Sweet Deception

by Heather Snow

  She eyed George warily, waiting for his reaction.

  “Scarsdale?” he said, his hands fisting in his lap. He sat straighter in his chair, glancing down automatically to his useless legs, panic flaring in his eyes before they narrowed ominously. “Send him away!”

  Emma grimaced. Perhaps she should have sent a note to Aveline Castle crying off after all. Ever since his stroke, George had been prone to bouts of irrational anger. One never knew when they might strike. While his response had been perfectly reasonable, Emma knew from the light in his eyes that he could very quickly devolve. “George…a baron doesn’t turn away a viscount, and besides, Lord Scarsdale is already aware of your…condition.”

  Her brother’s face mottled, turning a deep shade of red. “Probably thinks he’s a better man than I, the blackguard. Well, my body may be ruined, but at least I’m not a deserter.”

  “Of course not,” Emma soothed, touching his hand. Still, she was taken aback by his heated accusation. Though many had whispered about Derick’s mysterious choice to remain in France during the war, it wasn’t something they spoke aloud. She wondered how Derick would react if her brother fired off such a charge in his presence—and he very well might. George had served honorably in His Majesty’s service until he’d been pulled back to England after their father’s death. If, in his mind, he’d decided that Derick had shirked his duty to England during wartime, there was no telling how he’d react. She sent up a silent plea that George not say anything too terribly untoward. Their future was in Derick’s hands, after all, as much as she hated to admit it.

  George hitched a deep breath and his face cleared. This storm had passed quickly, which wasn’t always the case. Perhaps all would be fine yet.

  “Never could understand how Scarsdale could abandon his wife,” George said, his voice suddenly conversational. “Especially one as fragile and lovely as Vivienne.”

  Emma started as understanding dawned. George had been speaking of Derick’s father, not Derick. But of course, the old viscount had passed only a few weeks ago. George’s memory of recent events often failed him. He mightn’t remember. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  “If the man’s come to Derbyshire at last, I expect that explains why Vivienne hasn’t been to see me,” he mused on a sigh.

  “Oh, George,” Emma whispered. The viscountess, Derick’s mother, had arrived in upper Derbyshire without her husband many years past—exiled to the country, it seemed, though no one knew precisely why. She’d been a colorful addition to their village, a gorgeous if flighty woman prone to histrionics that had been gossiped about by the locals over their glasses of sherry or their port and cigars.

  Upon George’s return to Derbyshire, the viscountess had become a companion of sorts to him—a situation that had waggled tongues aplenty.

  But Vivienne Aveline had shocked everyone by taking her own life only days after Lord Scarsdale passed. Emma had been shocked most of all, since Lord and Lady Scarsdale hadn’t seen each other, or even spoken, to her knowledge, in years. George had been inconsolable at the time, but some days—like today—he didn’t even remember she was gone. It was as if he expected her to breeze in anytime, her delicate French perfume trailing behind her to look in on her “darling Jorge.” Emma didn’t care to upset him any further today, so she let the mention slide.

  “No, George…Lady Scarsdale’s husband passed away recently. It is his son, Derick, who wishes to see you.”

  George’s brows dipped, as if he were concentrating mightily.

  Just then, Perkins’ balding pate popped through the door. “Lord Scarsdale has arrived, Miss Emma.” The butler issued that warning before dashing off to the entryway to greet Derick.

  Emma’s stomach suddenly went all aflutter. Her gaze flew to the settee, remembering their tumble over its arm. She could almost feel Derick’s muscled frame pressed against her, the hot slide of his body as he removed himself from atop her.

  Could a mere memory engage one’s senses like that? Apparently so, because she flushed warm.

  None of that. She already detested the idea that her way of life was at Derick’s mercy. To acknowledge, even to herself, the vexing hold he seemed to have over her senses, too—always had had, even before she knew what it meant—would be too much. It was embarrassing enough that those old longings still existed. No, she was here only to convince Derick that she was capable to remain magistrate. She had a murderer to catch, and this delay was only slowing her down.

