Sweet Deception by Heather Snow Read Free Book Online Page B

supposed the man didn’t keep a salver at the ready. But being in the country did not excuse keeping a viscount waiting on the front stoop.
    Derick cleared his throat, acting his part. “Lord Wallingford?” he drawled. “I have magistratorial business to discuss with him.”
    The statement seemed to shake the butler from his stupor. The door opened wide and Derick stepped into the marbled entry.
    “If you’ll come this way, my lord, I’ll fetch…the magistrate.” The butler ushered Derick into a spacious sitting room and bowed out the door.
    When the door clicked shut, Derick made a quick turn about the room, taking stock. Nothing of any obvious evidentiary value lay about, but he hadn’t expected it would. However, one could learn many beneficial tidbits about a home’s owner just by small observations.
    Derick removed to the far corner, taking in the space as a whole. While it was grand, it was sparsely decorated. There were no trappings of wealth anywhere in the room. In fact, the Aubusson rug, woven in the Oriental style, was thin in spots, the colors badly faded. The warm leather of the wingback chairs near the open fireplace showed signs of heavy use and little balls of fabric clung to the worn chintz of the settees.
    He ran his hands over the frayed material of a chaise. This was the main parlor, the face Wallingford showed to the world. The man was clearly suffering from some financial distress. Telling…but by no means definitive. While most treason was motivated by money, not all was. He hoped, in this case, it wasn’t about money. It sickened Derick to think that someone who had fought alongside the very soldiers he went on to betray would do it simply for gold. Hell, it sickened him that he would do it at all.
    If, indeed, Wallingford was the traitor. Derick would have to worm his way further into the house to look for more evidence. Most likely, Wallingford would invite him into the study or library to discuss the maid’s murder, which should give him a larger view. And he could always resort to a late-night exploration if he must.
    His imagination flashed a vision of him happening across Emma, tucked into her bed in nothing but a flimsy night rail. What would she look like, her features relaxed in sleep, her hair down and spread across her pillow? Derick’s entire body tightened like a fist as his mind emptied of all thoughts but her. Her temptingscent would alter with her skin warmed from sleep, would sweeten tantalizingly like nectar.
    Derick caught himself taking a deep breath. Damnation. This was precisely why he shouldn’t be around Emma. He hadn’t physically seen the woman in hours and yet he was thoroughly distracted, which made no sense whatsoever. He didn’t even
like
her. And he was determined to stop letting her interfere with the role he was here to play.
    The door clicked, and Derick’s mind snapped back to the charade at hand. He stepped from behind the chaise to greet Lord Wallingford, a droll greeting on his lips.
    His mouth snapped shut as Emma, not Wallingford, strode into the room, her skirts swishing behind her. She stopped abruptly only a scant two feet from him, her eyes traveling his length.
    Her sudden nearness hummed in his veins. Damn, but those eyes of hers made a man feel she could see right through him. Derick fought the ridiculous urge to step back from her frank perusal. He had no reason for concern—he knew exactly what she would see. He’d planned every detail.
    Gold buttons winked in the sun that beamed through the massive windows, his burgundy-and-cream-striped waistcoat contrasted nicely with his buff pantaloons, and his black Hessians fair gleamed. While he’d never go so far as to polish them with champagne, as Brummel had so famously espoused, Derick would challenge the man himself to find any other fault with his presentation.
    And that’s what it was—the pretentious clothing, the intricately tied neck cloth, the close-shaven face, the precisely