by Heather Snow
He ran his hands over the frayed material of a chaise. This was the main parlor, the face Wallingford showed to the world. The man was clearly suffering from some financial distress. Telling…but by no means definitive. While most treason was motivated by money, not all was. He hoped, in this case, it wasn’t about money. It sickened Derick to think that someone who had fought alongside the very soldiers he went on to betray would do it simply for gold. Hell, it sickened him that he would do it at all.
If, indeed, Wallingford was the traitor. Derick would have to worm his way further into the house to look for more evidence. Most likely, Wallingford would invite him into the study or library to discuss the maid’s murder, which should give him a larger view. And he could always resort to a late-night exploration if he must.
His imagination flashed a vision of him happening across Emma, tucked into her bed in nothing but a flimsy night rail. What would she look like, her features relaxed in sleep, her hair down and spread across her pillow? Derick’s entire body tightened like a fist as his mind emptied of all thoughts but her. Her tempting scent would alter with her skin warmed from sleep, would sweeten tantalizingly like nectar.
Derick caught himself taking a deep breath. Damnation. This was precisely why he shouldn’t be around Emma. He hadn’t physically seen the woman in hours and yet he was thoroughly distracted, which made no sense whatsoever. He didn’t even like her. And he was determined to stop letting her interfere with the role he was here to play.
The door clicked, and Derick’s mind snapped back to the charade at hand. He stepped from behind the chaise to greet Lord Wallingford, a droll greeting on his lips.
His mouth snapped shut as Emma, not Wallingford, strode into the room, her skirts swishing behind her. She stopped abruptly only a scant two feet from him, her eyes traveling his length.
Her sudden nearness hummed in his veins. Damn, but those eyes of hers made a man feel she could see right through him. Derick fought the ridiculous urge to step back from her frank perusal. He had no reason for concern—he knew exactly what she would see. He’d planned every detail.
Gold buttons winked in the sun that beamed through the massive windows, his burgundy-and-cream-striped waistcoat contrasted nicely with his buff pantaloons, and his black Hessians fair gleamed. While he’d never go so far as to polish them with champagne, as Brummel had so famously espoused, Derick would challenge the man himself to find any other fault with his presentation.
And that’s what it was—the pretentious clothing, the intricately tied neck cloth, the close-shaven face, the precisely styled hair—a presentation. A uniform.
And today, perhaps even a suit of armor.
His mouth twisted wryly. As if he needed protection from Pygmy. “Why are you here?”
Emma’s brows dipped and her mouth wobbled, like she couldn’t decide whether to smile or scowl. “I live here, Derick.”
Imbecile. “Yes, of course.” Really, if his superiors could have seen him around Emma Wallingford, they’d never have entrusted the country’s greatest secrets to him. At least his incompetent fop act should be especially believable today. “What I meant to say was that I was expecting your brother.”
Emma crossed her arms. “Yes, Perkins said you wished to speak with the magistrate. Why?”
The back of Derick’s neck tingled. She was on the defensive. Interesting. Because of his desire to see her brother? Or because of him? Both were intriguing questions, but for different reasons.
A slow heat spread through him at the possibility that he might have the same physical effect on her as she did on him. He might be able to use that.
No. He was finished with those days, when seduction had been his stock-in-trade. He shouldn’t need to resort to sensual interrogation. He would be able to get what he needed from Lord Wallingford—if he could get past the man’s formidably lovely gatekeeper. “I should think that obvious.”
“Indeed.” Emma’s expression turned to a decided scowl, and her foot tapped in irritation. “What is not so obvious,” she continued in a clipped tone, “is why you should feel it necessary to insert yourself into an investigation that has nothing to do with you.”
Oh, yes…she was most certainly defensive. Which meant he was onto something. The question was, what?
He had hoped that Farnsworth would have made contact last night or this morning. The last communication the War Department had received from the agent was that he was headed here. This mission would be much easier if Derick knew what Farnsworth knew, and he was anxious to talk with the man. Surely with the way word spread in small villages like this one, Farnsworth would have heard of his arrival, no matter how deep undercover he was. Until he came forward, however, Derick was on his own in sorting whether or not George Wallingford was the traitor they were hunting. And the quickest way to get to Wallingford was to stick to his story. “Because the girl was a member—”
“—of your household.” Disapproval dripped from Emma’s voice, landing on him like a particularly annoying drizzle. She blinked up at him with those owl-like eyes. “Am I to assume that you intend to stay in Derbyshire and take up the reins at the castle, then?”
Derick chafed at the censure in her tone. “Good God, no. This would be the last place I would live. I don’t expect to be here more than a few weeks at most,” he answered. “As if that’s any of your concern,” he grumbled under his breath. He swiped a hand across his forehead. She was wasting his time. Nosy, irritating chit. “Damnation, Pygmy, you are exactly as you were as a girl.”
Derick couldn’t keep his eyes from dropping to her cleavage, so lusciously pushed up by her crossed arms. “Well, not exactly,” he muttered.
Emma’s shoulders rose slightly as a tiny gasp escaped her. “Of course I’m not.”
