Nicole Jordan (44 page)

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 all 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.”

Wittington agreed with a sigh. “Might as well get it done tonight. I won’t sleep a wink after all this excitement.”

“What of Miss Maitland?” Deverill asked. “She has endured enough for one night.”

“She and Mrs. Peeke are free to go,” the Runner replied, “as is the apothecary, Mr. Beaton. But I will likely need to question them further at some later point.”

“I will take the ladies home,” Thorne said.

Macky chimed in. “Mr. Ryder and I will see our hedgebirds safely to Bow Street.”

“Very good, sir,” Linch said. “I would welcome your assistance.”

Feeling marginally more composed by then, Antonia cast a searching glance over her shoulder to see Deverill quietly thanking his friends for their efforts on his behalf.

With a chuckle, Thorne clapped him on the back. “It’s of no account, Dev. We’re damned glad you came through this one unscathed.”

“We are at that,” Macky said cheerfully, while Ryder offered his slow, dangerous smile in agreement.

Macky and Ryder escorted the ruffians from the courtyard then, disappearing through the gate into the dark alley beyond. Following with Lord Wittington, Runner Linch guided a painfully limping Lord Heward before him. Phineas Cochrane and the apothecary went last, leaving the Earl of Ranworth with Deverill and Thorne.

Ordinarily proud and refined, Ranworth now looked somber and chastened. “I owe you my sincerest apologies, Mr. Deverill. I believed the scurrilous tales about you and thought you a murderer. But the accusations clearly had no merit. I plan to tell Lady Ranworth what transpired here, and you may be sure she will put the rumors to rest. No one is more certain to be believed than she.”

“I don’t doubt she will single-handedly rout my detractors if she chooses to,” Deverill said with a faint smile.

“It is no more than you are owed, after we were taken in by that scheming Heward.” Ranworth pumped Deverill’s hand. “It is an honor to know you, sir.” Giving a formal bow then, he took his leave.

When Deverill’s glance shifted and found Antonia, Lord Thorne spoke up. “No doubt you would like a moment of privacy with Miss Maitland. Mrs. Peeke and I will await you in the carriage. Shall we, Mrs. Peeke?”

“Yes indeed, my lord,” she replied, moving to accept his proffered arm.

Once the housekeeper had accompanied Thorne from the courtyard, Deverill crossed to Antonia.

Cautiously, he took the bow and arrow from her unresisting hands. “Perhaps I had best confiscate these before you do someone lethal damage.”

Antonia did not appreciate his levity, for she was still trembling with rage and sorrow. Glaring up at Deverill, she dashed the tears from her cheeks. “I could damage
you
just now! You frightened me half to death, deliberately challenging Heward to kill you.”

“My, you’re a bloodthirsty wench tonight.”

Her fists clenched at his teasing. “He would have shot you, you beast!”

Deverill smiled gently. “But you saved me, my fierce Amazon. And you needed to hear Heward’s confession. If you hadn’t, the question of your father’s death would have forever haunted you.”