Nicole Jordan (43 page)

The baron noted it also and abruptly forced Deverill to halt. By then Ryder had positioned himself at the gate and stood blocking the way.

“Tell your lackey to step aside, Deverill,” Heward ordered, gesturing at Ryder.

“Lackey?” Ryder repeated softly. At the insult, he lazily raised his own pistol, aiming at Heward.

Even in the dim light, Deverill could see the dangerous glimmer in his friend’s eye, yet knew Ryder wouldn’t fire, since he had no clear shot. Deverill stood directly in his path—and the distance was too far for accuracy, in any case.

Deverill glanced over his shoulder at Heward. “Ryder is no one’s lackey, which you’ll discover to your regret if you press him. Still, you are welcome to try. Be warned, however, that if you shoot me, you won’t leave here alive.”

“I am losing patience, Deverill!” the baron snarled. “I
will
shoot you, I swear it!”

“Go ahead, your lordship, if you have the courage. Do your worst.”

Nineteen

Her heart in her throat, Antonia listened with growing alarm as Deverill challenged the baron to do his worst.

From her position on the roof—lying flat on her stomach near the edge—she could peer over the low parapet and see the dimly lit courtyard below. But tree limbs blocked much of her view, and she could make out only part of Heward’s form as he stood behind Deverill, leveling both pistols at his head.

Beside her, Lord Thorne gave no overt sign of alarm, yet she could feel his tension; he was as helpless as Ryder, since his pistols would be of little use at this range.

Deverill himself seemed at ease, as if a vengeful villain were not threatening his very life. Antonia wanted to curse his unruffled calm. Her own nerves had been shredded raw ever since Thorne had brought her to Phineas’s law offices nearly two hours before. She had hoped Heward would appear tonight, for she wanted this to be over, for Deverill’s sake even more than her own. And she assuredly wanted a confession of guilt from Heward.

Just not at the risk of Deverill’s life. Cornered, Heward might very well be desperate enough to kill him then and there.

Her every instinct crying danger, Antonia stole a questioning glance at Thorne, who nodded silently and gestured at the bow she had set near to hand. Deverill had permitted her to bring it, although never expecting her to use it. He’d wanted her safe, out of harm’s way, while he took all the risks. It had been a battle merely to convince him to let her join Thorne on the rooftop so she could better observe events.

She was now ardently glad she had, since she stood a better chance of hitting a distant target with her bow than with any pistol . . . if only the target was in the clear.

Moving surreptitiously, her cramped muscles screaming from having been immobile for so long, Antonia slowly shifted her weight to slide an arrow from her quiver. Lying on her side, she nocked the shaft while trying to remain hidden behind the parapet. She couldn’t risk being seen yet, since Heward was mostly facing her.

Keeping low, she eased onto her knees and peered over. The sight made her chest tighten with fear. Even if she succeeded in drawing her bow, Deverill’s broad shoulder partly blocked her line of aim, and she worried that she might hit him instead of Heward.

But then the baron’s voice rose to a fever pitch as he once again ordered Deverill to move, and she knew she had no choice but to try. Heward could fire at any instant. And even if Deverill accompanied him as surety, what was to keep the baron from killing his hostage once he was safely away?

Her palms slick, her heart hammering, she carefully drew back the arrow as she debated what part of Heward to target, arm or shoulder or thigh. Once she raised the bow, she would have little time to aim.

She could
not
fail, though. If she let Deverill perish right before her eyes, her own heart might as well stop beating.

Strangely, the thought actually calmed her and made her hands steadier. Taking a deep breath then, she whipped up the drawn bow and straightened, purposely making herself a target as she called out loudly, “Lord Heward!”

His attention caught, the baron momentarily shifted his gaze upward to her. Recognizing the threat she presented, Heward reflexively swung his pistol aim toward her just as she released the arrow.

With a whooshing whistle, it flew down from the roof to land buried in the outside of Heward’s right thigh. He screamed in pain, his right leg buckling. At the same instant, Deverill grasped his forearms, pushing them up high.

Antonia heard the resultant gunshot but couldn’t see what had happened, for Thorne had hauled her down beside him, behind the meager protection of the parapet.

Her heart pounding furiously, she struggled to rise—and then breathed a fervent prayer of relief. Deverill’s reflexes had been sharp enough to deflect the baron’s aim, so that one of the pistols had discharged harmlessly into the tree limbs above. Splintered bark and tattered leaves drifted down through the haze of smoke as Antonia watched Deverill wrestle the wounded baron to the ground and take away both weapons.

She wanted to rush down to his side, to make certain he was unharmed, but Thorne’s warning hand forestalled her. “Wait.”

She nocked another arrow and was poised to shoot again, but then she saw there was no need for it. Ryder had swiftly moved to relieve Deverill of the pistols and now stood guard over the injured baron, while Deverill knelt there, examining the arrow protruding from his lordship’s thigh.

“A commendable shot, love,” Thorne murmured in approval.

Antonia nodded, although she barely heard him. Her frantic pulse had begun to slow, yet her senses were reeling at the startling realization she had just made: If Deverill had died, her heart would have died with him.

She was dazed by the thought. She loved Deverill, as much as life itself. She would have willingly faced death in his place, for she could never have borne to see him killed.

Dear heaven, how could she have been so blind? How could she have failed to recognize the roiling turmoil of misery and longing and fear that her heart had endured these past few days? Why had it taken Deverill’s near death for her to comprehend her feelings? She had stubbornly, resolutely ignored all the signs—

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.