Hell. Had he actually just said that aloud? What had gotten into him?
“While I still don’t care to be called Pygmy,” she reminded him, not so subtly, “I’ve changed quite significantly in other ways.” She sniffed. “I’m no longer straw-headed, for one. I speak four additional languages than I did when you last knew me and I’ve grown at least two hands taller.”
A huff of laughter escaped him at her attempt to lighten the moment, but it quickly faded. Emma wasn’t smiling.
Instead she heaved a sigh, uncrossed her arms and turned her body, as if to allow him a clear path to the door. She even extended a delicate hand in that direction, wafting her delicious lavender scent near. “Listen, while I appreciate your assistance last evening, my lord, you needn’t concern yourself any further. I suggest you go about whatever…business a gentleman like yourself might have in Derbyshire. There’s no need for you to dirty your hands”—her gaze traveled over him again and her lips flattened—“or your fancy clothes with the matter.”
Derick pressed his fingers against his forehead, closing his eyes. This was not going according to plan. He’d never had such trouble bending a female to his will.
Except her. What was it about Emma that threw him off so?
She makes you forget your role.
Yes. Something about her reduced some part of him to the boy he didn’t even remember being—a singular and disturbing truth he couldn’t avoid or fathom. All he knew was that it was true—and dangerous—which made it all the more important for him to deal solely with her brother. It was time to regain command of this conversation. Derick straightened, crossed his own arms and leveled his gaze on her.
“I suggest,” he drawled, looking down his nose at her in a way certain to nettle, “that you fetch the magistrate like a good girl and then go about whatever…business a country miss like you should be doing. No doubt there’s a pillow that needs embroidering somewhere?”
Emma’s eyes became slits, and he bit back a satisfied grin. That should send her off in a huff to get her brother.
Yet she visibly dug in her heels and crossed her arms again, pushing her delectable décolletage prominently back into view. A view, of course, that he couldn’t
help but avail himself of. He might be acting a part, might have chosen to remain celibate at least until he put this life behind him, but he was still male.
Emma clenched her jaw. The nerve of the man! How dare this…this perfectly turned-out popinjay come to her home and provoke her? The cad didn’t even have the decency to look her in the eye after insulting her so. And what was he staring at? She followed the path of his eyes, her chin dipping as she looked down to her…
Her cheeks flamed and she hastily dropped her arms. And yet the heat from her face spread down her neck and through her chest. She knew better than to think that Derick actually found her attractive. He certainly never had when they were younger, no matter how she’d tried to get him to notice her. But he’d certainly seemed captivated just then, hadn’t he?
She couldn’t resist a curious peek at his face. But the corners of his eyes drooped along with his mouth in an expression that could only be described as blasé. Her face burned all the more. Had she really expected otherwise?
Blasted, confusing man. Why wouldn’t he just waltz blithely off on his merry way? “You said you have no intention of staying in Derbyshire at all. Why won’t you just leave matters be?”
A tremble rolled through her middle as she considered what was at stake. What an ironic sort of travesty it would be if Derick, who couldn’t be bothered with this village for an age, came back on a lark and discovered her brother’s secret. He could use it to destroy the life she’d worked so hard to fashion for herself after her father’s death, and then he would just trot back to London—or France—or wherever he’d been for the last decade and a half.
Derick raised his chin a notch and stared at her with those unnerving green eyes, suddenly anything but uninterested. “Why do you so badly wish me to?”
The rolling multiplied, magnified. Emma swallowed. That was a line of questioning she had no intention of following.
She couldn’t take the chance that he would puff up with autocratic male pride and act…well, exactly like he was acting now. If he uncovered the truth about her brother, a man like him would think it his duty to take the matter to higher authorities. That was certain to bring her comfortable life crashing down around her. No. She needed to get him out of the house, none the wiser, before he had the opportunity to make trouble.
Emma fisted her hands. “No reason,” she said with a shrug that she suspected made her look like a stiff puppet. “I simply expected you’d be relieved not to have to involve yourself in Molly’s murder. I’m certain you had other plans in mind for your visit—”
“As much as I am enjoying your delightful company, Emma, I insist upon seeing your brother. Is he here or not?”
Emma snapped her mouth shut on a frown. She considered lying, saying George was out in the woods combing the spot where they’d found Molly’s body, as she herself had done this morning, but deceit had never sat well with her…even when she was doing it for good reasons. “Yes. But—”
“Then I will have this conversation with him.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake—” Emma bit her lip as Derick casually brushed nonexistent lint from his finely cut jacket. She couldn’t shake the gnawing sense that he wasn’t quite what he seemed. Something…dangerous lurked just behind his emerald gaze. Emma wondered if other people saw it, or if only she did because they had once been friends of a sort. Or perhaps she only imagined it. It was just…he seemed so different from the boy she’d known. She had learned, as part of her research into the behavior of criminals, that people didn’t change very much once their personalities had developed. Yet her memories of the boy he’d been didn’t match up with the image of a fop that he projected now.
Well, either way, she couldn’t allow him to see George. She’d just have to delay and hope he lost interest. “My brother can’t see you today. He…isn’t well.”
