Sweet Deception (40 page)

“I see.” George nodded slowly as he reached for his tea, gripping it with his stronger left hand, rather than right-handed as he would have before the stroke. “Terrible business, that. I still can’t quite believe it of Thomas. But…” He took a sip before setting the cup carefully back down. “I don’t understand…even if he killed the maid, why would you think he poses any danger to us?”

Emma pressed her lips together tightly. How many percentage points down the good sister scale would she fall if she wished for one of George’s spells to save her from this conversation?

Shame on you, Emma!

She didn’t
really
mean that. On the other hand, if she continued the conversation to its logical conclusion and George got upset, it could throw him into one of his spells.
So, how many points might she move
up
the scale if she deceived him just a little bit? Hmmm…was there a balance point in there somewhere?

You’re sounding like Derick again.

Yes, she was. “I’m afraid Harding may have done worse than that, George. He may have been responsible for the death of that man we found in the woods yesterday, too.”

“Thomas? You don’t say. Why would he do such a thing?”

Emma shrugged, tried to demur. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

George actually rolled his eyes at her. “Do you have any proof?”

“I think the fact that he ran off after word came that the remains were found is very telling.”

“Emma,” George said in a chiding tone. “You’ve never been one to leap to conclusions. You must have
some
reason to think Harding is responsible for whatever befell that poor man.”

She shook her head. “Nothing definite…just theories.” That was, at least, true. “But I don’t need proof to be vigilant. Until Harding is caught, I plan to be extra-cautious with yo—
our
—safety.”

Her brother crossed his arms and cocked his head, eyeing her in a way that made her feel like he saw straight through her. Which he probably did.

Oh, why did George have to be so much his old self today? He might not have the mathematical mind she and her father had shared, but George had always been clever in his own way—at least before his stroke.

“You’ve also never been one to keep secrets from me before, Em. And yet I feel certain you’re not telling me everything. Is it because you’re afraid to upset me?”

Emma squirmed guiltily.

“I understand. I know you coddle me more and more as my faculties deteriorate, but I’m feeling quite up to
snuff of late. Or at least I would be if I didn’t suspect that something was worrying my baby sister. Why don’t you talk it through with me, like we used to?”

Emma pursed her lips, shut tight.

“Or is it that you now have someone else to share your confidences with?” George asked. “I know that Aveline spent the night here last night. In the Blue Room, I’m told.” George raised his eyebrows and looked down his nose at her. “I’ll wager
he
is privy to your suspicions.” A hurt note had crept into George’s voice, and it pulled at her heart.

“George…” He was right. She did coddle him, tried not to allow any unpleasantness near him. But he was going to learn the truth eventually. Wouldn’t it be better if he heard it from her, on a day when he was in his right mind? She didn’t have to tell him about Derick, just about Harding.

Emma took a deep breath and let it out again before she began. “The reason I think Harding is dangerous enough to merit safety precautions is…complicated. First, the man we found in the forest yesterday wasn’t just some poor unfortunate. He was an agent of the War Department.”

George’s eyes flew wide. She’d clearly startled him. “What? How did you…” He coughed. “The War Department, you say? How could you know such a thing?”

“We, um, discovered some identification secreted on the body.” She didn’t have to say that Derick knew right where to look because he, himself, was an agent of the War Department, now did she?

“Secreted? Where?”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Hidden in the heel of his boot.”

“Ah…” George said softly. “Whatever made you think to look there?”

“That’s not important. What matters is that it struck a chord in my memory. I went through my files and found
two similar deaths in which the bodies had been stripped, not only of belongings but of anything that might obviously identify them. Derick is overseeing the exhumations to be sure, but I suspect they will carry the same hidden identification as the man we found yesterday, proving them as having worked for the War Department as well.”

“My God,” George whispered, his face drained of color. Was he already beginning to suspect what must have happened?

“Yes. We have three dead agents of the Crown, killed here in upper Derbyshire.”

“You can draw only one conclusion from that…” George murmured. Emma noticed his knuckles had also gone white where his hands were fisted in his lap. Poor George. He would feel awful when he realized how he’d been used by Harding and possibly by Lady Scarsdale, though Emma wasn’t quite convinced of the viscountess’ involvement.

“That we’ve been living with a traitor in our midst, yes.”

“And you’re convinced it is Harding?” George asked, with an urgency that seemed misplaced. “You’re sure?”

“It has to be. You see, I decided to plot the crimes on a map, like I would my research, to see what they might tell me about the criminal, and everything pointed to the killer having lived here—”

“
Emma.
”

She jumped as Derick’s hard voice cracked across the room. She turned to find him standing in the doorway, his stance as stiff as his tone. His gaze was fixed on George, even though he’d addressed her. Emma scowled at Derick even as guilt pricked her. She hadn’t done anything wrong—she hadn’t betrayed
his
secret. She just hadn’t felt George deserved to be left totally in the dark when it was
he
who was in the most danger.

She turned her gaze back to her brother, and was
alarmed at how his eyes had narrowed, how ruddy his face had suddenly gone. “George?” She rushed to him, laying a hand against his forehead. His skin was dry and hot against her palm, and his chest pumped as his breathing grew shallow and rapid. Perhaps telling him had been a mistake, after all. One of his attacks seemed to be coming on fast.

