Sweet Deception

by Heather Snow

  The wind couldn’t have blown them open because the doors opened outward. How about a faulty latch, then, allowing them to crack just enough that the outside wind could have caught them? Emma pressed against the doors hard. Harder. But the latch held.

  Someone had deliberately tried to come into Wallingford Manor through the parlor doors. But who? Derick? Or someone else?

  Your brother is the most likely source of the kind of military secrets that were passed to the French.

  She’d been so upset tonight that she’d never pressed Derick on the identity of the traitor, or indeed much else about his true reason for being here. All he’d really told her was that he believed the traitor to be dead and that he must have had an accomplice.

  A horrible thought occurred to her. What if the traitor had coaxed information from her brother? His accomplice would surely know that. What if the man saw her brother as a loose end, one that needed tying off?

  Her heart pounded furiously, as if it could break free of the grip of her sudden fear.

  Get ahold of yourself, Emma. You’re jumping to conclusions. Besides, Derick had said her brother was the most likely source, not that he actually had been the source. She’d learned a hard lesson tonight, and that was that Derick was very specific in his word choices.

  Occasionally I was called upon to terminate those who’d divulged England’s secrets.

  Emma’s blood ran cold in her veins, chased by a shiver. No. No. No! She refused to believe that Derick had any intention to harm George. After all, hadn’t he said the actual traitor was dead? If her brother was involved, it was because someone else had taken advantage of him, not because of any malfeasance on his part. Surely Derick saw that.

  Still, she wasn’t taking any chances with George’s life. She locked the French doors, then hurried back to George, who seemed to be dozing off again. She wheeled him around. “Come, George. Let’s get you back to your room.”

  She woke Perkins, who was duly mortified when she explained how she’d found George. She ordered the butler to assign their burliest footman to stand guard outside her brother’s door. Then she asked him to wake the housekeeper and canvass the house to ensure that all doors and windows were secure. She couldn’t give him an explanation, and Perkins—bless the man—didn’t ask for one.

  Hopefully the stable master wouldn’t ask for one either when she demanded that her horse be readied at near midnight.

  She intended to demand some explanations of her own, from Derick—lateness of the hour be damned.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “What do you mean, Harding’s not here?” Derick glared at Wallingford Manor’s stable master. Sweat glistened on the older man’s prominent brow in the yellow glow of lantern light.

  McCandless stood rigid, his forearms and the muscles where his neck met his shoulders bulging defensively. “I said I’d keep watch over him, but this ain’t no jail, m’lord. Only so much I can do. He must’ve slipped past me head groom while I was with you and Miss Wallingford out in the woods. Took ’is belongings and everything.”

  “Damnation,” Derick muttered. Harding was looking more and more like the man who’d assisted his mother in her traitorous scheme. After all, his mother had been dead before Farnsworth was killed, so she couldn’t have done it. But if Farnsworth had been onto her trail, he may also have learned of Harding’s involvement and become a threat to the footman. Now Derick had to wonder if the poor maid, Molly, had been his victim not because of jealousy but because of something she might have known, since she had been a maid in his mother’s household in addition to being Harding’s lover.

  “Do you think Thomas was the one that killed that man?” the servant asked. For all his bulk and bluster, McCandless looked pale and shaken. After their gruesome errand in the forest, Derick couldn’t help but sympathize with him.

  “I don’t know,” Derick said, but let his voice imply otherwise.

  The stable master’s lips thinned into a grim line. Let McCandless think what he would. Word would spread through the town now, probably long before sunrise. Derick needed to question Harding again and that would only happen if the footman was caught and turned in. The villagers would keep a closer eye out for the escaped servant if they truly considered him dangerous—as he very well might be.

  Now that Derick knew Farnsworth was dead, and had been killed here in Derbyshire, this entire mission took on a sharper edge. Someone had committed murder to protect himself less than a month ago. Whether the killer was an accomplice or the actual traitor, his crimes were no longer in the distant past. The situation had become imminently deadly.

  “If Harding shows up, or if anyone sees him, be sure to send word to Miss Wallingford and myself right away,” Derick instructed McCandless as he strode out of the stables and into the night. He headed toward the manor. Harding could be a potential threat and Emma would need to be informed of the danger. Besides, he wanted to get to work solving the rest of this mess. He doubted she’d sleep much anyway, after the day she’d had. He knew he wouldn’t.

  God, he’d never forget the way she’d curled into herself and staggered away from him, out of the light, like a wounded animal. He hated that he’d done that to her—hated that he’d probably make things worse for her by disturbing her yet again tonight. She must still be reeling. If only he could give her more time—time to use that remarkable memory of hers to sift through everything that had happened, every word spoken between them since his return—maybe she’d see that his intentions had never been to hurt her.

  Derick snorted. As if that mattered. He knew better than most what the road to hell was paved with, and it wasn’t the gravel crunching loudly beneath his boots. He had hurt her. Terribly. The best thing he could do for Emma now was to finish this and leave her in peace.