A frown shifted the perfect angles of Derick’s face. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” she hedged. For him, she added silently to quiet her conscience.
“I see,” he said, turning toward the door. “Very well.”
Emma’s stomach unclenched as she took her first deep breath since Perkins had interrupted her with that white linen card. While she regretted that Derick would leave thinking her an awful shrew, at least he was leaving.
“I shall expect to see Lord Wallingford at Aveline Castle in the morning, then,” Derick called over his shoulder.
”That will be quite out of the question.” She hated how the pitch of her voice rose like an aggrieved peahen’s.
Derick turned on his heel, seeming every bit the autocratic nobleman she’d feared. “While I appreciate your assistance last evening,” he said, tossing her earlier words back at her in a thoroughly infuriating way, “investigating murder is a business for men.”
Emma bristled. Of all the— Her worries flew from her mind in her outrage. “I hardly see how one’s gender plays into this. I have handled such matters quite well on my own over the years.” How dare he come to her home, her village, and act as though he owned it? “And I’ll have you know that—”
“You’ve handled what such matters quite well on your own?” Derick’s question cut through her bluster and quite nearly knocked her off her feet.
Cold flowed from her head to her toes as quick and shocking as a spring-fed waterfall.
She’d just given up the game, hadn’t she?
Perhaps not. Her palms turned clammy as she scrambled for a way to recover. “What kind of question is that?” Emma couldn’t help averting her eyes, focusing on the bust of Archimedes to her left. “I do many things well on my own.” She glanced back at him, pasting what she hoped was a look of confused annoyance on her face, hoping he would let the matter drop.
“Such as?”
Emma huffed. “It isn’t relevant.”
But one black brow cocked expectantly.
Her eyes strayed back to the bust. “I m-manage the house, assist my brother…” This was getting worse and worse. A pox on all perceptive people, and a pox squared on her foolish tongue.
“We’ve strayed from the point. A murder—or any other misdeed—in our village is a business for those of us who live here, who have a vested interest in each other.”
A corner of Derick’s mouth kicked up in…amusement? This wasn’t at all funny. Who did he think he was?
“Not for some interloper who hasn’t deigned to grace us with his presence in fourteen years,” she accused. Oh, what could she say to get him to leave? “Not even for his own mother’s funeral.”
The half smile froze on his face, then began to twitch, hovering on his mouth like an angry hummingbird briefly before his features went completely smooth.
Emma held her breath as gooseflesh popped over her skin. Oh, she’d gone too far. Certainly she had wondered at Derick’s conspicuous absence all these years, had condemned him in her own mind as she’d watched his mother suffer over her son’s desertion, had been appalled when Derick had not seen fit to pay his respects even after the woman was dead. But she hadn’t intended to hurl such an ugly volley. She’d just wanted him to depart, leave her and George alone with their secret. She held her breath. Guilt choked her, warring with her hope that he’d been offended enough to retreat.
“You’re a terrible liar, Emma,” he said instead, his voice all smooth, dark silk, as were his movements as he advanced upon her.
Her eyes snapped to his hard gaze and she tried to escape it, escape him, backing herself up until her rump bumped the arm of a settee.
“Your lips say one thing,” he murmured, standing so close that bergamot and bay tickled her nose, “but your eyes tell a completely different story.” Derick leaned forward, forcing her backward as his long arms came around her in a flash. He planted them on the settee, on either side of her hips.
Emma’s heart fluttered in her throat. She was trapped. No ducking to escape him this time, no matter how much taller he was. Her breath came fast
and hard…not from fear, exactly, though there was that. But from something more like…excitement?
What was wrong with her? She had to put some space between them and get control of herself before this damnable attraction she obviously still felt for Derick ruined everything. Emma braced her own arms beside her hips to the inside of his and arched back until she felt her spine might snap.
Derick’s gaze dropped low, melted into a green pool. It traveled up over her mouth to her eyes, holding her entranced. “Give me the truth now,” he coaxed, and she felt his voice almost as if it were a warm finger brushing her cheek. It made her want to spill every secret she’d ever had. “What are you hiding, Emma?”
She wanted to give him a tart answer, but it was as if he had immobilized her entirely with some unseen energy that held her in his thrall. Emma swallowed, hard, in a desperate attempt to wet her suddenly parched mouth.
Derick leaned closer, taking in a deep breath. Emma frowned as fiercely as she could muster, but he gave her no quarter. “You know, Emma, I can stay here all day…”
She imagined tucking her knees and rolling backward over the arm of the settee to escape him. She might take him by surprise, but she knew better than to think she’d get far. She would only make a fool of herself and make the situation more unbearable.
There was no way around it. Now he would learn everything, and the life she’d come to hold dear would be at his mercy. Emma heaved a choppy sigh. “I am the magistrate,” she admitted, her arms trembling from the strain of leaning away from him. But her voice didn’t warble, and she took strength from that.
If she had to tell him all, she intended to do it on her own two feet. Emma pushed off from the cushion in an attempt to straighten, but Derick had pressed her into an awkward position. She had no choice but to relent and fall back again, except to—