Free Nicole Jordan by Wicked Fantasy

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