by Heather Snow
Who she didn’t know anymore was George, if she ever had. Whether he’d always had murderous potential or whether it had been triggered by the damage to his brain, she couldn’t know. Nor could she trust that George would keep his word. And if Derick tried to rescue her and was hurt—or, God forbid, killed—she’d never forgive herself. George was her brother. She should have seen what he was capable of. Derick shouldn’t have to put himself at risk because she had been blind.
They were less than two feet from the door now. Twenty-two and a half inches, if she had to guess. Emma saw Derick tense, as if he were preparing to strike.
She closed her eyes. She calculated the approximate angle at which George held the gun to her head. She factored in his height compared to hers, and the fact that his strong hand held the gun, whereas his weaker side held her. She envisioned the precise arc of her elbow, where it would strike him, how she would have to move to roll into his weak leg. He might fire, she knew, but she considered how the gun might shift, where her head would be when she rolled, possible angles of the bullet in relation to her. She swiftly tabulated the probabilities of being fatally hit.
She opened her eyes, and a tremble wracked her. Was she seriously considering wagering her life on probabilities?
Derick’s words came back to her. But there were times, in the field, when things weren’t so clear. When I had to go with only what knowledge I had and with my gut. With instinct and probabilities.
Her instincts told her she couldn’t let George get her out the door. Nor could she risk Derick, who looked ready to pounce. This had to end here.
Every muscle in Derick’s body hummed with energy, and adrenaline sang through him as Wallingford dragged Emma inexorably away from him. If he leapt at Wallingford, would the man turn the gun on him to protect himself from attack, or would he simply react and shoot Emma? As close as the gun was pressed to her head, she’d never survive the wound. Christ. He’d never felt so bloody impotent in his life. He’d cornered many a traitor, but he’d never seen the level of desperation and madness in someone’s eyes as he saw in Wallingford’s.
Yet that wasn’t what terrified him the most. His heart had lodged itself in his throat the moment he saw Emma close her eyes, the second he noticed her thumb working furiously on her fingers. She was plotting something, calculating the risk, and that scared the hell out of him.
She moved so quickly, he couldn’t have helped her if he’d tried. All he could do was watch in horrified stillness as it unfolded before him. Emma’s elbow swung in a blur, and then she seemed to throw herself into Wallingford’s right thigh. A roaring boom echoed in the room, and the acrid smell of sulfured gunpowder scented the air.
“Emma!” The cry ripped from Derick’s dry throat as she collapsed. She’d fallen like dead weight, trapping Wallingford’s leg beneath her, and she wasn’t moving.
As he ran toward Emma, some part of him registered that Wallingford was scrambling free, that he’d made it through the door, that he was escaping. But for the first time in his career, Derick let a traitor go without a thought of giving chase. Emma was all that mattered.
He dropped to his knees beside her, scooping her under the shoulders and pulling her into his lap. Her head lolled to the side and gorge rose in Derick’s throat, fighting with the naked fear that strangled him. Christ, so much blood. It covered the side of her face, pooled and matted in her hair, turning the chestnut even darker. The skin not smeared with blood was pale as death.
“Oh God, Emma,” he groaned. This was his fault. He’d made so many mistakes since he’d arrived here, missed so many things wrapped up in his emotions, his memories. Wrapped up in Emma. Had his bloody carelessness cost the woman he loved her life? How would he go on without her?
Emma’s chest rose in a shallow breath. Not much, but he saw it, felt it, and relief crashed over him. The sharp ache that preceded tears twinged inside his throat and chest, and he let them fall hot against his cheeks.
A streak of color flew past him. Derick heard a guttural growl of rage, followed by the sick crunch of one body tackling another somewhere behind him. Moreau. The Frenchman refused to let Wallingford escape justice, it seemed. Wallingford’s shrieks stopped abruptly, and Derick had a brief thought that Moreau could be choking the life out of the man. But he didn’t care. All he cared about was Emma.
