by Heather Snow
And yet he was her brother, in spite of everything. “I must see him.”
Derick nodded, as if he’d expected that. He slipped his hands beneath her shoulders and gently helped her to sit.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
They didn’t speak as he helped her down the hall and down the stairs to her brother’s chamber. It took all of Emma’s strength, even leaning heavily on Derick, to make it that far—there was none left for conversation.
At any rate, they didn’t need to speak. Emma could sense Derick’s growing tension and his building worry for her as they approached George’s door. It intensified her own until she trembled with it.
What would she say to her brother? That she understood? She didn’t, couldn’t. That she forgave him? She did, even though she was fairly certain she didn’t yet know the extent of what he’d done. She couldn’t fathom where they went from here, what awful things were in store for George, and for her, when he was brought to justice. How life would change irrevocably. But she couldn’t think about that now. All she really wanted to say to him, she realized, was that she loved him.
Perkins and John Coachman stood guard on either side of George’s door. Her longtime servants blanched when they saw her. Emma automatically brushed at the linen bandage circling her head. She must look a fright. The thought brought an unlikely smile. It quickly faded, however, when she wondered if everyone already knew what George had done.
Emma looked up at Derick. His face was solemn, closed…but his eyes told her he was here to be whatever she needed. She interlaced her fingers with his, grateful, not caring if the servants saw. Derick was her support, her strength, and she needed him right now. She delivered three raps to the door.
Her heart sped with every moment that passed with no answering call from George. “Perhaps he’s asleep?”
Derick didn’t reply, only squeezed her hand tightly and opened the door.
A dying fire lit the room, just barely. Emma scanned the space for George. There he was, lying abed as she’d thought. And yet…the room was swathed in an eerie stillness that raised gooseflesh on her skin. Emma hurried over to George’s bedside with Derick’s assistance, but she knew long before she reached him that her brother was gone.
His face, which had been etched with strain most of their lives—the strain of never living up to their father’s expectations, the strain of his stroke, and the strain that must have come from hiding his traitorous activities for so long, had smoothed in death. George looked…peaceful, in a way she couldn’t remember him looking since their mother had been alive. He probably didn’t deserve such peace after all he’d done, but Emma still fiercely wished it for him in whatever life he went to next.
Emotion stung her nose, curled her lungs, squeezed her heart. She turned to Derick with tear-filled eyes. He didn’t look surprised, and that squeezed her heart exponentially more. “Did you do this?”
Derick turned to her, taking her other hand in his. “No, Emma. I left your brother alive and well. I swear it.”
She couldn’t speak, only nodded as she felt her face crumple. She couldn’t have blamed Derick if he had taken her brother’s life, any more than she prayed Derick didn’t blame her that her brother took his mother’s. But she was glad he hadn’t.
Emma pulled away from him and approached the bed. George’s hands rested on his stomach, each curled around something. She reached out and touched his cooling skin, easily prying his fingers open—rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet, of course. The smooth kiss of glass met her skin as she plucked a small empty vial from his left hand. “Poison,” she whispered.
In his right he held a letter, addressed to her. She opened it with trembling fingers, and bit her lip at George’s familiar handwriting.
My dearest Em,
I can’t ask for your forgiveness, though you’ll likely give it anyway. I’ve always known that it’s your heart that truly sets you apart from all others—not your mind.
I can ask that you don’t mourn me. I don’t deserve it.
I know my choice tonight will cause you pain, and that’s the only thing I truly regret. But I hope one day you’ll come to see that what I do now, at least, I do out of love. You were my heart, darling sister—the only one I had left.
George
Emma brought the letter to her forehead, which she’d dropped to meet it, as sobs wracked her.
She felt Derick’s arms settle around her shoulders. “Come, Emma,” he murmured.
She covered her face with her hands, but allowed him to lead her away from the bed, through an interior doorway into a small sitting room. Once inside, Derick opened his arms to her. He said nothing, only folded her into his embrace, cocooned her in bergamot and bay, in him, and held her while she wept.
She wept for poor Molly Simms and her parents. She wept for Lady Scarsdale and for Moreau. And she wept for herself, for the loss of her brother—regardless of what he’d done, he had been her only family.
When she felt strong enough to pull back, she held the letter out before her with a hand that shook. “But…but he doesn’t say why…” She took a shuddering breath, trying to regain her composure. “How can I ever quantify it when I don’t understand why?”
Derick caressed her face, wiping tears away with his thumbs. “We may never know why, Emma.”
“But I don’t understand,” she cried. “How could George and I be so very different? It doesn’t fit either side of the argument! Our blood was the same and we grew up with the same advantages. Yes, maybe his stroke exacerbated some evil part of his personality, but he was committing treason before then. How can that be?”
Derick slowly shook his head as he continued to stroke her skin. “I don’t know.”
