Sweet Deception (6 page)

Even in the feeble moonlight, ugly purple bruises that resembled nothing more than long fingers stood out on the maid’s neck.

“Damn,” Derick uttered.

It seemed he wouldn’t be leaving upper Derbyshire until he’d uncovered both a traitor
and
a murderer.

E
arly the following afternoon, Derick stood at the door of Wallingford Manor. He tugged the fine linen of his cuff so that it emerged from the sleeve of his burgundy Bath coating jacket just so and then rapped three swift clangs with the massive knocker. As he waited, he wiped damp palms against his buff pantaloons. His hands felt empty, as if he should be bearing flowers or some other pleasing gift for the lady of the house.

Good Lord.
Where had that thought come from? By the time he was of an age to call on young ladies, he’d been well ensconced behind enemy lines and the only thing he’d been interested in wooing was sensitive information. That most of that information had
come
from wooing ladies, young and otherwise, was another matter entirely. Besides, he wasn’t here to see Emma—indeed, hoped not to see her again at all. Emma disturbed him, unbalanced him. And he couldn’t afford the distraction.

No, he needed to focus solely on the task at hand. It was unlikely that poor Molly Simms’ murder had anything to do with his mission. But tragic though it was, it did gave Derick a legitimate reason to work directly
with the magistrate himself and leave Emma out of his investigation altogether.

An annoying pang of disappointment twinged in his chest. He pushed it aside. This remained a mission like any other, a chess match of sorts, and Emma just a pawn. Not his opponent.

If anyone played the white king to his black one, it was her brother. Once Derick’s fellow agent at the War Department, Thaddeus Farnsworth, had pinpointed a leak of military secrets to a source in upper Derbyshire, Wallingford immediately became the most likely suspect. A decorated war hero with vast military experience, he was one of the few people known to reside in the area who had the kind of knowledge that had been sold to the French. Wallingford hadn’t presented himself at Aveline Castle either last night or this morning—which was odd, given the man’s duties as magistrate. So Derick had come to him. It was time to get a good look across the board at his potential adversary.

The door cracked and Derick was met by the polite stare of the butler.

“Lord Scarsdale to see Lord Wallingford.” He whipped out his calling card. A bit much for the country, he knew, but it was all part of the affectation.

The servant’s eyes widened as he stared at the stark but finely engraved card. Derick raised a brow, and finally the butler reached out and took the offering with his bare hand rather than the customary silver tray. This being a country manor, Derick supposed the man didn’t keep a salver at the ready. But being in the country did not excuse keeping a viscount waiting on the front stoop.

Derick cleared his throat, acting his part. “Lord Wallingford?” he drawled. “I have magistratorial business to discuss with him.”

The statement seemed to shake the butler from his stupor. The door opened wide and Derick stepped into the marbled entry.

“If you’ll come this way, my lord, I’ll fetch…the magistrate.” The butler ushered Derick into a spacious sitting room and bowed out the door.

When the door clicked shut, Derick made a quick turn about the room, taking stock. Nothing of any obvious evidentiary value lay about, but he hadn’t expected it would. However, one could learn many beneficial tidbits about a home’s owner just by small observations.

Derick removed to the far corner, taking in the space as a whole. While it was grand, it was sparsely decorated. There were no trappings of wealth anywhere in the room. In fact, the Aubusson rug, woven in the Oriental style, was thin in spots, the colors badly faded. The warm leather of the wingback chairs near the open fireplace showed signs of heavy use and little balls of fabric clung to the worn chintz of the settees.

He ran his hands over the frayed material of a chaise. This was the main parlor, the face Wallingford showed to the world. The man was clearly suffering from some financial distress. Telling…but by no means definitive. While most treason was motivated by money, not all was. He hoped, in this case, it wasn’t about money. It sickened Derick to think that someone who had fought alongside the very soldiers he went on to betray would do it simply for gold. Hell, it sickened him that he would do it at all.

