by Heather Snow
“I know why you killed her, Marwell,” Derick said in his best man-to-man voice. “Hell, I might have killed her, too, when I found out she was spreading her legs for another man.”
Surprise flicked over Marwell’s boxy features an instant before his jaw tightened to granite and his dull eyes turned bright with righteous anger.
Derick ignored Emma’s delayed gasp, noting only a moment of amusement that her literal mind had finally worked out what he’d been implying. He’d bet she’d had to picture it first.
Instead, he focused on Marwell.
“You bastard,” Marwell spat, his fists clenching in rage as he took an ominous step toward Derick. “I don’t care if you are a bloody lord of the realm. You deserves a beatin’ for talking ’bout my Molly so!”
Derick held his ground. It wasn’t Marwell’s rage that interested him—it was the surprise that had skittered over his features before the anger set in. Over the years, Derick had learned that surprise was the hardest emotion to fake. Oh, guilty people acted surprised all the time—it was the logical emotion to show first. But they usually held the expression just a mite too long when it was consciously done. True surprise was there and gone in an instant, an honest reaction.
“Derick!” It seemed Emma finally found her voice. “How could you—”
“Molly was strangled, Marwell,” Derick said blandly, knowing he was pushing the man, but it was when men were pushed that they showed their true character. “The life choked out of her with bare hands. A personal death, a passionate one. One committed by a lover, not a stranger.”
The man blanched.
“What? Did you find out your girl had a bit on the side and snap? Couldn’t blame you if you did.” Derick coaxed the man, looking for that hint of relief he’d seen on many a traitor’s face when they thought he understood them. It should translate to anyone guilty of wrongdoing.
But Marwell just crumpled in anguish like Jack’s giant falling from the beanstalk. “I didn’t. I c—” He choked on a sob. “I couldn’t have.”
Derick relented. If he were in the field and had to make a snap judgment, he would bet Marwell wasn’t their man.
He moved toward the younger man and placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning close. “I’m sorry to put you through that, but I had to know.”
Marwell’s head snapped up. Brown eyes glittering with unshed tears pinned Derick and an unspoken promise passed between the two men. Marwell straightened, his jaw firming with the knowledge that Derick would be ruthless in his pursuit of Molly’s killer. The butcher’s apprentice nodded once and gathered himself.
When Marwell closed the study door behind him, Emma whirled on Derick in fury.
“How dare you say such horrid things?” she cried, her skirts still twisting around her ankles from the haste of her spin. “We have no evidence that Molly was…was…Well, you know, what you said. What kind of a man are you?”
“The kind who does what he must to get to the truth.”
“Including lie?” she sputtered.
“Without question.”
The look of shock that froze Emma’s features definitely wasn’t faked. She was appalled. Derick cursed under his breath. He hadn’t meant to say anything like that, even if it was true. He needed Emma to trust him, damn it.
“I don’t understand how you could impugn Molly’s character in such a way.” Emma’s shoulders slumped.
Derick heaved a breath. “What I said about strangulation being a crime of passion is true,” he said. “Particularly when it’s done face-to-face, as Molly’s was.” Indeed, people in his business would typically garrote a victim from behind. “The killer is almost always a husband or lover, so it was a logical assumption—one I wouldn’t be surprised if it bears out yet. As jealousy is a prime motive, I had to see how Marwell reacted to such a charge.”
“You were fishing…”
“Yes.”
“And?” Emma challenged.
“And I’m pretty sure he didn’t do it.”
“Well, I was certain he didn’t do it days ago.” Emma shook her head. “I would never have agreed to let you upset Molly’s family and friends if I’d known you planned to—to badger and insult them!” She squared her shoulders, aiming them directly at him as if preparing herself for battle. “I will not allow you to do so again.”
It was high time for little Pygmy to learn that he had no intention of always letting her be the boss. It would be easier for her in the long run. “You labor under the misapprehension that you can stop me, Emma.”
Her amber eyes flashed a warning and her fists clenched by her side.
