree. Are you prepared yet to consider that the charges against my client, Mr. Deverill, are spurious ones?”
Horace Linch rubbed his jaw in deliberation. “I am, sir. When I arrived on the scene that night, all the evidence pointed toward Mr. Deverill, what with the blood on his hands and Madam Bruno insisting he had killed the girl. And he did act guilty—escaping my custody when I tried to convey him to Bow Street.” Linch grimaced, as if remembering. “I was outraged at the time, but now that Madam Bruno has changed her story, I tend to believe Mr. Deverill’s version—that he was innocent a
ll along. And that I was played for a fool.”
The barrister smiled briefly. “Thank you, Mr. Linch. Might I also inquire whether the law means to dismiss the charges against Mr. Deverill?”
The Runner nodded. “Aye, sir. Based on what I saw and heard tonight, there is no justification for the charges.”
There was a murmur of approval from the crowd, while Deverill felt relief course through him. When he met Antonia’s gaze, he could tell she shared his feeling; tears welled in her eyes and she clasped a hand over her mouth as if to keep from shouting in elation.
“So how do you wish to proceed now, Mr. Linch?” Deverill asked.
“I mean to place Lord Heward under arrest for conspiring to murder Felice Pedigrew.”
Clenching his fists, the baron blustered in fury. “Your spurious theory is merely supposition! It is clear that Deverill bribed these rogues to lie about me!”
Barrister Cochrane spoke up again. “I beg to differ, my Lord Heward. There is a preponderance of evidence against you. If these same witnesses testify at a trial before the House of Lords, I have little doubt you will be convicted of conspiring to do murder.”
His mouth agape, Heward sat there glaring at his accusers.
The haughty, silver-haired Earl of Ranworth entered the discussion then, shaking his head sadly. “I have heard enough to be convinced. I never would have credited it, Heward, had I not been present tonight, but I have no doubt now that you ordered the murder. You have shamed us all with your dishonorable actions.”
Where before Heward’s complexion had been red with fury, his face turned pale at this pronouncement. As a peer, Ranworth’s opinion was crucially important, Deverill knew, for even if the criminal charges could not be proven in a court of law—even if Heward escaped conviction for Felice’s killing—he would be forever ruined in society, for the rumors of murder would always shadow him. If he managed to elude prison, his only option would be to flee England for the Continent or some other foreign place, where he could live out the rest of his life as something less than a pariah.
Yet Deverill was resolved that the bloody baron wouldn’t escape justice. Moreover, there was still the matter of Samuel Maitland’s murder to prove—which undoubtedly was of even greater importance to Antonia.
“I suspect, Heward, that you are feeling much like a rat in a trap just now,” Deverill said mildly. “But our discussion of your crimes is not over. There are other witnesses against you.” Deverill looked up, searching behind the spectators who were gathered around the wounded man. “Where is Mr. Beaton?”
An unprepossessing, gray-haired little man stepped forward, adjusting his spectacles. “Here, sir.”
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Beaton,” Deverill said before returning his focus to Heward. “This is the apothecary who sold belladonna to your physician the day Samuel Maitland died. For those who don’t know, belladonna is a poison derived from the deadly nightshade plant, which can cause the heart to seize up—which is precisely how Maitland died.” Deverill riveted his gaze on Heward. “We held off questioning your physician to avoid alerting you to our suspicions. But I expect with the right inducement, he would confess his role in supplying you the poison that killed Maitland.”
The baron kept his mouth shut, his eyes blazing with pain and fury. When he remained stubbornly silent, Deverill glanced up again. “Mrs. Peeke?”
“Yes, Mr. Deverill?” the stout, ruddy-cheeked housekeeper replied as she stepped closer.
Leaving Heward on the ground, Deverill stood and wiped his bloody hands on the handkerchief Thorne handed him. “Mrs. Peeke, please tell us about the day Samuel Maitland died. Lord Heward paid him a visit, is that so?”
The elderly woman’s mouth flattened. “Indeed. His lordship called on Mr. Maitland late that afternoon and brought him a bottle of brandy. Called it a peace offering, in fact.”
“Why would he need a peace offering? Were they at war, Mrs. Peeke?”
“In a manner of speaking. The day before, Lord Heward and the master had argued something fierce. I was bringing tea and heard most of their quarrel.”
“What did they quarrel about?” Deverill asked.
“Miss Maitland’s recent betrothal to Lord Heward. The master called it off. He said he would rather her marry a chimney sweep than a man with no principles.”
“Why did he consider Heward to have no principles?”
“Because he had learned that Lord Heward’s ships were transporting slaves. Mr. Maitland was outraged, not only because slavery is illegal, but because he believed it a moral abomination.”
“And what became of the brandy bottle, Mrs. Peeke?”