  Emma crossed to her brother, coming to stand with a protective hand on his shoulder. Murmurs of greeting floated in from the hallway, followed by the click of heels against marble.

  “Derick?” George seemed to fight to place him. “Do you mean Aveline? That young rascal you once set your cap for?” he asked, and rather loudly, in that annoying way only older brothers could manage.

  Emma darted her eyes to the open door of the parlor. “I was fifteen, George,” she whispered furiously, bending low so her mouth was right by his ear. Thankfully, Derick was too far away yet to have heard. How mortifying that would have been! “I hardly knew what a cap was.” Nor did she appreciate the reminder that she’d once been foolish enough to fancy herself in love with Derick Aveline. “And he’s a man of one and thirty, hardly a ‘young rascal,’ as you say.”

  An image of Derick kneeling by the creek two nights past, his face dark and grimly determined, passed through her mind. No. The description certainly didn’t suit now, if it ever had. And as it had before, the image bothered her, being so at odds with the man he now seemed to be.

  “Lord Scarsdale,” Perkins announced then. Quite formally and with a bit more…well, snoot in his voice than usual.

  Derick strode into the room, and immediately Emma forgave Perkins his small defection. Even she had to fight the urge to automatically usher Derick in and give him anything he wanted.

  Emma’s chest suddenly felt too small for her lungs. She’d entertained the notion of having this meeting in the much smaller study, thinking her brother might be more comfortable with his lameness obscured behind his desk, but she was suddenly glad she hadn’t. She was having enough trouble adjusting to Derick’s presence in this vastly larger space. It was as if he took up an entire room when he entered it, as if something within him pushed the very atmosphere to the farthest corners.

  Today, Derick was resplendent in blue, the cut of his jacket superb in how well it displayed his wide shoulders and lean frame. His buff pantaloons seemed almost the color of bone when set against a rich cream and sapphire striped waistcoat dotted with pearl buttons. Fashionable—but completely impractical—ruffles adorned his sleeves.

  In comparison, her staid morning gown, which she’d chosen to convey the seriousness with which she took her post, made Emma feel like the drabbest peahen next to the more vibrant male of her species. Only what were the chances this preening peacock sported his finery in an effort to impress her? None. He must just dress so as a matter of course, because men never went out of their way to entice her. Emma hated to admit it, but that knowledge ruffled her brownish gray feathers.

  “Lord Wallingford, thank you for seeing me.” Derick gave a nod to her brother. “Miss Wallingford.” His eyes slid away, and Emma swore he glanced at the settee…Perhaps he, too, was remembering their last encounter?

  “Ah, Scarsdale,” George said in greeting, drawing Derick’s attention back to them. “I’ve only just learned of your father’s death. My condolences.”

  Emma was torn by George’s cogent welcome. On one side of the equation, she was grateful that he wasn’t incoherent, or spouting insults at Derick about letting down his country. On the other, a lucid George presented an unknown variable that could upset her plans. She needed Derick to see her brother as he truly was most of the time. That was the only way he would see reason and agree to leave her and George to their comfortable, quiet lives.

  “Thank you,” Derick returned politely. He raised his brow to her, though, clearly confused by the di
screpancy between her description of George’s mental state and what he saw before him.

  A slight frown pulled at the corners of Derick’s mouth, and Emma felt an answering tug in her stomach.

  But then she gave a light shrug. What did Derick have to frown about? She hadn’t lied to him. And part of her was beyond grateful to have her brother truly present after such a long time. If she could predict when George would have days like this—if she’d ever seen a pattern, a trigger—she would do everything in her power to make it so every day. Alas, she knew from experience that it wouldn’t last.

  “How is your mother dealing with the loss?” George asked, an absent smile lifting his cheeks.

  Derick’s brows shot up, and Emma experienced equal parts relief, sadness and alarm. She waggled her own brows and gave a short, negative shake of her head, willing him not to upset her brother.