He wiped blood from her face with his bare hand, trying to find the wound, but as he swiped at the slippery warmth, more took its place, its coppery smell blending with the metallic taste in his mouth. His hand moved higher into her scalp until he felt torn flesh. He probed gently with his fingers, relying on feel since he couldn’t see the wound through hair and blood.
The wound didn’t feel deep, but rather shallow and long, as if the bullet had grazed her rather than punctured. Oh, thank God. He knew that didn’t mean she was out of the woods, but her chances were a hell of a lot better than if she had a bullet lodged in her brain. Derick eased her gently to the floor and then tugged at his cravat, pressing the linen tightly to Emma’s head to stanch the flow. She didn’t even moan, telling him she was deeply unconscious.
Around him, servants poured into the room, drawn by the gunshot. Behind him, he heard men struggling to drag Moreau off of their master. Perkins dropped to his knees on the other side of Emma’s prone body, and raised a shaky gaze to Derick.
“My lord? What—what happened?”
Derick could hear Moreau howling, having been pulled off of his prey. Wallingford’s choking gasps told him the man still lived. He was sorry for it. Things would have been easier for all of them if Wallingford was dead, especially Emma.
As much as he wished to shut out the world around him and stay with Emma, assure himself that she was all right, that she would live, he couldn’t. If he didn’t deal with this situation, the staff might mistakenly injure Moreau. Wallingford might escape. He caressed Emma’s still face, then ordered Perkins to keep the pressure on her wound. Derick rose and turned, barking orders at the men who battled the struggling Moreau.
“Let that man loose,” he shouted, stepping into the fray to yank Moreau free. When he was assured that the Frenchman was relatively unscathed, Derick turned to Wallingford.
Emma’s brother had been pulled to a seated position. Wallingford Manor’s housekeeper hovered over him, clucking as she examined the angry purple bruises that bloomed on his neck.
Derick slowly, deliberately walked over to Wallingford, his rage growing with every step. He had to yank the leash of his control tighter than he ever had in his life. Everything in him demanded that he knock the solicitous servant out of the way and finish the job Moreau had started. He had to curl his fingers into tight fists to resist the temptation.
He motioned for two of the burlier-looking men. “Detain Lord Wallingford in his rooms,” he commanded. “And post sentries at the doors and windows.”
Several heads turned to Derick, their expressions reflecting various states of confusion and shock. Many glanced over at the still unconscious Emma, then at Moreau and to Wallingford, before settling back on him. He offered no explanations, however, and they didn’t refuse his command.
Derick moved to return to Emma when a hand snaked around his boot, pulling at his ankle.
“Emma?” Wallingford croaked.
Derick turned his gaze to the man, a scathing reply on his tongue, but he held it in. Wallingford’s face was tight with remorse, and his eyes implored for news of his sister. Derick gritted his teeth.
“She lives.”
Relief loosened Wallingford’s features, which fueled Derick’s anger.
“Barely,” he spat. He kicked the man’s hand from his boot. “For your sake, you’d best hope she makes a full recovery, or spending the rest of your life in Newgate will seem like heaven compared to what I’ll do to you.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Derick nodded at the footmen who guarded Wallingford’s bedroom. He couldn’t imagine what the staff must be thinking. Only the fo
ur people who were in the parlor knew exactly what had happened, and it would be best for Emma if it stayed that way. Moreau had promised his silence. Derick had only to take care of Wallingford to ensure that the truth stayed buried, and that was best done while Emma was still unconscious. He prayed she would understand.
Derick silently let himself in.
Emma’s brother paced slowly before the fire in the dimly lit room, the flames casting him in flickering shadows cut by orange light. Wallingford walked stiffly, dragging his right side noticeably, as if the events of the day had taken their toll on his strength, and his shoulders and head hung low, as if all that had happened weighed heavily on more than just his body.
Derick didn’t want to be away from Emma when she woke. He had best get this over with quickly. He came farther into the room, not bothering to conceal his footsteps. Wallingford stopped and turned toward the sound.