“Besides—” Derick was quick to defuse the situation. “I have no intention of using the same methods on Molly’s parents or girlfriends. It’s doubtful that one of them could be the killer, anyway. Strangulation takes almost brute strength. No, I’ll try instead to coax information from them.”
Emma huffed. “Well, if you think I’m going to keep to our bargain, you’re mad. It was made in bad faith. You said nothing about badgering—”
Derick took a quick step forward, bringing his right hand up to cup Emma’s face, his thumb brushing over her lips. He gave her a hard glare, capturing her amber gaze, enjoying when her eyes widened in alarm. “Oh no, Emma. I said I would glean information you hadn’t—I said nothing about how. And believe me”—his other hand came up, tracing along her jaw—“when I do, you will be kissing me. Hard. Hot. And long.”
Emma’s lower lip trembled and Derick felt an answering tremor deep in his gut.
“Now go out and fetch Molly’s parents,” he ordered, surprised at how gruff his voice had gone. “I’ll wait here.” He needed the space to cool himself.
Emma backed away, fleeing the room as if her skirts were on fire. And by God, if she burned as hot as he did, they probably were.
An hour later, he had thoroughly cooled. After interviewing Molly’s parents and most of the household staff, who had known her best, Derick had learned absolutely nothing new. Emma’s posture, he’d noted, had become more and more smug with each failure. Oh, how he’d love to kiss that superior little smirk off her face—but he wouldn’t be getting the chance if he couldn’t learn anything new from this last interview. Maybe it was for the best, despite how much he’d found he wanted that kiss. He didn’t need the complication.
Three housemaids stood nervously before him, eyes downcast. So far, they hadn’t been able to tell him anything he hadn’t heard before. “Think back to the night Molly disappeared,” he said. “Was she acting oddly? Was anything out of the ordinary?”
“No, sir,” the three of them chimed, almost in unison.
Damnation. Derick dropped his gaze, thinking.
And then he saw it.
The maid in the middle had her feet pointed toward the door.
Adrenaline shot through him. She was lying!
“So none of you knew Molly was planning to go out that night?”
Three capped heads shook vehemently, but one set of toes strayed farther toward the exit.
Got you.
Derick eased back, pulling his shoulders into a completely nonthreatening stance. “Thank you, ladies. You may return to your duties.”
Emma nodded her agreement and moved to usher the girls from the room.
“Except you, Agnes.”
The little blonde froze, her hazel eyes darting first to Emma, then back to him.
Emma’s eyes narrowed on him for a long moment, but finally she said, “It’s all right, Agnes.”
The maid’s eyes implored her friends to stay with her, but the other two girls scampered from the room without looking back.
“Please.” Derick indicated the settee before him. “Sit.”
Agnes did, tucking her skirts nervously beneath her.
Derick dragged an ottoman over, positioning it scant feet from the settee, and lowered himself onto it, his knees spread so that he could lean forward and prop his elbows upon them. He kept his voice so
othing, like conversational velvet. “Molly was going somewhere that night, wasn’t she, Agnes?”
The maid swallowed audibly.
“You know where, don’t you?”
Emma, he noted, was leaning in as well from her position at the side of the settee, her gaze fixed on the maid. “Please, Agnes, if you know something you must tell us.”
“B-but she’d be so ashamed, Molly would,” Agnes whispered. “If’n everyone were to find out.”
“Shame is for the living, Agnes,” Derick said. “Molly would want justice now.”
The maid covered her face with shaking hands, pinkened from hard work, that muffled her soft sobs.
Derick leaned back, giving the girl some space. He glanced up. Emma was staring at him, her lips pressed in a grim line. He stared back. Her eyes shone with admiration. And concession. He’d impressed her, finally, and it felt ridiculously satisfying.
“She went to be with her lover.” Agnes’ voice broke the connection between Derick and Emma.
“Marwell, you mean?” Emma asked, her brows dipping.
Agnes cast her eyes down, giving a slight negative shake of her head. “’Twas Thomas Harding, m’lady. Fr-from Wallingford Manor.”
