Free Sweet Deception by Heather Snow Page B

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.

Chapter Five
     
    “’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 woollycaterpillars. “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