“Aveline.” The man sounded tired, much older than his forty-five years, and his voice was tinged with anxiety. “How…how is my sister?”
Now that the madness had left Wallingford’s eyes, he looked innocent. Fragile, even. After years of reading people, Derick knew the man’s concern was genuine. He took some pity on him.
“She’s breathing steadily and her heartbeat is strong,” he replied. Yet his voice roughened with anger as he continued. “She hasn’t woken yet, but the doctor says that’s not uncommon. The force of the bullet bruised her severely. Taking into account the shock she’s had today and the blood loss…it’s no wonder she is slow to wake.”
Wallingford dropped his head. “But she’ll recover?”
“She should. The doctor says much depends on whether she’s bruised internally as well as externally. I should know in a day or two.”
Derick very deliberately didn’t say “we.” Wallingford wouldn’t be around to find out if Derick had his way.
The man swallowed audibly. Perhaps he’d understood. Derick hoped to hell he had.
“How did you figure it out?” Wallingford asked. “If you only discovered the body in the woods was a War Department agent yesterday, how in the hell did you trace that to me, and so damned fast? Emma didn’t know, but you did. I saw it in your eyes.”
Derick considered letting the man die without ever knowing the answer, but decided against it. “Because I came here suspecting you.” He gave Wallingford a brief but concise accounting of exactly who he was and everything that had happened, every bit of evidence the Crown had on him. He wanted him to understand that there was no way out for him.
“It was brilliant, sending you,” Wallingford murmured. “When you were spending so much time with my sister, I just thought you were developing a tendre for her, or perhaps rekindling an old one. God knows she’s loved you forever.” A rueful smile, if you could call it that, lifted one side of his mouth. “I never suspected you were really here for me.”
“I do love your sister,” Derick stated. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because despite what had happened this afternoon, he could see that George Wallingford cared for Emma in his own way. “I intend to marry her.”
The shorter man stared into Derick’s eyes for a long moment, then nodded. “I’m glad she’ll be taken care of.” Wallingford tunneled his fingers through his thinning brown hair. “What happens now?” he asked soberly.
Now was the part where Derick would normally interrogate a traitor before his or her execution, extracting every bit of information he could. But Emma was lying upstairs and he wanted nothing more than to be done with this awful business and start a new life with her when she awoke. So he intended to ask Wallingford only three questions.
“Thomas Harding,” Derick said. “Do I need to continue to hunt him as a murderer?”
Wallingford turned his face away. “No. I killed the maid. She—she happened across me while I was out of my chair. She was sneaking away from a lovers’ tryst with Harding in the hours before dawn. That’s when I would strengthen my legs…when no one was around to see me. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Derick clenched his fists. Bloody senseless. Wallingford deserved to die for that alone. But he needed two more questions answered. “My mother. What happened to her?”
Wallingford wouldn’t even look at him. “She saw me strangle the agent who came after me. I’d received word, you see, from my contact in France, to be on my guard. So when the stranger came snooping around, I took no chances…I took him by surprise, instead. It was…unfortunate that Vivienne happened to be coming to see me that day. She fled, and at first I let her go. I mean, I loved her in my own way, and I thought she loved me. I don’t even think she knew at the time that I’d seen her, so I waited to see what she would do. But then, paranoia set in and I went to talk with her. We…argued, and in the end…I didn’t trust her to keep my secret.”
A quiet fury roiled just beneath Derick’s skin. His mother must have been terrified in the last days, moments, of her life. Whatever her faults, she hadn’t deserved such an end. None of Wallingford’s victims had. Wallingford probably deserved a worse end than he was going to get. But first Derick needed to know one last thing.
“Look at me, Wallingford,” he ordered. When the man complied, Derick said, “Your sister. Do you love her?”
Wallingford’s face crumpled. “I do.”
Derick believed him.