The enormity of all that had happened today settled on Emma’s chest with a crushing weight. She struggled to breathe. “Everything is gone, Derick. George. My position as de facto magistrate. Even the work I’ve dedicated years of my life to makes no sense to me anymore.” She dropped her chin, resting her head heavily in his palms as she closed her eyes. “Has it all been for naught? Have I just been tilting at pinwheels all of this time?”
Derick’s barking laugh startled her so, she snapped her head back up and opened her eyes to stare at him. “Pinwheels?” A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest and echoed through the room. “I think you mean ‘windmills,’ love.”
Emma huffed, the laugh starting low and haltingly in her stomach. But it quickly bubbled forth until she was gasping with it. “Windmills. Of course,” she said on a hiccup, which made them laugh all the harder.
It felt good to release some of her angst, to dispel a little of the tension that had strangled her. It felt even better when Derick hugged her to him as their laughter subsided.
“All I know,” Derick said, “is that people are complex, messy…not all of them will fit neatly into your equations, regardless of which argument ultimately proves to be true.” Derick gently tipped her face back to look at him. “But your project? Your passion for it will never be for naught. I believe you can make things better, Emma. You can give people opportunities to make good choices—and I believe you should, because some of them will.”
Emma pondered his words. Could the answers really be somewhere in the middle? And even if they were, did that make what she was trying to accomplish any less important? Or less effective?
“But some of them won’t, Emma. And you can’t choose for them.”
Any good humor that still lingered in Emma’s heart fled. No, she couldn’t. Just look at her brother. George had had every opportunity and he’d chosen to become a traitor. She dropped her head back to Derick’s chest, defeated. He would have to tell his superiors, of course. There would be an inquest…She couldn’t even imagine how horrible the next few weeks would be. Maybe Derick would stay in England until it was all finished, to see his duty through. Maybe she wouldn’t have to be alone through it all.
She needed him. Needed his friendship at least.
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She held no illusions that Derick would still want her for his wife, even if she would go to America with him. He might feel some love for her, but look at how he painted himself with his parents’ sins just because he carried their blood. How much more would he hate that she shared blood with a traitor? He would abhor even the thought of having a family with her.
“What happens now?” she murmured against his chest.
“Now,” he said, gently prying the vial she still held from her and dropping it into his pocket, “we inform the staff that your brother has succumbed to another, more massive stroke.”
Emma stepped back so she could see Derick’s face clearly. “What?”
“We bury him in the morning, quietly.”
“But your superiors…”
“It will be enough for them that I assure them the traitor has been neutralized. Only you, me and Moreau know what really happened, Emma. There’s no reason for you to suffer any more than you have.”
Emma considered for a moment, relief washing through her. Until…“Molly Simms’ parents deserve to know the truth of what happened to their daughter.”
Derick nodded. “All right. But there’s no need to name your brother as the traitor. We’ll simply tell them what happened and that the traitor has been caught and executed. Knowing the way gossip spreads in a small town, people will blame Moreau, since he was a stranger here. But he’ll be long gone by then.”
She widened her eyes. “What about Harding?”
“I’ll continue to hunt for the man. If he wants to stay in Derbyshire, the story we’ll tell the Simms family should clear his name. If not, we’ll offer him a job on one of our other estates, let him start fresh.”
“We’ll?” Emma blinked, hope daring to push out the darkness clouding her heart. “Our? Does…does that mean you still want me to come with you to America?”
But Derick shook his head slowly. “No, Emma.”
She hadn’t thought she had any more room for pain inside her tonight, but she’d been wrong. It pushed out even the breath from her lungs.
“I want us to make our home in England.”
Emma sucked air in through her nose. “I—what about my tainted blood?”
Derick gently tucked a finger under her chin. “You don’t believe that nonsense,” he reminded her.
“But you do,” she reminded him right back.
“I’m not so sure anymore,” he said. “You’ve given me much to consider in the past weeks, Emma.” And then he told her what he’d learned about his parents today. He finished with a shrug. “Perhaps my blood is not as black as I thought.”
She opened her mouth, but he moved his fingers to her lips to shush her.
“I meant what I said a moment ago. I’m beginning to believe our lives come down to the choices we make.” He dropped his hand back to his side. “I can accept that I chose to become everything that I did. I also think I can make my peace with it, given time,” he finished.
“I’m glad,” she said as a single tear leaked from her eye. If anyone deserved peace, it was Derick.
Emma took a deep breath, then another. Could it be that all would be well? That after everything they had experienced and been—in their pasts, in their presents—she and Derick could choose happiness together? And by choosing it, make it so?
Lightness ballooned inside her, lifting her spirits higher and higher…until a dampening thought popped it. “But what of your feeling that England is not your home? I wouldn’t wish you to be unhappy.” Even if she had to leave behind everything she knew.
“My home is where my heart is, Emma.” Derick took her hand and brought it to his chest, then placed his hand over her heart. “And my heart is here with you. If you want to stay in Derbyshire, we will. If you would rather come to Shropshire, we’ll live there.”
“Truly?” she whispered.
“Truly,” he answered. And yet, despite his assurance, she sensed he would not be happy in either place. She didn’t even know if she would be happy in Derbyshire anymore, not after all that had happened.
