Nicole Jordan

by Wicked Fantasy

  Turning, he made his own way across the square and around the corner, to the nondescript, closed carriage awaiting him. He would return to Macky’s lodgings for the evening and allow his fellow Guardians to do their work.

  Even so, Deverill found it difficult to calmly endure the wait, and it was nearly three o’clock in the morning before his colleagues entered the apartments.

  Macky was grinning ear to ear, while Ryder offered a more circumspect smile.

  “Our friendly baron went to Seven Dials and met with Scarface,” Macky announced triumphantly.

  Deverill nodded. “Then I think we can safely expect to mount our challenge to Heward tomorrow evening, wouldn’t you agree?”

  All his senses on full alert, Deverill waited in the shadowy courtyard for his enemies to appear. The appointment with Trant had been set for ten o’clock at the barrister’s law offices, and it was nearly that time now.

  He was fairly confident Heward would send his henchmen to dispatch him tonight; the question was whether the baron would accompany them and personally oversee their handiwork.

  Deverill could hear his own heartbeat in the eery quiet that had descended over the courtyard. All the offices and shops in the district were closed, and the usual employees had long gone home to their suppers and their beds. Ryder and Macky were nowhere to be seen, having concealed themselves somewhere on the grounds.

  Much of the large, tree-shaded court was in darkness, flanked on two sides by the wings of the law building, and on the other two by tall stone walls. A single post-lamp had been left burning in the corner near the rear entrance door, faintly illuminating the maze of flagstone paths lined by benches and stone statuary and ancient apple trees.

  Half hidden behind a gnarled tree, Deverill could see the rear door, which had been left unlocked for the arranged meeting. But he kept his gaze fixed on the side gate, the sole access through the wall. If his foes materialized tonight, they would come from the alley beyond.

  Just then, the sudden creak of gate hinges made his muscles tense. The noise abruptly stopped and a long moment passed. Then the hinges squealed once more as the gate was slowly drawn open.

  Deverill watched as three hulking figures stole into the courtyard, wearing masking hoods and carrying pistols and knives. Their furtiveness, combined with those deadly weapons, reminded him vividly of the last time they had attacked him, when they’d murdered poor, unsuspecting Felice.

  Deverill felt his jaw knot as the intruders crept toward the steps of the building’s rear entrance. He was angry enough to take all three ruffians on his own, but he forced his breathing to slow and waited to see if Heward would accompany them.

  He was not disappointed. The gate hinges gave another creak as the fair-haired baron silently entered, armed with two pistols. Deverill’s heart rate quickened, yet he controlled his fierce impatience until Heward had moved past him a dozen steps.

  “Well, well,” he said softly. “Fancy meeting you here, your lordship.”

  All four intruders jumped and spun around, searching the shadows. Heward spied Deverill first and aimed both pistols directly at his chest.

  Pointing his own pistol in return, Deverill stepped out from behind the tree. “Where is Trant?” he asked the baron, even though he already knew the answer.

  Heward’s features were indistinct at this distance, but a smug smile sounded in his reply. “Director Trant will not be coming tonight.”

  “So you came in his stead?” Deverill indicated Heward’s weapons with a brief nod of his head. “Would you care to tell me why you are armed, and why you brought your murdering henchmen with you?”

  “I’m certain you can guess.”

  “You’re worried because Trant has confessed to your conspiracy to transport slaves.”

  The nobleman shrugged. “I am hardly concerned about Trant. If it is his word against mine, I will win every time.”

  “But you will not win against me,” Deverill commented, his own tone deliberately taunting. “Admittedly, I underestimated your treachery the first time, Heward. You served me a cunning trick, framing me for murder. But you are gravely mistaken if you expect to get away with it.”

  “Do you think so?” The question held a trace of a smirk.

  “Yes. You have failed, Heward.”

  His fingers tightened on the pistol grips. “How so? You are the one who ran afoul of the law, Deverill. You are still a wanted criminal, I believe.”

  “For the time being. But I’m confident I will be able to prove my innocence shortly. Madam Bruno is prepared to testify that you orchestrated the murder of her employee.”

  “How can she testify? She was not a witness.”

  “But she knows you staged the entire evening, arranging for her to alert Bow Street even before the murder. She lied for you at the time, since you paid her well to keep her mouth shut and she was too afraid to defy you. But her testimony now will be enough to clear my name—and to implicate you.”

  Heward’s mouth curled. “Who will take the word of a whore?”

  Knowing Heward was unlikely to confess without provocation, Deverill tried a different tack. “Miss Maitland, for one. She was repulsed enough by the tale to break her betrothal to you. A pity that you lost her fortune after working so hard to secure it. It can’t sit well, either, knowing that I turned her against you, just as I did Trant.”

  Heward flinched at that barb, Deverill noted with satisfaction. Then the baron barked an order over his shoulder at his henchmen. “Apprehend that bastard!”

  The three ruffians moved forward cautiously to surround Deverill.

  In response, he spread his arms and allowed himself to be disarmed. He could have tried to keep possession of his pistol, since Heward likely meant to kill him. But armed, Heward would feel more powerful, more confident and in control. And a confident Heward might just boast about his triumphs.

