Nicole Jordan (8 page)

Heward’s blue eyes narrowed as he surveyed her. “When did you speak to Deverill about this? Last night at the ball?”

“I encountered him on my ride in the park this morning,” Antonia fudged.

His frown deepened. “You should not be associating with men of his ilk, my love. His character is not at all seemly. It is bad enough that he approached you last night.”

Antonia stiffened a little, not caring for Heward’s disapproving tone or his presumption that he could dictate whom she should or should not associate with. With effort, she kept her own tone even when she replied, “Deverill was a friend of my father’s, and I am certain Papa would not want me snubbing him.”

Seeing her displeasure, the baron instantly softened and offered a charming smile. “Forgive me, my dear. I confess I am a trifle jealous of Deverill’s interest in you. He has a devilish reputation with the ladies.”

“Last night he was merely paying his respects to me,” Antonia said, mollified by her betrothed’s graciousness. “And this morning he wished to discuss his cousin’s business. Is it true that Mr. Trant ordered those ships confiscated?”

Heward’s grimace held a measure of distaste. “It is true the vessels were confiscated, but the act was entirely justified.”

“How so?”

“It was war, my dear,” he said firmly. “Deverill’s American cousin was a violent privateer, destroying British merchant ships and harassing our naval vessels. He was an enemy of our country. But I suppose Mr. Deverill neglected to mention that minor detail.”

He had indeed failed to disclose that his cousin was a privateer, Antonia reflected. But she wasn’t certain it mattered now that the war was over.

At her hesitation, Heward smiled a bit smugly. “So you see, Mr. Deverill has no right to demand his cousin’s ships be returned.”

“His cousin paid for them, did he not? Seventy percent upon commissioning?”

“I believe those were the terms.”

“Then he is the rightful owner. I would like those ships delivered to Mr. Brandon Deverill. Either that, or he should be reimbursed for the sums he expended.”

“But my dear, you really should leave this to me—”

Antonia looked at Heward with a cool eye. “I am not empty-headed or slow-witted, my lord. Just inexperienced. But fairness was always a prime tenet of my father’s, and I mean to see that it continues. Of course, I can always have Phineas settle the issue, if you aren’t willing to act for me.”

Heward’s smile was pained. “That won’t be necessary. I will look into the matter.”

“Good, since Deverill says his cousin will seek restitution in the courts if we cannot come to an amicable agreement.”

She could see the flash of ire in Heward’s eyes as he struggled to restrain a sardonic comment. But then the expression on his face smoothed out. “Whatever you wish, my dear.” Reaching across the tea table for her hand, he raised her fingers to his lips in a tender gesture. “I don’t want you angry with me.”

Relenting, Antonia promised that she wasn’t angry with him, that she was only concerned about acting as her father would have wanted. As she poured the baron another cup of tea, she couldn’t help but note another difference between him and Deverill: She knew how to manage Lord Heward, while she could barely hold her own with Deverill.

Of course, her betrothed was desirous of keeping on her good side because of her fortune, she knew very well. But she couldn’t imagine Deverill bowing to her wishes simply because she commanded enormous wealth. In fact, just the opposite was doubtless true. Deverill was unlikely to toady to her or to anyone else.

It was another ten minutes before Heward took his leave, saying he would call for her at eight that evening to escort her to the Ranworth soiree.

As soon as he had gone, Antonia went to her writing desk and penned a note to her trustee, Phineas Cochrane, asking him to call on her tomorrow morning if possible. She could go to his offices in the City, but she would rather not let Lord Heward know she was making a formal visit to her barrister.

That same niggling uneasiness had kept her from confronting Heward about the charge of transporting slaves, for fear he would deny it or possibly even alert Director Trant. But she had every intention of having her trustee review the account books of Maitland Shipping and quietly investigate Deverill’s allegation.

When she had sent a footman to deliver her message, Antonia rang for Mrs. Peeke, determined to satisfy her burning curiosity about another subject.

“I did not realize you were well acquainted with Mr. Deverill,” she said when the housekeeper arrived.

At the remark, the elderly ruddy-cheeked woman looked a bit flustered. “Truth tell, it was my late husband who was closer.”

“Deverill mentioned that he once did a service for Mr. Peeke.”