Upper Derbyshire would always hold a special place in her heart—it was her birthplace, the home of her youth. It was where she’d first met Derick and fallen in love with him. It was where he’d come back and fallen in love with her. Yet maybe they needed to start fresh, too. Make new memories. With him, she realized she wasn’t afraid to try. But perhaps they wouldn’t have to go so far as the Americas.
“Can we move to London?” she asked. “I hear there’s a terrible crime problem that could use some serious analysis.”
Derick’s quick grin flashed, telling her he liked the idea. “London? I don’t know if Bow Street and the House of Lords are ready for the lady magistrate and the French viscount…”
“So we’ll practice a little deception,” Emma said, hugging him tightly to her. “We’ll pretend to be plain old Lord and Lady Scarsdale. By the time they figure out we’re not exactly what we seem…” She shrugged.
Derick’s booming laugh filled her with joy. “I love you, Pygmy.”
She poked him playfully in the chest. “How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t call me Pyg—”
But he cut her off with a kiss, and the last thing Emma could remember thinking was that if he kissed her like that, he could call her whatever he wanted.
Epilogue
September, 1819—The London town house of Lord and Lady Scarsdale
Derick slipped unnoticed into Emma’s study, melting into the shadows along the far wall. It wasn’t even a challenge, as she didn’t pay him a bit of mind. No, she was standing at her blackboards, lost in her equations.
Her cheeks were dusted with green, blue and white, with a dot of pinkish-red on her nose for good measure. A smile of satisfaction crept over his face. He wouldn’t have her any other way.
He slid quietly behind Emma and waited until she lowered her hand and stepped back to study her work. He held his breath for a few long seconds and then snaked his arms around her from behind.
“Oh!” she shrieked, instinctively clasping her hands over his across her middle. “Curse your damnably silent spy footsteps,” she muttered, but there was laughter in her voice.
He turned her in his arms, affectionately wiping chalk dust from her nose with his thumb. “There was no need for stealth, my love,” he chuckled. “The clacking of chalk on board was so loud an elephant could have snuck up on you.”
He eyed the board she’d been working on. Her strokes seemed different than usual…harsh and heavy-handed. Almost angry. “Is something bothering you, Emma? I know you’re disappointed that Parliament refused to institute a nationalized system of crime reporting, but Stratford won’t give up. He’ll be back at them again next season, you can be assured.”
Emma blew out a breath, fluttering a lock of chestnut hair that had come loose from the knot at the back of her neck. “Yes, of course. I know he will, and I am disappointed, but…”
Her shoulders slumped and she brought a hand up to rub at her eyes.
Alarm clenched Derick’s gut. He took a closer look at her face, noted the dark circles shadowing her eyes. “Emma, what is it?”
Her brows dipped and her lower lip began to tremble. “I don’t know,” she cried plaintively. “Maybe I’m fighting some melancholy.” Her amber eyes filled with tears and a sharp ache squeezed in his throat as his unease mounted. Emma rarely cried. “I just don’t feel myself. And I’m so tired all of the time…”
Derick tipped her face up, staring at her for a long moment with concern. Then he let his gaze travel over the rest of her body. Was it a trick of the light, or did he detect a subtle rounding…Of course! He closed his eyes, his body relaxing as fear left him only to be replaced by an elation that filled his entire chest. He couldn’t contain the grin that split his face.
Emma frowned. “This makes you happy?” she grumbled.
“Yes.”
His darling wife actually scowled at him then. “I don’t understand.
”
“I know.” He glanced up at her blackboards. “Here, let me put it in a language you will understand.”
He felt Emma’s eyes on his back as he picked up a piece of her chalk. A few strokes later, he stepped back to Emma’s side. “There.”
Emma narrowed her eyes on his equation.
1 + 1 = 3
“One plus one equals three?” she scoffed. “That makes no sense at all,” she said, planting her arms akimbo on her hips.
“It does if one is you,” he said slowly. “And the other one is me…”
He waited patiently as his brilliant, literal wife worked it out.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening as she comprehended his meaning. One of her hands instinctively cradled her stomach. “Oh, do you think?”
“I do,” he said, reaching for her. He hugged her tightly to him and simply breathed her in.
“A baby,” she murmured against his chest.
“Indeed.” Derick tried to imagine what it would be like, having a child of his own. Would he get to relive his youth, only this time through the eyes of his own son or daughter? “Perhaps we could spend summers in Derbyshire,” he said, surprising himself.
“Do you mean it?” Emma said, turning up her face to look at him.
Neither he nor Emma had been back there for more than a day or two since they’d married. Maybe it was time.
“Well, we had such fun running those woods together. I just thought…it would be a shame not to share that with our children. The creeks—”
“My cave,” Emma interjected, a smile lighting her face.
“My cave,” he retorted. Then he huffed as another thought occurred. “You know, if it’s a boy, the viscountcy will finally have some English blood in it again, if not that of a true Aveline.”
