One

She didn't look much like a damsel in distress, Deverill decided, watching Antonia Maitland across the crowded ballroom. Nothing like a young lady who needed his protection, her life endangered by a murderer. The potential victim of the very man she was privately engaged to wed.

Instead, she seemed in her element at the glittering ball, gowned in an exquisite confection—pearl gray gauze shot with silver—that must have cost a fortune. Of course, as one of England's greatest heiresses, Miss Antonia Maitland could well afford to patronize the most fashionable modistes.

Yet the gown, while splendid, deserved only partial credit for her enchanting looks. Antonia positively glowed in the light of myriad candles burning in the crystal chandeliers overhead.

Deverill's eyes narrowed at the unexpected lust that shot though him. Physically she little resembled the gangly, self-conscious girl he had met four years ago. She was as tall as he remembered, but her figure had ripened to slender, womanly curves, and she carried herself now with an elegance, a graceful self-assurance, that had only been hinted at then.

He would never forget their first meeting—her endearing embarrassment at catching him in the nude—and then later that evening, her bold, completely unexpected request for a kiss.

At the time he'd thought Antonia utterly unique. Despite the advantages of wealth and luxury, she had fretted at the strictures society placed on young ladies, wishing she'd been born male so that she could control her father's shipping empire and sail the world in search of adventure.

Her ambition was the only masculine thing about her, Deverill reflected, riveted by her brilliant smile. Certainly her appearance was purely feminine. Her coppery mane was darker now, a glorious deep auburn. That and her creamy white skin gave her a vibrancy that roused all his primal male instincts.

She was a beauty, no doubt about it. And reportedly her hand was sought by numerous gentlemen, despite her late father's low birth and breeding.

This morning, Mrs. Peeke, the Maitland housekeeper and a longtime friend of Deverill's, had proudly summed up her mistress's success: Antonia was genuinely popular with London's fashionable set, accepted in society by virtue of her own lively charm and her claim to genteel blood on her mother's side. And naturally, her vast inheritance.

At present, she was surrounded by a flock of her ardent admirers, including her betrothed, the refined, aristocratic Baron Heward.

Her betrothal was the prime reason Deverill was here in England. He'd returned to London after more than a year's absence, summoned by the housekeeper's fearful letter, imputing that Antonia was in danger. Samuel Maitland had died last year, supposedly of heart failure, yet Mrs. Peeke suspected differently—that he'd actually been poisoned by Lord Heward after a violent argument when Maitland had withdrawn his permission for the baron to wed his daughter.

Deverill's promise to investigate had brought him to this ball this evening in search of Antonia. He planned to renew the acquaintance and question her about her betrothal before deciding how to proceed.

It was not much of a secret that she and Lord Heward had a private understanding. They'd been betrothed only days before her father's death, but at Antonia's insistence had put off any formal declaration for a proper year of mourning. According to the housekeeper, the official announcement of their betrothal would be made public next month at a betrothal ball, with the wedding to take place three weeks later, after the banns were called. Once they were wed, Mrs. Peeke feared, Heward would control Antonia's fortune, so what was to stop him from murdering her as he might have murdered her father?

This was Antonia's first social function since coming out of mourning. Deverill watched as the baron led her out onto the ballroom floor for a cotillion.

She seemed happy enough, laughing at something Lord Heward said. But then, the tall, flaxen-haired nobleman allegedly had the suave charm and patrician allure to win the heart of any susceptible young heiress.

Deverill felt his jaw tighten. He had only a nodding acquaintance with Heward from their few encounters at gentlemen's clubs, except for one occasion that had left an indelibly repellent impression—when he'd seen the baron viciously wield his cane on a beggar boy for the mere sin of daring to touch his elegant coat. That incident alone had roused an instinctive dislike of the man.

Directly after meeting with Mrs. Peeke this morning, Deverill had visited his own shipping offices to discover what his people knew about Heward. What he'd ascertained was mainly hearsay but unsavory enough to warrant further investigation, and he planned to call on his director tonight after the ball to see which if any of the rumors could be substantiated.

However, just because Heward was rumored to be avaricious and ruthless in his business dealings didn't make him guilty of murder.

He wouldn't presume the nobleman guilty without proof, Deverill resolved, but he meant to discover if the housekeeper's suspicions had merit. If so—if Samuel Maitland had indeed been poisoned by Heward—then he would bring his friend's killer to justice. And he would make absolutely certain that his friend's daughter didn't become the baron's next unwitting victim.

Copyright © 2005 by Anne Bushyhead