So he walked over to the bed and leaned against it. He lifted his heel, pulled it across the opposite knee and flicked the catch on his boot. “I love her, too. And for some misguided reason, she loves you.” Derick put his fingers inside the small compartment, pulling out the vial of last resort he’d carried for just over thirteen years now. Its contents would still be potent, he knew. And he didn’t need it anymore.
“I’m sure you’ve gathered that part of my duty to the Crown is to terminate the traitors I run to ground.”
Wallingford closed his eyes, even as he nodded.
“But I don’t want that standing between me and my wife,” Derick said. “So I would let her decide. You know she’d choose for you to live.” Derick closed the compartment in his boot and put his foot back onto the floor. “You’d be turned over to the Crown, sent up for trial. Your family’s reputation—Emma’s reputation—would be dragged through the mud. It would be awful for her.” Derick rolled the vial slowly between his palms. “She’ll have me to help her through, but you know she’ll suffer for it.”
Wallingford covered his face with both shaking hands.
“Or you can take this,” Derick said, holding the tiny clear vial between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s fast-acting, and better than you deserve.”
A quiet sob escaped from Wallingford. Derick walked to him, setting the vial on the table closest to him.
“It’s your choice, Wallingford,” he said, and the glass vial clicked against the wood table. “I’ll be there for Emma either way. But if you love your sister, you know what you have to do.”
Derick turned and walked away. Another first in his career—he let a traitor live.
As he snicked the door open to leave this part of his life behind and walk into a new life with Emma, he heard Wallingford’s quiet whisper. “Take care of her, Aveline.”
He stopped in the doorway, but didn’t bother to look back at the man. “I mean to.”
Consciousness didn’t sneak up on Emma. Awareness didn’t gently pull her from the depths of sleep. Rather, they slammed into her, pounding her awake so forcefully that her head throbbed even as she blinked to clear her vision.
But the pain in her head didn’t stop. Fig! It was as if she’d been run over by a carriage, or struck with a mallet, or…or shot.
Memories screamed in. “Derick!” she gasped, reaching blindly for him.
“Shhh…shhh. I’m here.”
His voice rumbled from her left and she turned her head toward him. His warm hand stole over hers and she gripped him tight. For a moment, she saw three of him, a trio of dark angels backlit by a d
im glow that gave the impression of tarnished halos. But a few more blinks merged them into one. One glorious, handsome, perfectly flawed man, sitting—she glanced around, noting the familiar furnishings—at her bedside in her darkened room. How had she gotten here?
Derick’s green gaze devoured her in the low light, his face lined with worry. Emma tried to speak, but her tongue felt dry as limestone dust and as if it had quadrupled in size. She raised her hand to soothe the vicious burning in her head and winced as she encountered scratchy linen that covered a horribly tender spot. She ached terribly, but she lived. Her calculated risk must have worked.
Emma sucked in a breath. “George!” she croaked. “Where is my brother?” How could she have forgotten him? Her thoughts swam through her mind slower than a slug through molasses.
Derick’s grip tightened on her hand. “He’s…sequestered in his room.”
“But he’s all right?”
“He was when I saw him last,” Derick said.
Alarm gripped her, knowing when Derick gave nuanced answers, they could mean many things. She tried to sit up, but the sudden movement sent her head spinning one direction and her stomach circling her insides in the other. She moaned piteously.
“When, exactly, did you see him?” she insisted, though how she got the words through the roiling tumult in her body, she wasn’t sure.
“Hush, love.” Derick pressed his hand against her chest, trying to ease her back into the pillows. “The doctor said you would be weak for some time after you woke. You must rest.”
But Emma struggled against him. “When?”
Derick stilled, and expelled a long breath. “Not an hour ago. I went to check on him, and asked him a few questions.”
Emma took shallow breaths as she fought to quell her nausea, which must have been caused when she tried to move too quickly. But it worsened as she listened to Derick explain that George had confessed to killing not only Farnsworth but Derick’s mother and poor Molly Simms, too. Tears leaked unchecked from her eyes as she considered all of the pain her brother had caused.