If, indeed, Wallingford was the traitor. Derick would have to worm his way further into the house to look for more evidence. Most likely, Wallingford would invite him into the study or library to discuss the maid’s murder, which should give him a larger view. And he could always resort to a late-night exploration if he must.

His imagination flashed a vision of him happening across Emma, tucked into her bed in nothing but a flimsy night rail. What would she look like, her features relaxed in sleep, her hair down and spread across her pillow? Derick’s entire body tightened like a fist as his mind emptied of all thoughts but her. Her tempting
scent would alter with her skin warmed from sleep, would sweeten tantalizingly like nectar.

Derick caught himself taking a deep breath. Damnation. This was precisely why he shouldn’t be around Emma. He hadn’t physically seen the woman in hours and yet he was thoroughly distracted, which made no sense whatsoever. He didn’t even
like
her. And he was determined to stop letting her interfere with the role he was here to play.

The door clicked, and Derick’s mind snapped back to the charade at hand. He stepped from behind the chaise to greet Lord Wallingford, a droll greeting on his lips.

His mouth snapped shut as Emma, not Wallingford, strode into the room, her skirts swishing behind her. She stopped abruptly only a scant two feet from him, her eyes traveling his length.

Her sudden nearness hummed in his veins. Damn, but those eyes of hers made a man feel she could see right through him. Derick fought the ridiculous urge to step back from her frank perusal. He had no reason for concern—he knew exactly what she would see. He’d planned every detail.

Gold buttons winked in the sun that beamed through the massive windows, his burgundy-and-cream-striped waistcoat contrasted nicely with his buff pantaloons, and his black Hessians fair gleamed. While he’d never go so far as to polish them with champagne, as Brummel had so famously espoused, Derick would challenge the man himself to find any other fault with his presentation.

And that’s what it was—the pretentious clothing, the intricately tied neck cloth, the close-shaven face, the precisely styled hair—a presentation. A uniform.

And today, perhaps even a suit of armor.

His mouth twisted wryly. As if he needed protection from Pygmy. “Why are
you
here?”

Emma’s brows dipped and her mouth wobbled, like
she couldn’t decide whether to smile or scowl. “I
live
here, Derick.”

Imbecile.
“Yes, of course.” Really, if his superiors could have seen him around Emma Wallingford, they’d never have entrusted the country’s greatest secrets to him. At least his incompetent fop act should be especially believable today. “What I meant to say was that I was expecting your brother.”

Emma crossed her arms. “Yes, Perkins said you wished to speak with the magistrate. Why?”

The back of Derick’s neck tingled. She was on the defensive. Interesting. Because of his desire to see her brother? Or because of him? Both were intriguing questions, but for different reasons.

A slow heat spread through him at the possibility that he might have the same physical effect on her as she did on him. He might be able to use that.

No. He was finished with those days, when seduction had been his stock-in-trade. He shouldn’t need to resort to sensual interrogation. He would be able to get what he needed from Lord Wallingford—if he could get past the man’s formidably lovely gatekeeper. “I should think that obvious.”

“Indeed.” Emma’s expression turned to a decided scowl, and her foot tapped in irritation. “What is not so obvious,” she continued in a clipped tone, “is why you should feel it necessary to insert yourself into an investigation that has nothing to do with you.”

Oh, yes…she was most certainly defensive. Which meant he was onto something. The question was, what?

He had hoped that Farnsworth would have made contact last night or this morning. The last communication the War Department had received from the agent was that he was headed here. This mission would be much easier if Derick knew what Farnsworth knew, and he was anxious to talk with the man. Surely with the way
word spread in small villages like this one, Farnsworth would have heard of his arrival, no matter how deep undercover he was. Until he came forward, however, Derick was on his own in sorting whether or not George Wallingford was the traitor they were hunting. And the quickest way to get to Wallingford was to stick to his story. “Because the girl was a member—”

“—of your household.” Disapproval dripped from Emma’s voice, landing on him like a particularly annoying drizzle. She blinked up at him with those owl-like eyes. “Am I to assume that you intend to stay in Derbyshire and take up the reins at the castle, then?”