Emma gasped.
“Your footman,” Agnes finished.
Chapter Eight
“We wanted to marry.” Thomas Harding stood stoically in the drawing room of Wallingford Manor, his hands clasped behind his back. Emma watched him carefully. A head shorter than Derick, blond where Derick was dark, soft where Derick was hard. When she compared the two, Harding appeared…slight, young.
He did not, however, appear to be giving anything away that she could tell.
Emma turned her attention to Derick, trying to see where his eyes were focused. What was he looking for? Because clearly there was something to this body-communicating nonsense, and it was a language Derick understood. And one she desperately wanted to learn. She detested this feeling of inferiority.
Emma wondered just how Derick had learned it—it certainly wasn’t something routinely taught at Eton, she’d wager.
“If you wished to marry each other so badly,” Derick said in his blasé drawl, “perhaps you might explain why Molly was betrothed to Marwell?”
The footman’s blue eyes flickered for a moment, but otherwise the young man didn’t move a muscle. Unless she missed it?
“Her parents pushed her toward the butcher,” Thomas said. “Wanted her out of service. Marwell already has a nice cottage in the village. He’ll have his own shop soon. Me, I’m just a lowly footman.”
“Did Molly’s parents know about you?” Emma asked. She hated to think she’d missed that, too.
“No. Molly and me, we knew they’d never give their blessing. So we tried just not to think on it, to enjoy every day as it came and not worry about the future.”
“And when she married?” Derick asked casually.
Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know if she would have gone through with it.”
Derick’s nonchalance vanished, his voice and stance suddenly hard. “And now you’ll never know, will you?”
Emma flinched at the harsh statement, but Thomas didn’t so much as blink.
She remained quiet through the rest of the interview, relieved for once that she wasn’t required to say anything. Hearing that Molly’s last hours were spent beneath her very own roof turned Emma’s stomach.
Just as shocking was the change in Derick. Coldly relentless, he drew out the details of Molly and Thomas’ liaisons with skill and efficiency. He was nothing like the fop he’d been these past few days. Emma had the eerie feeling that she was finally glimpsing the real Derick. Had he been playing a part all this time? Why would he do such a thing?
Thomas held up well throughout the whole ordeal. She would have been in tears ages ago under Derick’s onslaught, and she rarely cried. But Thomas showed no more emotion than the Elgin Marbles. He admitted nothing more than the affair, no matter how hard Derick pressed him.
“I kissed Molly good-bye, and she slipped out of my room to return to the castle just before dawn, like always,” he repeated, nearly word for word for the fourth time.
“If you say.” Derick moved to stand directly in front of the footman. “Hold your hands out in front of you like so.” Derick raised his own hands, palms facing forward, fingers splayed.
At that, Thomas blinked. “W-why?”
“Just do it,” Derick growled.
Thomas brought his arms around. His hands were pale but powerful-looking, his fingers long. Emma couldn’t stop an involuntary shiver. Long enough to have easily wrapped around Molly’s throat, leaving the marks they’d found.
Derick must have thought so, too. A tic formed in his jaw. “Pack your belongings, Harding. I want you gone from this house. Immediately.”
Emma’s eyes flew to Derick. While she didn’t relish having a potential killer in her employ, Derick had gone too far. She stepped forward and put a hand on his arm. “May I speak with you in the hallway?”
Derick’s head turned and he narrowed his eyes. His features seemed carved from limestone and he stood as hard and immovable as it, too.
“Now.”
Derick followed her without protest, though the dark expression that flashed over his face suggested he was holding one back…barely. When they reached the hall, he ordered Perkins into the drawing room. “Don’t let Harding out of your sight.”
The butler glanced at Emma, a worried frown tugging at his lips, his brows rising as if asking for her approval. She gave a sharp nod.
When she and Derick were alone, Emma crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you think you are doing?”
The tic in Derick’s jaw jumped even more noticeably. “I am removing a threat from your home.”