  “As well as can be expected,” Derick replied, recovering nicely, yet Emma could almost hear the unspoken “given that she’s dead.”

  “I would visit the castle to pay my respects, but…” George’s shaky hand passed over his lap. His face turned red and Emma could see him struggling with the shame of being seen so by another peer. Her heart ached for her brother.

  “Of course.” Derick gave a crisp nod. “I shall convey your thoughts at my first opportunity.” His voice was smooth, his face congenial, as if he hadn’t just promised the impossible to a confused soul. And Derick’s expression…it was somehow different than what she was accustomed to seeing on the faces of George’s few visitors.

  Emma pondered what that difference might be, her brow knitting in puzzlement, when it suddenly hit her. Unlike others who had visited George these past years, not by expression or tone did Derick show that he saw her brother as anything other than the baron next door.

  The ache in Emma’s chest eased, to be replaced by a strange, warm, melting sensation. People who had known George his entire life—neighbors, servants, even the vicar and his wife—usually couldn’t hide their pity when faced with his new reality. She would never have expected such perceptive kindness from Derick—a man who’d all but abandoned his family, his country even, when they had needed him most. But there it was. She supposed she must thank him.

  After, of course, he agreed to let her carry on with her work—without his interference. She didn’t need it. This was her home, not his. She was the one who’d given herself in service to the people of her village, not he. Filling her brother’s position had given her life purpose. It called on her strengths—her level head, her highly logical mind, and her ability to detach her emotions to see things clearly. She may have failed at catching a husband—what most would say was the true merit of a woman—but she didn’t fail at her duties as magistrate. And she wouldn’t now, if Derick would just get out of her way.

  Emma straightened at that reminder. Right. Certainly Derick had seen enough to know that George, even on his best day, was non compos mentis. Now, all that was left to do was detail her competence in George’s stead so that she could get back to solving Molly’s murder. She had barely been able to sleep since the maid’s death, no matter how exhausted she’d been when she’d found her bed. Her mind wouldn’t rest, sifting through years of conversations and observations. Who in their small village might actually be a killer? If she was up nights worrying over it, she was certain others were, too. The sooner the man was caught, the easier everyone would rest.

  Emma stepped behind her brother’s rolling chair and gripped the wood-and-wicker frame, intending to see him settled in the gardens for a bit of sunlight so she might deal directly with Derick outside of George’s hearing.

  She planted her feet, preparing to push the unwieldy chair toward the French doors.

  “What brings you back to Derbyshire after all these years?” George asked Derick.

  Emma stilled. Despite herself, she found herself listening with an eagerness quite unlike her. She was suddenly more curious about that than she was about the elusive mystery of the prime numbers.

  “Just refamiliarizing myself with the family holdings,” Derick answered with a nonchalance that fit his relaxed stance. “Now that I am Scarsdale.”

  Emma let out a breath. Much as she’d expected. So why this feeling of deflation? Emma. You ninny-hammer! You didn’t think he’d returned because he had any interest in seeing you again, did you?

  She frowned. Well, of course not. Just because the girl she’d been had dreamt of seeing him again, nearly every night for two years after his unexplained departure, that didn’t mean he’d ever spared her another thought. When she thought of how childish she’d been then…how she’d begged her father for a Season in London just in hopes of dazzling Derick with her newly acquired charms…how she’d applied herself every day in an effort to obtain said charms even though her father assured her she was neither attractive nor wealthy enough for a husband to be willing to overlook her bookishness…how he’d been right. Her face heated, even now, as she recalled the snickers behind painted fans, the empty dance cards, the way even on the rare occasion a gentleman engaged her in conversation, his eyes would soon glaze over and then he would wander away as soon as she said anything she found remotely interesting. What a disaster it all had been. And worse, Derick hadn’t even been in London at all, so the entire humiliating experience had been for naught.

