Sweet Deception (12 page)

D
erick was reeling as he crossed the crowded parlor—and not just from the unexpected pleasure still rippling through him from his whispered interlude with Emma in the corner.

Her memory astounded him. Oh, it would need to be tested, but if she truly could do what she said? He would have to be much more careful what he said around her, for one thing. He also knew spies in droves who would kill for such an ability, himself included. What he could have done with a mind like that. Which begged the question…could
Emma
be the traitor he was looking for?

Something within him balked at the very idea, though he didn’t know why it should. Certainly not because she was a woman. As a spy, he’d crossed—and sheathed—daggers with many a cunning female counterpart. Derick knew all too well how deadly, and deceptive, women could be.

There was no question that Emma had the mental agility to decode the messages the missing couriers had been carrying, and to code the ones that had fallen into Farnsworth’s hands in France—the ones that had ultimately led the agent, and finally Derick, to upper Derbyshire.
And she would be the one with the best access to her brother, if that was indeed where the information sprang from.

The object of his consideration fell into step beside him only a couple of yards before he reached the gathered mourners surrounding Molly Simms’ parents. Actually, Emma kept a toe just ahead of his, as if unconsciously communicating that
she
was the one in charge here.

Derick couldn’t resist a soft snort of amusement.

As they drew close to the group, Derick whispered, “Which man was Molly’s affianced?”

Emma pointed out a short, stocky man, probably five or six years their junior, with a surprisingly square jaw that matched his blocklike fists. Hands capable of taking life, Derick noted. But would the man’s fingers prove long enough to match the bruises on Molly Simms’ neck?

“James Marwell,” Emma whispered. “He’s apprentice to the butcher. He and Molly had been—”

“Say no more. I’d prefer to get the particulars from Marwell himself.”

She reached out and grabbed his arm, bringing them to a halt. “I can see you intend to go through with your interrogation against my wishes. Fine. I can’t stop you.” Her eyes shifted in a way that he was fast coming to recognize precluded one of her under-the-breath mutters.

He waited for it.

“No matter that I’ve spent years acting as magistrate and you’ve spent them acting as…well, as God knows what,” came her barely audible grumble.

The urge to grin took Derick by surprise. Accustomed as he was to those around him carefully veiling their thoughts, this habit Emma had of spouting hers was quite refreshing.

“A man of leisure, of course. A complete libertine,” he lied, enjoying the rush of color that infused her face and upper chest.

It was the primary reason he had trouble believing she could be a traitor. She blurted out any little thing on her mind, no matter the cost to her pride. And was duly mortified by it. That sort of embarrassment wasn’t easily faked.

He’d just have to unnerve her randomly—er,
arbitrarily
, he corrected himself—to see if her behavior remained consistent.

Rather than acknowledge that little exchange, Emma gamely went on. “You say you can get information that I did not. I say this is a waste of time. I propose we put our currency where our mouths are.”

Currency?
“You mean ‘money,’ Emma. Money where our mouths are.”

“Money,” she said with a brisk nod, as if filing it away for future metaphoring.

“How is it that you claim to remember long-ago conversations with complete clarity, but you can’t keep your idioms straight?”

Emma shrugged. “It’s just a tic in how my mind works, I suppose. Probably because most idioms are so ridiculous, they don’t bear remembering.”

“Hmmm. Well, what did you have in mind?” he asked. “For your currency?”

“Oh. Well, if, as I believe, your questions lead to nothing more than I learned when I conducted my own interviews, then you will agree to step back and let me run the investigation the way I wish to from here on out. Alone.”

“Alone. Hmmm.” He’d be a fool to take that bet. If Emma won, it would set his investigation back days, maybe weeks. And yet, he was confident he could get
something
out of conducting interrogations that she hadn’t. Perhaps he could think of information she could give him as forfeit that would make the gamble worth it. “And what do I get from this bargain if I do discover a new lead?”

“An apology, of course,” she said, as if the word itself were worth its syllables in gold.