“It disappeared the next day, after Lord Heward came to pay his condolences at Mr. Maitland’s sudden death. It was only when I noticed the bottle gone that I began to suspect his lordship might have taken it to hide the evidence.”
Deverill returned his gaze to Lord Heward. “Is that what happened, Heward? Come, you have little to lose now by confessing.”
When the baron merely glowered, Deverill frowned thoughtfully. “Would you like to hear my supposition about what happened? When Maitland discovered you were illegally transporting slaves, he called off the betrothal. But you were not about to let his daughter’s fortune slip through your fingers. So you returned the next day with a bottle of poisoned brandy, knowing Maitland’s weakness for those particular spirits. He refused to accept your apology, but it didn’t matter since he drank your brandy—which resulted in his immediate death. And later, you made certain to eliminate the evidence.”
Hearing Deverill’s summation, Antonia could no longer keep quiet.
“Is it true?” she demanded of Heward in a raw voice. “Did you poison my father?”
“Of course not! It is all a lie, upon my word.”
“Just as it was a lie that you ordered the murder of that poor, innocent woman?” Antonia observed scathingly. “We all know what your word is worth, Lord Heward. You wanted my father dead so there would be no one to stop you from wedding me. What did you plan to do with me once I was your wife? Murder me, too? Answer me, damn you!”
When the baron’s jaw remained clenched tight, Deverill glanced at the partially drawn bow and arrow in Antonia’s hands. “I believe I know how to persuade him to answer. Antonia, how many arrows did you bring?”
“A whole quiverful.” She raised her bow slightly to show the quiver hanging at her side.
“Then we will loosen his lordship’s tongue by shooting him one limb at a time.”
The baron looked horrified, and even a few of their audience—Lord Ranworth and Mrs. Peeke in particular—appeared uncomfortable with this unconventional method of persuasion.
Deverill spoke again. “You have seen her skill, Heward. I advise you to tell the truth before she is compelled to use it.”
His face contorted with fear as much as pain, but he remained mute.
“Antonia, you may shoot his left leg this time.”
“No!” Heward cried when she took a menacing step closer. When she drew the bow, targeting his left leg, he suddenly capitulated. “All right! Damn and rot you!”
“What happened between you and Samuel Maitland?” Deverill asked again.
“Maitland called off our betrothal, as that woman said.”
“So you returned the next day to poison him.”
Heward squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes . . . I returned to poison him.”
“Why?” The word that came from Antonia was agonized. “What did he ever do to you but be your friend?”
Heward’s eyes blazed. “He claimed I was not fit to marry you. I, whose title goes back seven hundred years, was scolded by that lowbred upstart merchant—”
Blinded by grief and fury, Antonia drew back the arrow fully. Her wonderful father had been murdered by this . . . this treacherous scum. Shooting was too good for him and so was hanging. She wanted him drawn and quartered! But in lieu of that, her bow would suffice.
Rage filled her
as she used all her might to stretch the bowstring taut while targeting Heward’s heart.
The baron cringed, holding up his hands in a futile effort to ward off a deadly blow. “Keep her away from me! Don’t let her kill me!”
In the tense silence, Deverill said softly, “Antonia.”
“What?” she whispered on a hoarse sob.
“Don’t release that arrow. It isn’t worth it. Heward will be punished, I promise you.”
“Not sufficiently.”
“If you kill him, you might gain temporary satisfaction, but his peers won’t forgive you. You’re unlikely ever to find a husband from the noble ranks, which is what your father wished for you, remember?”
She blinked, her eyes stinging with tears. Deverill was talking of her matrimonial future when her heart was grieving?
“Antonia . . . please, just trust me.”
At his gentle touch on her shoulder, she shuddered and heaved another little sob. Finally, she nodded. Easing the bowstring back to neutral, she wheeled abruptly and stumbled away, clenching her teeth to keep from weeping . . . or screaming.
She heard a collective sigh of relief from the spectators before Mrs. Peeke came up behind her and put a plump arm around her waist to lead her farther across the courtyard, away from the crowd.
Antonia bowed her head, wanting nothing more than to bury her face in the elderly servant’s comforting shoulder and sob out her grief and guilt. But she forced herself to take long, shuddering breaths and strove valiantly for composure.
Behind her, she could hear snatches of the conversation that followed as the company discussed how to deal with Lord Heward and his five hirelings. The Runner, Horace Linch, intended to take his lordship into custody, but worried that his word alone might not suffice to guarantee the baron’s imprisonment.
“I will need Madam Bruno and Mr. Deverill to accompany me to Bow Street to lay charges,” Linch explained. “But it would be most helpful if Lord Wittington and Mr. Cochrane were to come also, since I must rouse a magistrate out of bed and persuade him to sign a warrant to imprison Lord Heward. Although . . . we could mayhap wait until morning, if it is too much of an imposition, Lord Wittington.”
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