  Rather than wake the household, he decided to enter through the back kitchens and search her out. He quietly stepped onto the stoop and reached for the door. He turned the knob, but it wouldn’t give. Damnation. He jiggled the knob again, to the same result. He bent down to examine the lock. It didn’t look to be too complicated. He supposed he could pick it—

  The door jerked open, and Derick stumbled backward, nearly slipping off of the low lip of the stoop as he tried to straighten and right himself all at once. Who—

  “Emma?” Silhouetted in the low light from the doorway, she looked absurdly beautiful, given that she still wore the dirt-smudged coat she’d been wearing in the forest and that several locks of her hair had slipped from the simple knot she’d tied it in. She also looked exhausted as hell.

  And furious.

  “So it was you!” Emma took an aggressive step out onto the stoop, leaving Derick no choice but to retreat further. Fire flashed in her amber eyes, but relief did as well. He wasn’t sure what to make of either reaction.

  “Pardon?”

  “Why are you trying to sneak into my house?” Her hands fisted by her sides and she shifted on her feet. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought Emma was preparing to do battle.

  “I was being courteous,” he replied defensively. “I needed to talk with you and didn’t wish to wake your entire household. Nor did I think you’d appreciate me coming in your bedroom window.”

  “If it was me you wanted to talk to, why didn’t you stay in the parlor just now instead of running away when I came in?” Her eyes narrowed on him ominously, as if she’d caught him in a lie. “Or is it really my brother you’re after?”

  It seemed Emma had picked up on his interrogation tactics well. But he hardly heard past the first part of her accusation. “There was someone in your parlor?”

  Unease focused his senses when she nodded, putting his instincts on alert. Had it been Harding? The idea of a potential killer anywhere near Emma made his mouth go dry and his blood boil. “It wasn’t me, Emma. I’ve been at the stables, talking with McCandless.”

  Emma had relaxed her combative stance, but apprehension quickly clouded her expression and she worri
ed her lower lip between her teeth.

  “Tell me exactly what you saw,” he commanded.

  Emma’s nose scrunched. “It’s more what I heard,” she said. “I was heading for the parlor for a nightcap, when the French doors creaked.”

  Derick relaxed a little. She hadn’t actually seen someone. Emma had been through a lot today. In fact, now that she’d lost some of her earlier steam, he noticed that her hand was trembling. She could just be overwrought.

  “I assumed it must be you,” she said, “wanting to finish our discussion from earlier.” She shook her head slowly. “My mind making order out of chaos, I suppose. But when I entered the room, the doors were wide open.”

  “They were probably just left—”

  But Emma was shaking her head. “No. Perkins routinely locks up at night. Nor could the wind have blown them open. I tested the latch myself.”

  Damn it.

  “I did call out, to who I thought was you, before I entered the room. Maybe I frightened him away.” She was nodding now, her voice stronger. “Or he could have already gone and just not closed the doors behind him.”

  Or have come earlier and still be in the house. Derick didn’t wish to frighten Emma any more than necessary. However, he’d heard enough. He moved past her and into the kitchen, heading for the parlor. He snagged her hand as he brushed by, pulling her along with him. “Come.” He’d be damned if he let her out of his sight until he was certain she was safe.

  “Derick!” She yanked her hand, trying to pull away from him, but he didn’t relinquish his grasp. She huffed behind him. “Do slow down, at least,” she grumbled.

  He didn’t, but he did shorten his strides to accommodate her shorter legs.

  He found the parlor empty but well lit by a bright fire and flickering wall sconces. Oddly, Emma no longer tried to pull her hand from his, even when they stood before the closed French doors on the far side of the parlor. If anything, her grip tightened. After all that had happened between them today, it humbled Derick that she found comfort in him. He squeezed back.

  Which must have broken the spell, because Emma snatched her hand away, curling her fist and tucking it against her middle. Derick’s palm chilled, leaving a cold ache from the loss of her touch. He cleared his throat against a peculiar tightness.

  “Well. Let’s see if we can find any evidence that someone was here.” He unlocked and opened the doors, stepping out into the night. He examined the doors first. He didn’t see any pry marks near the handles, but he knew from experience that the locks on doors such as these were child’s play. He scanned the ground. A small courtyard flanked the parlor, the stone thwarting his efforts to find any footprints.

  As Derick reached the edge of the stone, the shadows of the night made it too difficult to see anything else. “Emma,” he called behind him. “Bring a lamp.”

  Moments later, she joined him. When he explained what he was looking for, she bent to hold the light low as they walked the perimeter of the courtyard.

  “There,” she said, pointing at a dark spot on the stone in the far corner. As they drew closer, the spot morphed into part of a muddy footprint. Definitely a man-sized print, and not completely dry. In these cool temperatures, though, it could have been made anytime in the last few hours. It pointed toward the house.

  Emma held the light farther in front of them. A stride behind the first print was another, better-defined one, as if the mud had worn off the boot the closer the wearer got to the house, but the prints disappeared completely long before he’d reached the door.

  When they came to the edge of the courtyard, two very definite sets of footprints—one coming and one going—were visible in the damp ground just off the stone.

  “It seems as if whoever it was went back the way they came,” Emma said.

  “Yes.”

