Sweet Deception (8 page)

Emma stopped pacing and searched his face, desperate to know what he was thinking. But she was met with inscrutability.

“And what is your brother’s condition now?” Derick asked, his gaze hooded.

Emma struggled to put into words what it was like to live with George. “The closest thing I can think to describe
my brother is to compare him to an aged person who suffers from dementia. There are days when George seems almost himself, and aside from his being confined to a rolling chair, I can almost believe he’d never had the stroke—although those days are fewer and further between. Other days, he doesn’t know his own name.” Those were the hardest times, when he stared at her as if she were a stranger…sometimes even acting afraid of her. “Some days, he can remember everything about our lives, but others…he can’t remember what he had for breakfast.” A sigh escaped her. “Then there are the times where he’s completely unable to communicate, sometimes for days, even weeks at a time. Those are rare, too, thank God, though he’s been in one of those spells for much of the last month.”

“I’m sorry, Pygmy,” he said softly. “It must be very difficult for you.”

“Don’t call me that.” She didn’t want his pity. She wanted him to keep her secret and leave her brother in peace. “Besides, having my brother only part of the time is better than having no one at all,” she whispered.

“I see,” he said as he strode toward the door. “I must think on this.”

Emma followed, unable to let him just leave without knowing his intentions. She reached out and grabbed his elbow.

“Must think on what?”

He turned back, his eyes roving her face, searching for something.

Emma quickly released her grip even as she tightened her lips and straightened her shoulders, determined not to show him her worry.

“This is a highly unusual circumstance,” he said, finally. “I must decide what is best all around.”

How utterly arrogant! And unfair. And completely like a man. “And what makes
you
thusly qualified to make such a decision?” The words flew out of her mouth,
as they so often did, and immediately she wished to bite them back. It never paid for the mouse to anger the lion who held her in his paw.

His green gaze held hers for so long, she thought she could distinguish a dozen subtle verdant shades in his glittering irises. “So very many things,” he said finally, enigmatic. “I will return in the morning, at ten. I expect to see your brother then, to determine for myself the truth of the circumstances. Then you and I will discuss what is to be done.”

Derick stepped through the entrance of the town’s largest inn and pub, the Swan and Stag. It was the fourth such establishment he’d visited today in his effort to learn what he needed to without having to deal with Emma Wallingford.

He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Even now, just the thought of her set his body on edge. Damnation. Well, at least the madness between them wasn’t one-sided. Wouldn’t it have been ironic, though, if the first woman he’d felt true desire for in years felt nothing for him? But Emma wanted him. Oh, she might pretend she loathed him, but he’d picked up all the signs of her attraction…the soft melting against him, the subtle shift of her scent, the way her amber eyes had darkened with desire. He’d wager that whatever little Pygmy was doing right now, she was doing it with him on her mind. He could take some solace in that.

He wasn’t sure what to think about what he’d learned today about Emma’s brother. If the man was as incapacitated as she let on, Derick didn’t see how he could be the traitor. While many of the secrets had been passed prior to Wallingford’s accident, the information had continued to flow long after it. He would have to reserve judgment until he met the man, of course. Emma had certainly done her best to ensure that he wouldn’t get that chance today. Had she succeeded in keeping Farnsworth
from her brother? Could that be one of the reasons this mission was still unresolved?

And why the hell hadn’t Farnsworth made contact by now? There was always the chance he’d picked up another trail that had led him away from here. But if he had moved on, why hadn’t he sent word to the War Department?

Well, Derick wasn’t moving on until he had some answers. And since Farnsworth hadn’t come to him, he had decided to look for the man himself.

Derick stepped up to the bar. The pleasantly earthy scents of wood fire, meat stew and spilled ale filled the air, as did murmurs of conversation and the occasional guffawing laugh. And yet, as Derick stood waiting to be acknowledged, the lull of voices died out. He could feel the curious stares heavy upon his back. He loosened his shoulders to appear casually relaxed and pretended not to notice, withdrawing a coin from his purse and lazily placing it on the surface of the bar. It clicked loudly against the scarred wood, drawing the pub owner’s attention. The portly man was of middle years, and had the aches of one much older, if his slow, shuffling gait was any indication. As he approached Derick, the man lifted his chin, setting excess skin to jiggling.

“I’m looking for a man,” Derick said. “He may have been in town off and on the past couple of months. Have you noticed anyone who doesn’t belong?”

The owner flicked his eyes to the coin, but didn’t move to take it. Then he ran his gaze over Derick. “I notice plenty of people who don’t belong here.” He used the cloth he held in his hamlike fist to polish nonexistent dirt from the bar. “Lots of travelers come through, m’lord, to see the sights o’ the Peak District,” he went on, just quickly enough that he could claim he hadn’t meant any insult. But Derick knew better.

He kept his eyes on the bar owner, resisting the urge
to glance around at the other patrons. He knew what he’d see—all of them staring back at him. Some discreetly, some openly, but all of them with a distrusting bent to their expressions. The war may have been over for two years now, but as far as these villagers were concerned, he was half French and, worse, had been in France during most of the conflict.