Derick chafed at the censure in her tone. “Good God, no. This would be the
last
place I would live. I don’t expect to be here more than a few weeks at most,” he answered. “As if that’s any of your concern,” he grumbled under his breath. He swiped a hand across his forehead. She was wasting his time. Nosy, irritating chit. “Damnation, Pygmy, you are
exactly
as you were as a girl.”

Derick couldn’t keep his eyes from dropping to her cleavage, so lusciously pushed up by her crossed arms. “Well, not
exactly
,” he muttered.

Emma’s shoulders rose slightly as a tiny gasp escaped her. “Of course I’m not.”

Hell. Had he actually just said that aloud? What had gotten into him?

“While I still don’t care to be called Pygmy,” she reminded him, not so subtly, “I’ve changed quite significantly in other ways.” She sniffed. “I’m no longer straw-headed, for one. I speak four additional languages than I did when you last knew me and I’ve grown at least two hands taller.”

A huff of laughter escaped him at her attempt to lighten the moment, but it quickly faded. Emma wasn’t smiling.

Instead she heaved a sigh, uncrossed her arms and turned her body, as if to allow him a clear path to the
door. She even extended a delicate hand in that direction, wafting her delicious lavender scent near. “Listen, while I appreciate your assistance last evening, my lord, you needn’t concern yourself any further. I suggest you go about whatever…
business
a gentleman like yourself might have in Derbyshire. There’s no need for you to dirty your hands”—her gaze traveled over him again and her lips flattened—“or your fancy clothes with the matter.”

Derick pressed his fingers against his forehead, closing his eyes. This was not going according to plan. He’d never had such trouble bending a female to his will.

Except her. What
was
it about Emma that threw him off so?

She makes you forget your role.

Yes. Something about her reduced some part of him to the boy he didn’t even remember being—a singular and disturbing truth he couldn’t avoid or fathom. All he knew was that it was true—and dangerous—which made it all the more important for him to deal solely with her brother. It was time to regain command of this conversation. Derick straightened, crossed his own arms and leveled his gaze on her.

“
I
suggest,” he drawled, looking down his nose at her in a way certain to nettle, “that you fetch the magistrate like a good girl and then go about whatever…
business
a country miss like you should be doing. No doubt there’s a pillow that needs embroidering somewhere?”

Emma’s eyes became slits, and he bit back a satisfied grin. That should send her off in a huff to get her brother.

Yet she visibly dug in her heels and crossed her arms again, pushing her delectable décolletage prominently back into view. A view, of course, that he couldn’t help but avail himself of. He might be acting a part, might have chosen to remain celibate at least until he put this life behind him, but he
was
still male.

Emma clenched her jaw. The nerve of the man! How
dare this…this perfectly turned-out popinjay come to her home and provoke her? The cad didn’t even have the decency to look her in the eye after insulting her so. And what was he staring at? She followed the path of his eyes, her chin dipping as she looked down to her…

Her cheeks flamed and she hastily dropped her arms. And yet the heat from her face spread down her neck and through her chest. She knew better than to think that Derick actually found
her
attractive. He certainly never had when they were younger, no matter how she’d tried to get him to notice her. But he’d certainly
seemed
captivated just then, hadn’t he?

She couldn’t resist a curious peek at his face. But the corners of his eyes drooped along with his mouth in an expression that could only be described as blasé. Her face burned all the more. Had she really expected otherwise?

Blasted, confusing man. Why wouldn’t he just waltz blithely off on his merry way? “You said you have no intention of staying in Derbyshire at all. Why won’t you just leave matters be?”

A tremble rolled through her middle as she considered what was at stake. What an ironic sort of travesty it would be if Derick, who couldn’t be bothered with this village for an age, came back on a lark and discovered her brother’s secret. He could use it to destroy the life she’d worked so hard to fashion for herself after her father’s death, and then he would just trot back to London—or France—or wherever he’d been for the last decade and a half.

Derick raised his chin a notch and stared at her with those unnerving green eyes, suddenly anything but uninterested. “Why do
you
so badly wish me to?”