“An apology?” Derick scoffed. “Since you are
such
a capable woman, I’m sure an apology from your lips is a rare and coveted thing indeed.” A dozen erotic images involving her lips and various parts of his body flitted through his mind like a fairy nymph bent on teasing. And before he’d even given the words any thought he murmured, “However, I’d rather have something else from them. A kiss would do nicely, I think.”

“A kiss?” she said, her own brows now winging toward her forehead.

What the hell had he just said? He’d meant to bargain information, not bloody temptation. Yet he couldn’t very well back out now that the offer was made. “A kiss. It will be much more pleasurable for me, and I’m fairly certain, less painful for you to give.”

“But why on earth would you want to—” Emma clamped her lips shut on the question, her eyes darting away. One hand went up to self-consciously sweep a lock of hair away from her face, while the other splayed across her stomach.

Those two tiny movements sucked the air from Derick’s chest. Because they told him two things.

First, Emma had no idea how beautiful—nay, how breath-capturingly desirable—she was. Which, strangely, made her all the more so.

And second? That the mere idea of kissing
him
set off tremors of excitement in her belly.

His gut clenched with a warm heat. He didn’t even want to try to name the emotions those two bits of knowledge sent ricocheting through his own body.

“Well, what say you, Emma? Are you willing to place a kiss on the line? Mind you, I’d demand a real kiss—not just a quick peck. I wouldn’t want either of us not to get our…currency’s worth. In fact,” he said, warming to the
idea now that the offer had been made, “I would demand full discretion as to the kiss’ duration…and
thoroughness
.”

Emma visibly swallowed at his emphasis. “There are degrees of kissing?” she asked with a slight cocking of her head that said she really had no idea what he meant. The darkening of her amber eyes told him, however, how very much she wanted to know.

Good God. He couldn’t wait to demonstrate. After all, it was just a kiss. It couldn’t hurt anything. And he wasn’t using the kiss as a means to get anything out of Emma, so he wasn’t really breaking his vow, was he?

He waited for her response.

Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, before she tugged the lower one between her teeth and worried it.

In the end, she gave him one short, decisive nod that sent heat rushing through him.

He turned his attention to Marwell, determined to get some new bit of information out of the butcher.

As Derick and Emma approached the small group surrounding Molly’s grieving parents, the conversation quickly lulled. Likely because of his presence. While he, by title and association, was a part of this community, in reality he wasn’t. He knew it. And they knew it.

“My lord.” Molly Simms’ father stood to greet him. “Sarah and I—we want to thank you for your generosity.” The gardener waved a shaking hand to encompass the parlor and the refreshments that had been laid out. “You honor us and our Molly.”

“Think nothing of it,” Derick murmured.

An awkward silence followed. He didn’t show any reaction to the curious stares. Just like the villagers he’d encountered while searching for Farnsworth, even those on his own estate didn’t know what to make of him. In fact, they would probably afford more trust to a stranger than they would to him. He was glad to have Emma at his side to ease the way.

“I’ve asked Lord Scarsdale to assist me in my investigation,” Emma began, her voice confident, assured. Calming. So much different than when she spoke with him.

Derick noticed the way the group turned to her as one. She was well respected among them. And while there was a raised brow or two, there were no signs of protest. It seemed that if Emma trusted him, the villagers would accept her judgment. Perfect.

“I understand the timing is not ideal.” She flicked a glance at him, betraying her annoyance at his insistence. “But I’m sure you’ll agree that finding whoever did this to Molly is of utmost importance. We can’t waste a moment.”

Everyone nodded, but Derick didn’t watch their heads. He watched their feet. In his experience, the farther one got from the head, the less control people had over how their unconscious mind used their body to communicate. Lies were often given away first by the feet.

He saw nothing that gave him pause.

“Mr. Marwell, we’d like to speak to you first,” Emma said. “In the study, if you please.”

The man’s eyes darted around the rest of the group, but he quickly nodded his assent.

As the trio discreetly made their way across the parlor, Derick considered his strategy. Emma was sure not to like it. It was not the way a woman would handle an interrogation.

He turned on the man as soon as the door was closed, not even giving Marwell a chance to be seated.

“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.