It had been like that in the last three pubs he’d visited. He’d never experienced anything quite like it, and he had to admit it rankled. But he thought he knew the problem. Most of his missions over the years had been on the Continent. People hadn’t known him, nor had they cared for anything save for the fact that he was a rich and dashing aristocrat. They’d taken him at face value, accepting whatever image he projected.

But now that he was back in England? Everyone had some expectation of him. It was probably worse here. These villagers didn’t know him either, but they
thought
they did. His family had lived, at least part of the year, in upper Derbyshire for centuries. He’d spent many of his early years here, and every summer of his youth after his mother had been banished from the family seat in Shropshire to the castle. No telling what kind of stories they’d made up to explain why he’d left and never returned. They all had their own ideas of what he must have been up to in France during the war, too. While their theories might vary, the conclusion was the same: he was not to be trusted.

Most times, he found ironic humor in the fact that people suspected him of being a traitor when it had been his position for more than a decade to bring traitors to justice. But he didn’t find it funny today.

“Yes, well,” Derick said, injecting a heavy dose of authority into his tone. “I’m only looking for one. Now, you seem to be a man who knows this area and those who pass through it well. Can you think of any who might be the man I’m seeking?”

The barkeep lowered his eyes. The man might not trust him, but he hesitated at openly denying a viscount. His thick fingers flashed over the bar to swipe the coin. “Perhaps. There’s two or three who come to mind.”

Derick raised a black brow. Then he plucked another coin from his pocket and set it on the bar.

“One in particular who might be who you’re after. ’Bout ’alf a ’ead shorter than you. Dark ’air.”

That was the right height for Farnsworth, though the man was blond. Of course, he could be in one of many disguises, and it was much easier to darken one’s hair with coal dust than to lighten it. It sounded promising.

“Is he lodging here?” Derick asked as a pretty barmaid stepped up and held up two fingers.

The beefy man shook his head at Derick and moved to pour two pints of ale for the waiting barmaid to deliver. “No. Only came in once—I wasn’t even the one to talk to ’im. I just ’ear everything, you understand? I don’t know where ’e might be staying, or if ’e’s even still in town.”

Damn. “What makes you think he’s the man I’m looking for, versus the others, then?”

The man looked up from the tap and pinned him with a shrewd gaze. “Cause ’e was going around town asking all sorts of questions about Lady Scarsdale, round about the time she threw ’erself off of the cliffs.”

Derick felt as if the man had poured that cold ale over his head. Farnsworth had been asking questions about
his
mother? “When exactly?” he asked, keeping his voice calm, showing no reaction. “Was it before or after she…died?”

The man didn’t answer for a long moment, and instead watched Derick carefully. Then he shrugged and dropped his eyes back to his task—apparently recognizing that Derick wasn’t going to give him any additional fodder for the village gossip mill. “I can’t say. It was a couple of months ago, and like I said, I didn’t ’ear it first’and.”

That was a development he hadn’t expected. He would have liked to know more, but he knew he wouldn’t get anything else out of the barkeep today. “If you hear of, or see him again, send word to the castle right off.”

“M’lord.”

Derick strode away from the bar, his frustration brewing. Aside from this bit he’d heard from the owner of the Swan and Stag, he’d come up empty everywhere today. People didn’t want to talk to him. All he could do now was wait for Farnsworth to come to him, if indeed the agent was still in upper Derbyshire, and visit George Wallingford in the morning to see where that trail might lead.

And he might have to accept that working with Emma was his only option if he wanted to finish this mission and get out of here.

“’T
is bloody frigid in here,” George Wallingford grumbled, his voice rusty with disuse. Still, it had been more than a week since Emma had heard her brother string a proper sentence together. She was so glad to hear it that she wouldn’t dream of taking issue with the ungentlemanly word choice.

Emma tucked a wool blanket gently beneath George’s thighs and positioned his rolling chair as near the crackling fire as she dared. The west-facing parlor was a touch chilly this morning, but even in the heart of the hottest summer, George often complained of being cold.

A bittersweet smile pulled at Emma’s lips. Fiery, robust—even hot-blooded—were words she’d often heard growing up to describe George. Never cold.

Emma scoffed at that ridiculous thought. George was cold now due simply to the lack of blood flowing through his body, as he’d been bound to his chair for some years. ’Twas a physical reality, nothing more. But the contradiction still saddened her.

“There, George,” she said, wrapping a second blanket around his shoulders. “You’ll be warm in no time.”

His unruly chestnut brows inched together like woolly
caterpillars. “Tell me why I’ve been spruced up and rolled out here like a display piece.” The ghost of his old wry grin flitted over his face before confusion clouded his gaze again. The backs of Emma’s eyes pricked at the hint of the rascal he’d been before his affliction.

She sighed. There was nothing for it but the truth.

“Viscount Scarsdale is in residence at Aveline Castle, and…” She bit her lip. She couldn’t tell her brother the
whole
truth as to why Derick really wished to see him. He would be mortified, if he even comprehended the precariousness of their situation. But neither would he be happy with any other excuse she came up with. He and Derick had never been contemporaries, as George was fourteen years Derick’s senior. But they likely
had
run in similar circles, and George hated the idea of
anyone
seeing him as he’d become. Still, she dared not put Derick off. She wanted the matter settled. She had put off looking for Molly’s killer long enough. “…He would like to pay his respects.”

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.”