“That’s not for you to decide.”
A sharp inhalation made Derick’s nostrils flare. “You think not?”
Emma couldn’t help drawing in her own breath. The very air around Derick hummed with an energy that caused her skin to tingle. What on earth had him so incensed?
“Someone has to watch out for you, Emma.” The concern in his voice coated her in an oddly delicious way.
Worry for her had wrought this remarkable change in Derick? A slow heat took Emma by surprise. No one had ever shown such upset on her account.
His next words doused the pleasant warmth before it could spread too far.
“As your brother isn’t capable and you clearly don’t have the common sense the good Lord gave a flea, I suppose it will have to be me.”
Emma gasped and thumped her hand against her chest. “I’ll have you know, Derick Aveline, that I have intelligence in clubs.”
“Clubs?” Derick shook his head slowly. “That’s spades, Emma. You have intelligence in spades.” A low chuckle rumbled his chest. “Unruffle your feathers, Pygmy,” he murmured, his voice laced with a wry amusement and something else. Affection? “It’s not an insult. Intelligence and common sense are far from the same thing.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Don’t call me that. And I’m not going to just toss Thomas out. I shouldn’t have to point out that he may very well be innocent.”
“He may,” Derick agreed, but his voice had gone frigid again. “He may also be a cold-blooded killer. So either he leaves”—Derick rose to his full height and actually flung an arm out to point toward the grand staircase—“or you march yourself upstairs and order your things packed, because you are not sleeping under the same roof as that man.”
Emma scoffed. “Oh?” She planted her hands at acute angles on her hips. She had no patience for his high-handedness. “And just whose roof would you have me sleep under, then?”
Derick closed the remaining distance between them faster than she could rattle off the square root of pi. Emma backed away, bringing her hands in front of her in a halting gesture—but not quickly enough. His arms closed around her, hauling her tightly to him. Her thighs crashed against his as she found her han
ds pinned against his chest.
“Mine.”
Derick’s heartbeat thumped erratically against her palms and a shiver coursed down her body in counterpoint to his hands, which skimmed upward to capture her face.
The lips that met hers were hard, demanding. Hot. Emma whimpered, not in distress but in sheer overwhelmed sensation. Derick surrounded her. His size dwarfed her, as usual, but it was as if she were also wrapped in his being, his experience.
He backed her against the flocked wallpaper, using his body to anchor her for his kiss. Thrills shot up Emma’s center, and her breath caught in her throat. The only coherent thought in her mind was Finally. She’d been kissed before, of course—she’d been engaged, after all. But finally, after years of dreaming about it, she would know what it was like to be kissed by Derick Aveline.
But he seemed to want something far different from the chaste pecks she’d experienced with Mr. Smith-Barton. And she wanted to give it to him, only she wasn’t certain what “it” was. She pressed her closed lips against his with as much frantic energy as she possessed, but all it seemed to do was frustrate him, if the groan that ripped from the back of his throat was any evidence.
His thumbs moved to her chin, tilting her head back as he gently parted her lips. Emma had a mere fraction of a second to wonder at that before he sealed his mouth over hers. Shock rippled through her as his warm tongue slipped between her lips and rubbed along her own. Shock and heat, then chills. More heat. A curious string pulled longitudinally through her middle, tugging at her breasts and a lower, more sensitive spot that turned her legs to pudding. She thrust her arms up and around Derick’s neck, using him to steady herself.
She opened wider, giving him more access, sending her tongue on a foray of its own.
Her enthusiasm seemed to incite him further. His kiss became rougher, his breathing more ragged. Emma reveled in it, reveled in the fact that somehow, some way, something in her had effected this change in him.
“Christ, Emma.” Derick groaned, pulling his lips from hers to burn a fiery trail down her neck. Oh, it was so much better than she could ever have imagined in all those hours, days, months she’d dreamt of being in his arms. Her chest hitched. It became increasingly hard to draw breath, and when his hand cupped her breast, kneading it with firm, rhythmic squeezes, she stopped breathing altogether.