  Moreover, not even a nobleman of his rank would be able to escape justice after shooting an unarmed man in cold blood in front of witnesses. Deverill considered it worth the risk in order to put the bloody baron in prison for life.

  He raised his empty hands in surrender, but his tone was anything but submissive when he responded, determined to taunt Heward and rouse his ire to the boiling point. “Rather cowardly of you, my lord. You sent your hedgebirds to kill an innocent woman because you didn’t have the mettle to do it yourself. And now you mean to rely on them again to do your dirty work.”

  He could almost hear the baron grinding his teeth, yet Heward refused to be provoked. “Enough of this blather, Deverill. Now, move toward the door.” He gestured behind him at the building’s entrance.

  Deverill studied the threatening weapons aimed at his chest before lifting a taunting eyebrow. “Why? Do you mean to kill me?”

  “I would be justified if I did. You have caused me enough trouble.”

  Refusing to obey, Deverill leaned a shoulder indolently against the tree trunk. “Just tell me one thing first.”

  Heward’s eyes narrowed. “Tell you what?”

  “How Samuel Maitland died. You killed him yourself, didn’t you?”

  His mouth curled in a sly smile. “That is absurd. Maitland expired from heart failure.”

  “Because you poisoned him.”

  “I said, enough.” The baron’s expression suddenly became glacial as he stepped closer to Deverill. Pointing both pistols, he pronounced in a low, lethal voice, “Do not push me too far, Deverill. Now move to the door.”

  “Ah, I understand. You mean to shoot me—only not here where the shots could be heard.”

  “Precisely.” Heward smiled with deadly malice. “I have no intention of leaving you alive to inconvenience me further.”

  Deverill waited barely an instant before suddenly spinning and lunging behind the apple tree to escape the line of fire. As he sprinted into the murkier depths of the courtyard, a shot rang out behind him, followed by Heward’s angry protest.

  “I told you not to fire
here, you bloody imbeciles! Well, go after him, damn you!”

  His heart thudding, Deverill took refuge behind a stone statue and drew a knife from his coat pocket as he waited for his pursuers to follow.

  The three ruffians fanned out hurriedly, their weapons ready as they searched the darkness. When one passed his hiding place, Deverill moved swiftly behind him and gripped his gun hand while holding the knife blade to his throat.

  “Keep still if you want to live,” Deverill murmured in a dangerous voice.

  Wisely, the man froze.

  Just as swiftly, Ryder emerged from the shadows and incapacitated another ruffian with a fierce upward blow to the jaw, catching the beefy body as it fell to the stone flags. At the same time, Macky took the third one, easily subduing him with a knee to the stomach and pushing him to the ground, where he lay sprawled and grunting for air.

  Knowing his friends would be binding their prisoners, Deverill kept his knife blade in the same lethal position and pulled off the hooded mask of the man he held. In the dim light, he immediately recognized Scarface.

  Forcing the brute to his knees, Deverill held him there until Macky assumed control. Then checking to see that the ruffian’s pistol was still loaded, Deverill made his way back through the courtyard and positioned himself behind an apple tree, where he could glimpse Heward but still remain out of shooting range.

  He could hear the baron demanding to know what had happened—and cursing vividly when there was no response.

  Determined to keep the nobleman’s wrath at a fever pitch, Deverill called out in a taunting drawl, “I am loath to inform you, Heward, but your hirelings have been incapacitated. You are all alone.”

  The baron immediately fell silent. His grip on the pistols visibly tightened, however, and Deverill could almost feel his fury.

  “Lay down your weapons and give yourself up, Heward. Two of my confederates have joined me, and you only have two pistols. You cannot shoot all three of us.”

  More silence greeted his demand.

  “Come, Baron, you may as well surrender now that your game is up.”

  “I beg to differ,” Heward said calmly. “The game is not up.”

  Just then Deverill heard a stealthy footstep behind him—an instant before he felt the press of cold steel against his nape. A gun barrel, Deverill surmised grimly.

  “I ’ave this one, guv’nor,” his captor called out, confiscating Deverill’s pistol.

  A grunt and thud from Macky’s direction was followed by another stranger’s voice: “I scuttled this one’s nob, yer lordship.”

  Deverill swore silently, realizing that at least two more of Heward’s hirelings must have come over the wall. Macky had possibly taken a blow to the head and was unconscious. Of Ryder, there was no sign.

  Deverill took a step forward, hoping to keep Heward out in the open, in the part of the courtyard nearest the building. But the pistol at his head and a growled command made him halt.

  Heward moved toward him then, keeping both pistols carefully aimed. A smirk showed on the baron’s face when he reached Deverill. “I knew you were planning something. You did not think I was stupid enough to fall for your trap, did you?”

  Deverill offered a sardonic smile. “Truthfully, I did. I salute your cleverness, Heward. Once again I underestimated you, it pains me to say.”

  The baron dismissed his underling and maneuvered behind Deverill, prodding him in the back with one pistol. “Now, move.”

  “Move where?”

  “To the gate. You are coming with me as surety to keep your colleagues from following me. If they do, I will kill you.”

  Forbearing to comment that he would likely be killed anyway, Deverill complied, eager to draw Heward out from beneath the canopy of tree limbs. At the same moment, he spied a shadowy figure gliding along the stone wall to his left.

  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 t
hreat 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—