by Heather Snow
“It’s an interesting proposition, Emma,” he said. “One I must think on.”
“Of course,” she said, gaining her feet. “I’ve given you much to consider.” She made a quick curtsy and Derick understood she meant to leave him to his contemplations. That wouldn’t do. He’d made the calculated move to confide in her. Now he’d try to exact his quid pro quo.
He rose to his feet as well, to block her exit, and placed a hand at the small of her back to guide her back to her chair.
“The night is still young,” he chided as she lowered herself into her seat, “and you haven’t touched a bite. Besides, your curiosity about me has been assuaged and yet…” He couldn’t resist skimming his finger along her exposed shoulders and the back of her neck as he crossed behind her chair to return to his own. “I find myself burning with a desire to know the woman you’ve become in the long years since we last saw one another.”
Emma shivered at his touch, and Derick flushed as he yanked his hand away. Old habits died hard, he supposed. Even as the adage flitted through his mind, he knew it to be a hollow excuse. He hadn’t touched her pale skin out of the habits of seduction, but because he simply had to know if she was as soft as he imagined. She was.
He didn’t even want to fathom where the words had come from, though he couldn’t hide from their truth. He was burning.
Still, the mixed message he was sending Emma was unfair. He cleared his throat and affected a businesslike tone as he moved to refill her wine goblet. “If we’re going to consider working together, I’d like to know more about you, too.” Most importantly, all about her brother and who might have been using him for information. “It’s only fair.”
Emma quirked a dubious smile at him. “I can’t imagine what about my quiet life might interest you.”
“Indulge me,” he said. He topped off his own glass and took his seat catty-corner to hers. He leaned back in a relaxed pose and steepled his fingers atop the table. It might seem strange to jump immediately to questions about George Wallingford, so Derick decided to start with a personal one that would likely lead the discussion there naturally. “I was surprised to find you still in Derbyshire. Why did you not marry and leave this place?”
“I—” Emma dropped her eyes from his to the tabletop and cleared her throat. “Well, George, of course,” she said, her voice tight. “I can’t leave George.” When she looked back up at him, her face had smoothed to a blank expression, but she’d crossed her hands over her stomach in a protective gesture that told him the topic he’d chosen made her feel vulnerable.
Damnation. Here she was giving him the perfect opening to turn the conversation to her brother, as he’d hoped, and yet…Derick could see that something from her past pained her, and it sparked a deep curiosity, an empathy even, that had nothing to do with his mission. He hadn’t intended his question to cause her distress, but he’d clearly brought some emotion to the surface with it. If he chose to brush right past it and move on to discussing her brother, as he should, she’d likely bury it again. But he would feel like a cad. Since he’d pushed her into her shell, it was only right that he talk her back out of it, but to do it, he needed to get at what really bothered her.
“You were three and twenty when your brother had his accident,” he pointed out gently. “Did you not debut in London?”
“I did, but—” Emma pursed her lips, shaking her head. “I wasn’t a fit.”
The emotions that rippled over her face told several stories in the space of a second. He could imagine the girl he’d known, that blond waif with too large eyes, a pert tongue and a keen intelligence that she wouldn’t have even tried to hide. No, she wouldn’t have been a smashing success on the marriage mart, he supposed. But she’d clearly had hopes that had been painfully dashed. “Then they were fools, Emma,” he said, giving her the same answer she’d given him about his father.
A cryptic smile creased her face before she waved a dismissive hand. “It doesn’t matter. I only wanted—” Her eyes widened and she snatched her wine goblet and took a healthy sip. “There was no one there who interested me.”
Derick furrowed his brow. “And there hasn’t been since?”
Her amber gaze flew to his. Derick stopped breathing as he glimpsed unconcealed longing in their depths—a yearning that ran deep, a desire that gave the impression of long standing. But then Emma blinked and it was gone. “Not particularly.”
Derick searched her face. Had he only imagined the look he’d seen in her eyes?
Emma shrugged. “Unless you count my former betrothed.”
Betrothed? A fierce stab of irritation jerked his train of thought from whatever he might have seen in Emma’s eyes. “You were engaged?”
“For nearly five years,” she confirmed.
“Five years?” What the hell? And why the hell did the idea of Emma as another man’s wife bother him so? “What kind of horse’s arse leaves a woman waiting five years?”
She actually laughed. “As opposed to a cow’s arse?” Emma shook her head. “Is there any wonder I can’t seem to keep colloquialisms straight when they make so little sense? Horse’s arse,” she mumbled. “Well, I suppose Albert is that. But in Mr. Smith-Barton’s defense, our original wedding date was scheduled only three short weeks after George’s accident. We originally postponed the ceremony because we hoped that George would recover, but then…he never did.”
“So, this Smith-Barton resented your having to care for your brother?”
“Oh, no. Albert and George were great friends. That’s how we met, actually. He was a fixture in our household when George returned home, and we developed a friendship that I thought had the potential to be more. But in the end, it didn’t.” Emma’s shoulder lifted in a shrug that he knew she meant to be light, but spoke of insecurity. Derick damned the man for making her feel that way. “I may laugh now and agree Albert is an arse, as you say, but he was a great support to my brother in the years following his accident.”