  “Ah.” George nodded. “And I assume now that you are Scarsdale, you’ll be looking for a nice, sensible English miss—from a good family, of course—to be your viscountess.” George shifted in his seat to waggle his brows at her before turning back to Derick.

  “Can’t go wrong with strong Derbyshire stock, you know,” George intoned, and then further appalled her by tipping his head toward her with no subtlety whatsoever.

  “George!” Emma exclaimed, her face afire now. “I am certain Derick’s—” She winced. “I mean, Lord Scarsdale’s marital intentions are none of our concern.”

  But George’s brows just dipped in that innocent incomprehension that sometimes marked those whose minds were slightly addled.

  Emma touched a hand to her burning cheek. When she’d worried over how George might boggle her plans, she certainly hadn’t envisioned him thoroughly embarrassing her this way.

  “Well, it’s been a lovely visit,” she said, detesting the singsong quality her voice had taken on. “So lovely to catch up, isn’t it?” Fig! Singsongy and she’d used “lovely” twice in as many seconds. Like “lovely” squared, only it wasn’t.

  She gave a great heave, swinging George’s rolling chair around and aiming for the French doors. She felt only a momentary pang of remorse at his surprised grunt of pain as she clipped the side of an ottoman with what was most likely his leg.

  She looked behind her, narrowing her eyes to communicate to Derick to stay put and wait for her return. A horrible creaking made her cringe as she pushed her way out the doors. It was time to order Perkins to have them oiled again.

  Emma settled George outside in the warmish sunshine, with a maid as companion, promising him she’d join him for luncheon. She hated to deprive herself of time with her brother when he was so much himself, so rare it was these days. But she wouldn’t be able to enjoy herself with George until she was assured that Derick wasn’t going to upset their world.

  “‘Can’t go wrong with strong Derbyshire stock, you know.’ Gracious, George,” she mumbled to herself as she hurried back to the parlor. Emma fanned her face in time with her brisk clip. She knew too well that her fairish skin blotched with any little untoward thought. She didn’t wish to appear like a schoolgirl when she spoke with Derick. If she was going to persuade him to take her seriously and agree to leave matters as they were, she needed to be cool, calm, collected, as a capable woman—a capable magistrate—would be. She needed to assure him that she could well handle anything that happened in her corner of upper Derbyshire.

  Emma took a calming breath and stepped through the doors.

  Derick was sprawled o
n the settee, one ankle propped negligently on the opposite knee, one arm stretched out over the back of the piece, his long fingers drumming idly on the fabric. His green gaze glittered and a smile spread across his face, as lazy as the rhythmic beat of his fingers.

  Emma stopped suddenly. She cleared her throat, hoping to cover the tiny catch in her breathing. Come now, girl! This won’t do. She straightened her shoulders, wondering if she’d ever noticed before that the critical voice in her head sounded so much like her late father. Regardless, the voice was right. It wouldn’t do for her to react like a lovesick girl every time Derick Aveline so much as looked at her. He hadn’t known she existed when she was a lovesick girl, and he certainly didn’t now. It was ridiculous, really. She was ridiculous. And it was time she got this conversation started on a proper foot.

  “As I’m sure you must agree, my brother—”

  Derick stood abruptly, cutting off her line of thought. He unfolded his lanky form and gained his feet with a speed and masculine grace one wouldn’t expect from a man of his height. Then, almost like the contradiction he seemed to be, he took a languid step toward her. The odd light that entered his eyes made Emma’s belly go all aquiver with foreboding, and something else.

  “Did you really set your cap for me, Emma?”

  Emma gasped, and it was all Derick could do not to grin at the way her eyes widened and her lips spread thin in horrified affront. Her poor cheeks turned the color of succulent late-summer cherries.

  “H-how did you hear that from all the way out in the hall?” she sputtered.

  In retrospect, it mightn’t have been the wisest thing to tip his hand as to how very observant he could be, but he hadn’t been able to resist. Her reaction was better than he’d expected, and truly, he hadn’t had this much fun baiting someone in—well, since he used to bait her as a girl.