Sweet Deception (17 page)

Hell. He hadn’t meant to say anything of the sort. It had just burst out of him, the truth. Because he’d wanted to disillusion her noble ideals of him? Because he couldn’t stand the way she’d been looking at him, all soft and admiring?

Derick pushed back from the table, the wood legs of
his chair screeching a high pitch against the floor. He paced away, leaving Emma seated there staring at him as if he’d suddenly shrunk a foot and a half and morphed into Napoleon himself.

“I did,” he said quietly, the weight of his words falling dully in the room. “I won’t explain my reasons, so don’t ask.” How could he explain that angry young man, who’d just learned his entire identity had been a lie? That he
was French
, through and through, thanks to a cuckolding, faithless mother and her French lover? That he was an impostor, a bloody British aristocrat without a drop of English blood in his body. He’d been lost, broken, confused—easy prey for the persuasive tactics of the French. “Nor do I regret it,” he said softly.

He turned to face Emma, expecting to see disgust marring her beautiful face. Instead, she gaped at him, her brow furrowed and her gaze calculating—as if she stubbornly refused to believe she’d been wrong about him.

And that blessed Pygmy stubbornness lightened his heart, lifting the cloud of anger and darkness that had settled over him. Derick sighed. In a way, she
had
been right about him.

“I don’t regret it,” he repeated more forcefully, “because had I not gone over to the French, I never would have become as useful to the British as I did.”

He waited for Emma to work out his words. The stark relief that crossed her face when she did caught at him. Did she want to believe such good about him? Why did it matter to her?

“You became a
double
agent, then? But for
our
side?”

“For England’s side,” he demurred. He was no more British than Fouché. “It took only a matter of days for me to come to my senses, to realize I could no more betray the country of my birth than I could change the blood flowing through my veins.”

He lowered himself back into his chair, taking a deep swallow of wine. Well, this discussion hadn’t quite gone as he’d intended, had it? He slanted his gaze to Emma, who was now looking at him with a mixture of pity and understanding that both set his teeth on edge and filled him with an absurd relief at the same time.

He’d never spoken of that time in his life. For some unfathomable reason, it felt right to be sharing it with the closest thing he’d had to a childhood friend. Now, before he left England and this life behind him forever.

“The French thought it best to leave me rotting away with the other British prisoners for a while, so as not to alert them of my change of allegiance. Sent me back, eyes blackened, lips split and bleeding, body bruised and broken.” He snorted. “A hero of British resistance.” Derick’s lips twisted in recall. “Smart of them, really. Within a week, I’d been welcomed by the leaders of the British rebellion. I was meant to uncover their secret plans and report back to the French, but instead, I told them the truth of my situation and offered my service to England.”

“They accepted you at your word?” Emma asked shrewdly.

“Not at first,” he admitted. “For many months I was tested sorely by both sides.” He shuttered his eyes, refusing to open himself to discussion on that front. “But in the end I won the trust of each. And I used it.”

Silence fell once again between them. While he didn’t care for the contemplative gleam in Emma’s eyes, the stillness wasn’t uncomfortable. Until he began to wonder what, exactly, she was thinking. Then his body tensed, as if he were a garrote wire pulled tightly, waiting for the right moment to take an enemy by surprise.

It seemed an hour before she finally spoke, though in truth it was likely less than a minute.

“So, now that your wartime service to our country is behind you,” Emma said, “what are your plans?”

Surprise flickered through Derick. He’d expected Emma to bury him under a barrage of inquiries now that he’d opened the door. She had to be curious about what he’d done, how he’d done it. Not that he would have answered her truthfully, but he’d certainly thought she’d ask. “No more questions about my past?”

But she just shook her head in a slow side-to-side motion. “No,” she murmured, her face serious, somber. “I know everything I need to know.”

Now what did that mean?

“Will you be settling in Shropshire, then?” she persisted. “At your seat?”

“I haven’t decided,” he lied. There was nothing to be gained by telling her the truth in this instance. That as soon as this last mission for the Crown was completed—and now, Molly’s killer brought to justice—he intended to depart for the Americas. To make a life for himself where his birth,
his blood
, truly
didn’t
matter. For now, it was best just to let her believe what she expected of an English viscount.

“You have no particular loyalty to that property?”

He shrugged.

“I imagine after years of such…intrigue, the life of a viscount must seem tame indeed,” she mused.

“On the contrary,” Derick murmured. “I grew tired of the deception. I would embrace a quiet life.” Indeed, he looked forward to losing himself in the vast, untamed wilderness of the Americas.