“
That’s
Wallingford?” A voice Emma had never heard before jerked her attention back to the doorway. An older man with hair the color of Derick’s stepped into the room, peering around Derick at her brother. Peering with green eyes exactly like—

“But how can that be?” the stranger asked, his brow furrowing much as Derick’s did. “I was told he was confined to a chair.”

“Hush,” Derick ordered.

Emma stared at the man blankly, her mind fighting to process what she was seeing versus what she was hearing.
What
had he said about George? “He is,” she answered automatically. George’s rolling chair was quite obvious.

“Non,”
he spat. The stranger was French. With those eyes, he could be none other than Derick’s sire. But what in the world was he doing
here
? “
That’s
the man I saw outside last night,” the man went on, “creeping into this house!”

“What?” Emma’s gaze flew to Derick, who didn’t seem surprised by the stranger’s accusation. No, he was staring at George much like the spider who’d caught the fly.

“
That’s
the man you think killed my Vivienne?” The Frenchman started forward, only to be halted when Derick threw an arm in front of him.

“Are you mad?” Emma cried, placing herself protectively in front of George. She wasn’t sure what was going on here, but the stranger glared at her brother as if he meant to throttle him.

Nothing made any sense.

“Emma,” Derick barked, and she jumped. “Come here,” he urged, more gently. “Come to me.”

“Why?” she whispered.

But the word was drowned out by a shuffling behind her. Emma started to turn, but George’s arm blocked her as he reached for the tea tray and just as suddenly, his other arm snaked around from behind, trapping her arm against her waist.

“Because your lover doesn’t want me to be able to use you as a shield,” George said as his grip tightened painfully. “Stay back!” he growled at Derick, and something hard jammed into her left side, just below her ribs. Emma glanced down to see her father’s pistol in her brother’s hand. She stared at it dumbly, as if it wasn’t she who was being held at gunpoint, even though the sharp pain digging into her ribs told her it most certainly was.

And then she felt George move. No—
stand
—behind her. “George?” Emma’s world stopped spinning, everything seeming to slow, her usually quick mind suddenly struggling to process what was happening. Both the arm around her hips and the one holding the gun moved up her body, until George had pinned her back against him with an arm across her chest and the gun pressed tight against her temple. And then he pulled, tugging her with him toward the French doors.

“You can walk.” She couldn’t keep from spouting the obvious, like the stupid fool she was.

“For years now,” George confirmed.

“Years?” Emma hated the imbecilic high-pitched squeak her voice had taken on. Thoughts, memories, ruffled through her mind. But much like it seemed with Derick, when her heart was involved, her memory wasn’t acute. As if, when she trusted, her mind didn’t feel it had to hold on to everything. “Was it all just a ruse, George?” Even as she asked the question, she knew the answer. She could feel the trembling in his right arm, sense the weakness in that side as he shuffled her along.

“No, Em. The stroke was real enough. But as I started to recover my senses, I realized it would be the perfect front to hide behind. To cast off suspicion, should anyone come looking for me.”

“Like the agent we found yesterday?”

“Yes. Now, do be quiet, Emma.”

Oh, God. How could she have been so naive? Emma cut her eyes to the French doors. George had succeeded in pulling her just under halfway there. Her chest tightened with her growing alarm. What did he intend to do? He couldn’t possibly have a plan—everything had happened so fast. Which would make him more desperate, and more volatile.

“There’s nowhere for you go, Wallingford.”

Derick. His voice cut through her panic. He sounded so calm, so relaxed. Emma turned her gaze to him. She’d been afraid to look at him, fearing that if she did she might lose the fragile control she had on her emotions. Yet now that she had, she latched onto him like a lifeline. Though he appeared relaxed, she could see he was anything but. He took his eyes off of George for just a moment, long enough to make eye contact with her, to give her an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement. His steadiness gave her strength.

Then George snarled, “Like hell,” and Emma’s insides curled in on themselves. George may have been able to hide that he’d recovered his strength, but she would never believe he’d faked all of his rages. The doctors had told her they were common when a brain had been damaged by stroke. She knew just how fast this situation could devolve.

“I can see you love my sister.”

“What?” she blurted, startled. “George!” she scoffed over her shoulder, though her gaze never left Derick. “Don’t be ridiculous…”

And then she saw it. Derick’s eyes flashed. Though stark fear warred with impotent fury for control of his
beautifully perfect features, his eyes glittered with…
love.
The kind of love that promised he’d sacrifice anything to save her.

“Oh,” she whispered, stunned.
Derick loved her?

“Oh, indeed,” George answered softly. “
If
you want her to live, Aveline, you’ll do exactly as I say,” he continued, almost conversationally now—another worrying signal that his stability was waning. All the while, he inched them ever closer to the door. “I’m taking her with me. When I’m safely away, I’ll let her go. But if I even suspect you’ve made to follow us, I swear I’ll kill her. You and I both know she won’t have been my first.” George pressed the gun tighter against her temple and Emma couldn’t contain a whimper.

“Whatever you say,” Derick agreed, but his soothing tone sent an even sharper alarm coursing through Emma. She might not know Derick as well as she’d foolishly assured herself she had, but she did understand him well enough to know that he was lying. He wasn’t going to let George walk away with her. “Just don’t hurt her.”

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.