“Yes. ’Twas a long time ago, but he saved my Rob from a press gang. Rob had left a tavern by the docks when he was set upon. It would have been the death of him, to be forced to serve on a navy warship at his age.”

“It seems Deverill is quite the hero,” Antonia prodded casually, hoping for a more detailed reply.

Mrs. Peeke nodded with enthusiasm. “Indeed. My Rob owed his life to him—as do any number of people.”

“No doubt Deverill’s recollections make for some exciting tales.”

“Exciting, yes, but Mr. Deverill never talks about himself. However, I heard plenty of tales from my Rob before he passed away. Now Mr. Deverill calls on me whenever he comes to London, to make certain I’m faring well and to bring me a present from whatever country he’s last visited.” Her eyes twinkled. “Of course, he’s right fond of my ginger biscuits, so that possibly has something to do with his interest—” The housekeeper suddenly looked worried. “I hope you don’t mind that he visits here, Miss Antonia.”

“No, of course I don’t mind,” Antonia said, although the thought of Deverill being in her house without her knowledge was a little unsettling. But Mrs. Peeke had her own rooms near the kitchens and could entertain anyone she liked. “I am curious, though. Do you know how Deverill came by his scars?”

“Scars?” the housekeeper repeated in obvious puzzlement.

Antonia mentally berated herself for the slip, realizing she was never supposed to have seen Deverill’s naked body. “Never mind.”

But Mrs. Peeke’s perplexity cleared. “If he has scars, no doubt they’re from when he was tortured by those heathen Turks. Rob heard about it from one of Mr. Deverill’s crew who survived.”

“Survived?” Antonia asked, wildly curious now.

“Supposedly they were held captive and tortured by a band of vicious pirates. Mr. Deverill eventually managed to lead an escape, but not before nearly half his men had died.”

Antonia’s brows drew together in a frown as she recalled what Deverill had once said to her, his tone dry yet inflected with a serious note:
Fighting pirates is not all it’s cracked up to be, Miss Maitland.
Antonia winced at the memory. How naive could she have been, thinking it would be exciting to battle corsairs as Deverill did, when doubtless his profession was often treacherous and sometimes deadly? She was ashamed now that she had ever entertained such absurd notions.

“Thank you, Mrs. Peeke,” she said finally. “The next time Mr. Deverill calls, you should bake him an entire ovenful of ginger biscuits. I’m certain he deserves it.”

“That he does,” the housekeeper said fervently, before clearing the tea tray away and leaving Antonia to her dark musings about the horrors Deverill might have suffered during his career as an adventurer.

Not liking her thoughts, Antonia rose from the settee and went to stand at the parlor window. Yet the bright sunshine outside only temporarily lifted her spirits. The mansion that Samuel Maitland had built for his highborn wife in Chesham Place seemed oppressively quiet, Antonia thought sadly, without her father’s booming voice and larger-than-life personality to fill it. His death had left the huge house empty except for herself and a legion of servants.

Miss Mildred Tottle, Antonia’s companion and nominal chaperone, was out for the afternoon, visiting an ill friend in Chelsea. Mildred was rather flighty and scatterbrained, and spent much of the day napping and reading gothic novels and eating sweetmeats, but the two of them genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. Mildred had been a godsend for Antonia after losing her father so tragically and unexpectedly.

Feeling suddenly restless, Antonia made her way upstairs to the gallery where her parents’ portraits hung. She finally understood why her father had regularly communed with her mother’s image, for she felt closer to him when she gazed upon his beloved face.

“How I miss you, Papa,” she murmured, staring up at his portrait.

She would have given anything to have him back. But the remembrance of her grief didn’t wholly explain the vague discontent she felt now. Perhaps it was her dissension with Lord Heward that had her blue-deviled. Or perhaps it was Deverill’s earlier, unwanted observation:
Heward is entirely the wrong husband for you.

Antonia muttered a mild imprecation, vexed with Deverill for his presumptuous interference. More likely, though, her dissatisfaction was merely the last vestiges of a foolish rebellion against the lack of choices in her life. Ladies did not become adventurers who sailed the seas performing daring deeds to save the world, as Deverill did. Ladies did not realize great achievements that impacted the future of mankind, as her father had done.