Emma’s gaze dropped to her lap.

Derick frowned. It wasn’t like her to go all shy and wilting. “Mmm.” She nodded. He knew Emma better than to think she asked idle questions. And he had a suspicion he knew where she was going with this.

Her gaze rose to him. “You could make your home here,” she said, confirming his fears. She took a deep breath before saying the rest. “In Derbyshire.”

“D
erbyshire…” Derick repeated. Damnation. That kiss between them today had been a mistake. Now that he knew Emma had carried a
tendre
for him, he could see why she might think there was hope, given how out of control their kiss had gotten.

“Yes.” She nodded. “It would be
very
quiet, and yet you could lead a useful existence.” Emma’s normally calm, sedate voice rose in speed and pitch in her enthusiasm. “Heroic as you are, you must be looking for new ways to be of service.”

“I must, must I?” He grew more awkward as the conversation went on. He really should disabuse her of any romantic notions.
Heroic.
He fought the urge to snort. If she only knew what he’d done to accomplish his great successes as a spy.

But that way of life was behind him. Or was it? He’d vowed to himself at the end of the war never again to use a woman’s desire for him solely to get information from her. Given how Emma had responded to his kiss, Derick knew it would be easy to exploit her in that way and he intended under no circumstances to do so. But now he was faced with a new dilemma. Her feelings for
him apparently ran much deeper than desire. Since there could be no future between them, if he allowed her to hope there might be to suit his purposes, wouldn’t he still be breaking his vow, if not technically, then at least in spirit?

“Well, I know that the Earl of Stratford holds the magistrate position near your seat, being the highest-ranking nobleman,” she went on, oblivious to the ethical turmoil going on in his mind. “But if you made your home here, you would outrank my brother, and therefore be his logical successor.”

“Don’t you mean
your
logical successor? Why ever would you wish that?”

“I don’t, exactly. Nor would I expect you to just waltz in and usurp me.” She fixed him with a stern gaze. But after a moment it softened. “I was thinking more along the line of a…business partnership.”

“A business partnership…” Hell. This unexpected development was both the best and the worst at the same time. When Emma had voiced her suspicions about him being a spy this afternoon, he’d been certain that his mission was shot. He’d taken a risk being truthful with her, but he’d expected that she would become wary of him once she knew the truth, forcing him to try to win her trust anew. And yet, here she was, attempting to draw him further in.

“It would be perfect,” she said with a growing enthusiasm that stabbed him with guilt. “If
you
were the official magistrate, I would no longer have to worry about my and my brother’s secret being discovered.”

Ah. He supposed that particular fear was a burden for her to carry.

“I won’t be able to hide it forever,” she said simply, confirming his thought. “At least you would be the demon I know.”

“Demon?” Derick protested, even as he lifted one corner of his mouth in a wicked half-grin. “I do believe
you mean ‘the devil you know.’ Though I can’t say I care for being likened to the Prince of Darkness any more than I do one of his minions.”

She shrugged, as if to say “if the sock fits.”

He snorted to himself. He’d been around Emma too much—he was now mangling her metaphors for her.

“Besides”—Emma reached across the table and grabbed him again, not in comfort but in her bid to persuade him. A sizzle of heat shot through Derick as he imagined myriad ways he would rather have her try to persuade him, despite his best intentions—“we’ve proven we work well together. You have skills that I desire to learn, and I have superior knowledge of the people and the area. We would make a formidable team.”

“A team, eh?” In the terms of his mission, he’d be a fool not to take advantage of what she was offering, for as long as necessary. Of course, he would never make his home in Derbyshire. But Emma didn’t have to know that. He could accept her “partnership” as a trial. The more closely they worked together, the more natural his other questions would seem. And the less obvious his nosing around would appear.

But what of the other concern? Well, it wouldn’t be breaking his personal vow, he decided, to go along to a point—it wasn’t as if he was going to sleep with Emma to get what he needed, and he would be extra-careful with her tender feelings now that he was fully aware of them.

He would also do what he could to help her. He could try to leverage what connections he had to make sure she didn’t have to worry about being replaced as magistrate. The government owed him much. He could also talk to his friend Geoffrey, Lord Stratford, about Emma’s situation, see what the influential earl could do for her—if any peer understood how capable a brilliant woman could be, it was Stratford, who was married to a lady chemist. And, the earl’s political star was rising fast.

Derick nodded to himself. Yes, that could work. Once he’d done what he’d come to do and departed England, Emma would be no worse off than she was right now—she might even be in a better position. That would make up for any small heartache she might feel upon his departure.

“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?”