“You say he spent a lot of time with your brother before and after his accident?”
Emma nodded. “Yes.”
Smith-Barton was a potential suspect as well, then.
“Until he broke our engagement, that is.”
Derick calculated. Wallingford’s accident was in 1811, so assuming the engagement had been a few months old by then, five years would put the association ending right around the end of the war…
“And we didn’t see him much after that,” she said, her voice artificially light.
Derick reached out and covered her hand with his. “I’m sorry, Emma.”
A self-deprecating smile turned her lips up. “Don’t be. I must admit to having been shocked when Albert proposed. Not so much when he called it off. As the years wore on, neither one of us seemed in a rush to stand up at the altar.”
Derick sensed he wasn’t getting all of the story. He squeezed gently. “Still, it must have hurt.”
Emma’s eyelids fluttered down. “Only but a moment.”
He experienced a strong need to plant his fist in Smith-Barton’s face.
“Without him, Thomas and your mother, I don’t know how I would have made it,” Emma continued quietly. “I will always be grateful to him for that, at least.” She sighed and speared a piece of cheese with her fork. “However, I no longer wish to discuss Albert,” she declared as she took a bite.
Well, damn it all, he did. And not just because he wanted to find out more about the man’s dealings with Wallingford. No, Derick wanted to uncover what Smith-Barton had said to cause the self-doubt that had crept into Emma’s voice. What he’d done to cause the sadness that turned her perfect lips down just at the mention of his name. But he couldn’t press now. He’d send a dispatch off to London in the morning to have the man found and investigated. Derick pressed his own lips into a grim smile. He might even pay Smith-Barton a visit himself. But for now, Emma had just given him an even wider opening to discuss who else had had access to her brother.
> He let her eat in silence, sensing that she was desperate to leave the uncomfortable topic of her former affianced behind. After a few moments, her shoulders relaxed and some of the tension from their conversation seemed to leave her. Now would be the time to float out an open-ended question, counting on her relief from the subject change to give him the information he needed without thinking. It was basic human nature, in his experience. “It is fortunate you had people around to support you and your brother through such a difficult time…”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Albert, as I’ve said. And then your mother sent us Thomas.”
He would certainly be investigating the footman further.
“A few friends from the village came by at first, and the vicar, of course,” Emma went on, as expected. “Though most faded away over time. The only other person who didn’t was a dear friend of ours, Mr. Stubbins, who still visits George regularly.”
“Stubbins?” Derick thought for a moment. “I don’t recall any local family of that name.”
“No, Mr. Stubbins hails from Leeds. However, he’s a frequent visitor to the area. He fell in love with White Peak when he first visited several years ago and passes through every couple of months. He always makes it a point to spend time with George when he’s in town.”
Now that sounded promising. A nonlocal who took interest in an invalid ex-soldier? Derick made a mental note to find out what he could about Stubbins from the local innkeepers. He’d also send a dispatch to Geoffrey. As it happened, the earl was currently in Leeds, attending the surprise wedding of his wife’s cousin, Lady Penelope—the daughter of a marquess who was marrying down despite the protests of her mother. Stratford would likely relish the opportunity to escape the tense festivities for a bit and do a little investigation on Derick’s behalf.
Derick sat back in his chair and took a satisfying sip of wine. He couldn’t believe how well this conversation had turned out. He now had three very viable suspects to look into and he hadn’t so much as had to kiss Emma’s hand to get them.
“Still, the person who was the greatest help to George and me over the years was Lady Scarsdale, of course.”
The rich wine in his mouth seemed to take on the taste of vinegar, souring as his thoughts often did when they turned to his mother. “Because she helped with Harding, you mean?” Derick had a hard time picturing his mother being generous. He’d been surprised when Emma had told him his mother had actually paid Harding’s wages herself for a time.
“Well, yes, but…” Emma’s pearl white teeth tugged at her lower lip. “Her friendship with my brother was…deep. I suppose there’s no delicate way to put this,” she said, “but your mother and my brother were lovers in the years before his accident.”
Derick shot straight in his seat, setting the goblet back on the table with a clink as crystal met wood. Droplets of the red liquid sloshed over the side, where they beaded on the finish. “Lovers?”
Emma winced. “I can see it shocks you. It did me at first, too, but then I realized that they were, in truth, barely six years apart in age. They were also both worldly people stuck in the country for reasons of their own, and they found each other. They seemed to make each other happy, at any rate.”
“Lovers,” Derick repeated. It shouldn’t surprise him. His mother must have been a woman of strong passions, to throw her life, her marriage, her son away over a man who wasn’t her husband. “It makes sense, I suppose, she and your brother. Mother was rather elitist. Who else would she have taken up with, tucked away here in the country, but the closest available nobleman?”
“Perhaps she was a bit haughty,” Emma conceded, “but she was good to George. And as much as I got the feeling that George cared more for her than she did for him, in the end I came to respect her. She didn’t abandon him after his accident. She spent many hours talking or reading to him, or strolling with him in the garden as Thomas pushed his chair along. In truth, she was his closest confidante. Closer even than I was.”