True ladies did not dream of finding heart-stirring, breath-stealing passion, the kind that touched the soul.

Even heiresses with the means to live independent lives had little real freedom. Unless she wished to remain a spinster or become a byword for scandal, marriage was the only path open to her. And marriage to a cultured nobleman like Baron Heward would greatly diminish the taint of her common, merchant-class origins.

Before his death, her father had been fully supportive of her betrothal to Heward, indeed proud of her, for he loved her dearly and wanted to see her respected and admired instead of shunned by society as her mother had been after their marriage.

If Antonia ever considered truly rebelling and embarking on a fate of her own choosing, she had only to summon one bitterly poignant memory of her father, here in the gallery when she could not have been more than ten years old.

She had come upon him sitting alone, sobbing. The devastation she’d seen upon his face had wrenched her heart. When she’d fearfully asked him what was the matter—if he was going to die like Mama had—Samuel tried to smile as he wiped tears from his eyes and drew her down onto his lap.

“No, I am not going to die, puss. The truth is, it near kills me to think how I hurt your mama.” He glanced up at the portrait of Mary Maitland. “She swore she never blamed me, but I know the sacrifices she made to wed me, spurned by all her hoity-toity friends. I can’t forgive myself for that.”

Only when Antonia was older, however, did she truly comprehend the depth of his guilt. As a Cit, Samuel had attempted to buy respectability by wedding an impoverished nobleman’s daughter, but although they came to love each other deeply, his greatest regret was that his wife was repudiated socially for marrying him. He wanted much better for his daughter.

“But you’ll make a grand marriage,” he’d told her that day. “Promise me, ‘Tonia. I can’t bear to think of you suffering because of me.”

Antonia had solemnly promised.

If in later years she’d secretly dreamed of loving a husband who loved her in return, of finding the remarkable love and devotion her parents had found, she had willingly relinquished such ideal notions for her father’s sake. It was a small price to pay after all his devotion to her, the sacrifices he himself had made for her—giving up all his former friends, his own joy in life—to gain respectability for her. His fierce effort to ensure she had the education and refinement to land an aristocratic husband had driven him until the day he died.

And in truth, she’d never met any man who had remotely tempted her to forsake her sworn promise to marry for duty instead of love. If she had ever met such a man . . . But it was pointless to speculate. Even though her father was no longer here, Antonia reflected, she wouldn’t destroy his dream for her. The remorse of knowing how she’d disappointed him would be too much to bear.

In any event, she was quite happy to wed Lord Heward. And she refused to allow the uninvited, uninformed comments of a rogue like Trey Deverill to raise doubts in her mind.

Her blue mood carried over to the soiree that evening—a very proper affair hosted by the Earl and Countess of Ranworth. Yet a half hour later, Antonia was taken aback to see Deverill stroll into the stately drawing room.

With his height and powerful build, he managed to dominate the sea of people and to make every female head turn. It frankly amazed her, however, to see not only Lord Ranworth greeting Deverill with warmth, but the cold, formidable Lady Ranworth unbending her reserve enough to bestow a smile on the interloper. The countess was a stickler for propriety, and welcoming a notorious pirate-fighter into their elite midst was wholly unexpected.

Also unexpected, Antonia realized, was how suddenly her spirits had lightened. She promptly scolded herself. She had wanted something to enliven a dull evening, yet she suspected Deverill’s presence would be proof of the adage “Take care what you wish for,” for he was moving directly her way.

Beside her, Lord Heward had stiffened. Antonia held her breath as, with a bland smile, Deverill bowed politely before them.

It surprised her that during an exchange of pleasantries, his gaze was cool and impersonal. And when their eyes met, not by a flicker did he betray the heat that had arced between them this morning. Antonia felt almost . . . disappointed.

Her betrothed did not seem particularly happy, either, especially when Deverill brought up a more personal subject.

“Lord Heward,” he remarked, “what a surprise to discover you playing such a prominent role in Maitland Shipping. Miss Maitland informs me that you have been of invaluable help to her.”

“I do what I can,” Heward replied, his chill reserve obvious—in part, Antonia knew, because he preferred not to have his involvement in trade broadcast to the world.