  Derick looked out over the dark lawn. They certainly could have come from the stables, but a few yards away was the gravel drive, which would obscure any direction the intruder might have gone past that. Derick would try to follow the prints later, when Emma wasn’t with him, but he doubted they’d be of any use.

  He took the lamp from her and squatted to get a better look at the prints. They appeared to be those of an average-sized man, which Harding was. Or possibly— “You’re certain you haven’t come this way today? Tromping around in your men’s boots?”

  Emma shook her head. “No. I tend to exit from the kitchens. But you make a good point. It could have been anyone. We should be careful not to jump to any misguided conclusions.” Her voice dipped, and he had to strain to hear what she said next. “A painful lesson I’m only recently learning.”

  Whether she’d aimed that dagger at him or herself, it pierced Derick just the same. When he glanced up at her, she wasn’t looking at him at all, however. Her gaze was fixed off in the distance. In the darkness he couldn’t be sure, but it seemed more like she was lost in thought. Or memory.

  An unfamiliar longing bade him to rise to his feet, to encircle Emma in his arms and pull her into his embrace. To rub his hands soothingly over her back, to tuck her head beneath his chin and simply breathe her in.

  But he did not. Any tenderness on his part would be a stopgap at best, a temporary balm that she might not even welcome anymore. No. The best thing he could do for Emma—hell, the best thing he could do for himself—would be to get her mind back on their investigation. Because once it was finished, he would leave. And with every mile farther he got from England’s shores, this awful ache would lessen until it faded away entirely. For both of them.

  He handed the lamp back to Emma and stood. “It could have been Harding.” He filled her in on the footman’s disappearance.

  Emma grimaced, placing her fingers on her forehead as if to press away the beginnings of a megrim. “George was asleep in the parlor when I got there. Do you think this intruder—Harding or otherwise—could have meant to harm him?”

  “It’s possible. I’m sure word has already spread that we found a body in the woods. If the man sees your brother as a liability…” Or, worse yet, what if the man now saw Emma as a threat because she would be investigating the murder? The thought chilled Derick. Damnation. Well, he’d just have to send to Aveline Castle for a few of his things. He wasn’t going to leave Emma here unprotected.

  For her part, he could see her mind whirling, the thoughts churning in her amber gaze, the questions tumbling about. He waited for her to voice them.

  But for once she didn’t. The silence grew, awkward in a way it had never been between them. It left him ill at ease and self-conscious, like he hadn’t felt since he’d been a callow youth, or at the least since his unseasoned early days as a spy.

  Then Emma gave a decisive nod and turned on her heel, striding back toward the parlor.

  Derick followed, but she didn’t stop once they reached the house. Instead, her step quickened as she hurried through the parlor, down the hallway and toward the staircase. Derick caught her elbow as she reached the third stair. “Where are you going?”

  She half turned on the step and stared down her nose at him. ’Twas disconcerting for a man of his height, even though the third step barely put her half a head above him. Still, he hadn’t been at this particular disadvantage since he was a boy. It was more than just their positions that made him feel so on edge, and he knew it. His hand fell away from Emma’s arm. Everything that had happened between them today, everything that had been revealed, everything that had been touched…That was what truly left him out of sorts.

  “I am going to my study to pore through my files,” she said, her voice like he’d never heard it. Devoid of emotion. Not matter-of-fact, as she often was about things, but strangely…detached.

  It saddened him and filled him with envy at the same time. Emma, it seemed, had donned the cloak of efficiency, much as she had earlier in the forest. It was a garment he knew well, having masked himself behind it many a time to get through a mission. So why did it elude him today, leaving him f
eeling so exposed? So raw and uncertain?

  “Had I found Farnsworth on my own, not knowing what I do now, I would have classified your agent’s death as ‘suspicious,’” she said. “I think it’s time that I pull the records of other such deaths and see whether I can find any similarities between them that might point us in a definitive direction.”

  Derick nodded his agreement, relieved she’d said “us.” He’d been afraid he would have to force her cooperation after all that had happened between them. But his little Pygmy was proving to be made of sterner stuff, wasn’t she?

  Still. If he, as a more experienced man in matters such as these, was struggling with how he felt…“You’ll be all right, Emma?” he asked softly, as much for his own sake as for hers. “Us working together, after…?”

  Her chin trembled. It was barely noticeable, a tiny ripple in an otherwise calm sea, but Derick saw it. Felt it deep in his gut. Wished he could comfort her. Hell, comfort them both. Standing as they were, with her three steps above him, she was at the perfect height for him to clasp her about the waist and drag her to him. The desire nearly overwhelmed his resolve to let her be.

  But then her delicate chin firmed. “I will be more than all right. My brother is in danger, and I refuse to let him come to harm—whether from some traitor’s accomplice or as a victim of your duty and your probabilities.”

  Her look dared him to refute her. But Derick said nothing. She had him dead to rights. If her brother had turned out to be the traitor, he would have done what he had to. He still would, if it came to that.

  But for the first time in more than a dozen years, rather than pretending to be someone else, he wished he were someone else. Someone who had not seen what he’d seen, not done what he’d done. It could only be for one reason—because he cared what Emma thought of him. Because he wanted her to love him.