Derick pushed away from the table and rose, walking a few feet from the table, needing to veil his thoughts from Emma. What a mess. His mother had been sleeping with George Wallingford. Derick knew better than most that was often the simplest way to uncover someone’s secrets.
Which made her the most likely suspect of them all. If he combined this new information with the knowledge that someone, most likely Farnsworth, had been asking questions recently about her…
A sickening irony slammed into Derick’s gut. He had to face the possibility that his mother had done to George Wallingford the exact same thing he’d done to scores of women, only for her own traitorous purposes versus his so-called patriotic ones. But why would she do such a thing? Rationales aside, it made them more alike than he could stomach—just further proof that his blood was black as sin.
Behind him, Emma’s chair scraped against the floor. The swishing of her skirts told him she approached tentatively. “I can see that I have given you even more to consider now,” she said. “So I will take my leave. We can discuss more of my past later, if you wish it.”
Derick turned to her, noting the curiosity brimming in her eyes. She had to wonder what had caused the schism between him and his mother. As far as he knew, no one in England, aside from his superiors and the late Scarsdale, knew. Sensing his discomfort, Emma probably thought their conversation had stirred up unpleasant memories. It was best to let her continue to think that.
“Thank you,” he said as he offered her his arm.
As they neared the front entrance, Emma’s gloved hand squeezed his forearm gently. “Thank you for confiding in me. You have my word, your secret is safe with me.”
She turned to face him at the threshold, waiting as he retrieved her wrap.
Derick returned with the hooded cape, swinging it around Emma’s shoulders.
Her head tilted to the side and her nose scrunched in thought. “One thing still bothers me, though.”
Derick’s gut clenched. He’d known things had gone too easily. He decided to make light, letting his mouth rise in a half smile. “Only one thing?” he asked silkily as his hands settled upon her shoulders.
Emma raised her eyes to the ceiling, in an abbreviated eye roll, before settling them back on him. “I can understand you not wishing your…history to be common knowledge. But why do you keep up the pretense of being…well, a useless fop? I assume that is one of the personas you’ve used throughout your…career. But why use it now? Why not just be yourself?”
Damned smart woman.
He couldn’t very well tell her he’d acted such because he was currently hunting a traitor—who he was now afraid might have been his own mother—and had thought it the best way to proceed, now could he? He searched for an answer. And then the words just came, and they were the most honest words he’d ever said.
“I’ve been pretending to be someone else my entire adult life, Emma,” he murmured, swallowing against the sudden scratching in his throat. “I couldn’t tell you who I truly am anymore.”
Chapter Twelve
Emma whipped her head around as a firm knock fell upon her private parlor door. She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. ’Twas already ten in the morning? She had been so engrossed in studying her maps, she’d lost track of the time.
She jerked to her feet, smoothing back a lock of hair that had pulled free from her loose chignon. She pinched the apples of her cheeks, too. Four quick, firm tugs. There.
“Derick.” She smiled as she pulled open the door, even though flutters set off in her middle. He loomed large in the doorway, his lanky frame filling the space. “Thank you for coming so early,” she said. It was early, for callers anyway. She’d been up working for hours, however.
The slow grin that crept over his face sent a frisson of warmth skittering down her body. “It looks as though you’ve been hard at work already.”
Emma couldn’t help an answering smile, although she wasn’t certain what had caused his. “I have.” She cocked h
er head to the side. “But how would you know that?”
Derick reached a long-fingered hand out, gently cupping her jaw. Emma sucked in a breath and held it at the unexpected contact, at the soft heat his touch evoked. His thumb ever so gently swiped across her cheek in a long, slow motion that she felt all the way to her toes.
When he pulled his hand away, he held it before her face. His thumb was a powdery blue.
Emma’s own hand flew up to her other cheek. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed, scrubbing at skin that burned with mortification. As expected, her palm came away blue, too.
Derick was rubbing his thumb against his fingers. “What is this, Emma? Chalk?”
“Yes,” she muttered, swiping her hands on her dress. How embarrassing. She hadn’t even thought about the fact she’d been shading her maps with chalk—and then she’d gone and pinched her cheeks! Argh. She’d been trying to look fresh and attractive for Derick and ended up looking like a blueberry tart.
He raised his hand to his nose and sniffed. “What is this earthy scent?”
“It’s probably the oil I use when I mix the chalk. I make my own colors, as I need more shades than I’ve ever found for purchase.” She grinned at him. “There’s certainly no shortage of limestone around here to use as my base.”
“Ah,” he drawled out, nodding as if she’d answered a question he’d long wondered about. He also continued to stare at her in such a contemplative manner that she squirmed beneath his gaze. Then she realized they were still standing in the doorway.
She stepped back and extended an arm into the space. “Please, won’t you come the rest of the way in?”
“Thank you,” he said and stepped past her, and she caught his scent of bergamot and bay rum and breathed deeply. Derick, she noticed, was different this morning. She tried to place what it was. And then it hit her—gone were the frilly lace cuffs and the brightly striped waistcoat, the flashy buttons and extravagant colors. It seemed that now she knew he was not the fop he pretended to be, he dressed more casually, more simply.
