Ah, the source of the mysterious voice, he’d wager. The woman stood at the head of the table, but he could not see her face, as she was leaning over a large square of paper that was rolled out across the polished mahogany. Her position made it difficult to gauge her height as well, but there was no mistaking the ample curves her simple muslin dress couldn’t hide.
Her well-tailored frock was a vibrant green, the dye not faded as a castoff would be. A lady of quality, then. One slender hand braced her as she marked furiously upon the paper. The tilt of her head and the way she held herself in determined focus niggled at his memory. Derick tried to place her, but locks of chestnut hair had slipped her coiffure, obscuring even her profile from him.
He turned his attention to the paper and squinted in the low light. That looked suspiciously like— A discarded frame propped up against the wall caught his attention then. His eyes snapped back to the table, to the blotchy-inked areas the mystery woman was currently drawing lines through.
She was scribbling all over an irreplaceable Burnett map of the countryside that his grandfather had commissioned over a half century ago.
He should have been appalled. But Derick had long ago shed any care for the trappings of the viscountcy. Instead he eyed the scene with detached curiosity, angling for the best way to use it to his purposes. Hmmm. Outrage would be precisely what people would expect of the pampered aristocrat persona he typically used for these missions. And Little Miss Map Despoiler had given him the perfect opening. All he had to do was take to the stage she’d inadvertently set for him.
“What the devil are you doing?” he barked as he pushed off from the wall. His exclamation had the desired effect. A chorus of gasps registered, but Derick ignored them as he reached the head of the table in three long strides and snatched the priceless map from atop it.
He rolled the map with deceptive casualness, the dry paper making a hissing sound against his palms in the now otherwise silent room. He raised a brow and injected a supercilious tone into his voice as he turned to the woman standing frozen before him.
“Do you mind telling me just who you are”—his gaze traveled up her body in an intentionally arrogant perusal—“and why you are vandalizing my property?”
The last word caught in his throat as his eyes finally reached hers.
A flash of memory came, of a scrawny blond pest who’d trailed behind him every summer like an unwanted hound, a little hoyden with unforgettably wide amber eyes.
No longer a blonde, he noted.
And no longer a girl, his baser side chimed in. Derick pressed his lips together, hard. Damnation. The neighbor girl, Miss Wallingford.
Anna? Ella? No, Emma. Derick was surprised he recalled her Christian name. He’d always just called her Pygmy. She’d hated the nickname, thinking he poked fun at her tiny stature. There was that, but he’d really given her the moniker because her golden eyes and tenacious nature had reminded him of the pygmy owlets who hunted these hills at twilight.
She was apparently still a pest—and one who was already interfering with his plans, even if she couldn’t possibly know it.
Miss Wallingford’s wide gaze narrowed, and her mouth flattened in what was certainly pique.
Derick waited for her answer, tapping the rolled-up map against the highly polished mahogany tabletop in feigned irritation.
Well, mostly feigned. This wasn’t quite the foot he’d hoped to get off on with Miss Wallingford. As sister of the local magistrate, she could prove integral to his mission. He’d intended to call on her at her home, play on their childhood friendship—if one could call it that—to gain better access to her brother. Not snap her head off in front of a room full of witnesses.
But what was done was done. Derick had learned long ago that the key to a good deception was to always go on as one had begun. He’d brazen through, play his part, and find a way to sweeten Miss Wallingford later.
Emma Wallingford had never felt so riveted to one spot in her entire life. It was as if she were carved out of marble, much like the statues of the Greek scholars she’d so admired on her only trip to London. Move Emma, you ninny!
What was this abominable awareness? It was only Derick. Her stomach fluttered and Emma amended that thought. Yes, it was Derick, but he was also… more. His hair was still black as night, thick and unruly, yet the lines of his face were more angular now, more chiseled. His shoulders seemed wider, his hips more narrow. His eyes hadn’t changed, though. They still glittered like fiery emeralds and still gazed at her as if she were the bane of his existence, sent by Hades himself with the express purpose of bedeviling him.
“My—my Lord.” Billingsly, Aveline Castle’s aged butler, brushed past her, his stooped form cutting through her line of sight, rescuing her from Derick’s hard green gaze. Emma dropped her eyes to the floor, grateful for the moment to collect herself as the chaos of stammered excuses erupted around her.
His arrival shouldn’t be such a shock to her—the entire village knew he was due today. Only she hadn’t intended to come anywhere near Aveline Castle while he was in residence, but then Billingsly’s note had arrived and—
Emma gasped. How could she have forgotten?
Taking advantage of the continued distraction, she stepped forward and plucked the map from Derick’s loosened grasp, berating herself for her loss of focus. She spread it out on the table and resumed drawing the border she’d started. With dusk coming, time had become critical.
The voices around her stilled abruptly, and Emma swore she could feel Derick’s gaze boring into her more surely than Archimedes’ famed screw. Which was impossible, of course, as a mere gaze had no actual physical properties.
She didn’t look up from her task as she said, “I’m certain Lord Scarsdale will agree that explanations can wait until after we find his missing upstairs maid.”
Crack!
The sharp, sizzling pop of lightning served as harsh punctuation to her pronouncement. A low rumble of thunder followed quickly behind. Emma glanced over her shoulder at the window in time to see the first fat drops of a summer storm splash against the panes. Fig. If Molly were outside and injured… Emma mentally kicked herself for the bit of time she’d squandered mooning over a man who obviously didn’t even remember her. She returned her eyes to the table and scanned the map again.
“My missing upstairs maid?” Derick repeated, sounding dubious.
“Yes.” Without raising her gaze to him, Emma held up a hand to forestall any more questions. She ran her finger over the map. If her calculations were correct, the only feasible place Molly could be that they hadn’t already searched was this area to the east of—
“Miss Wallingford,” Derick growled in a voice that demanded her attention.
So he did remember her.
“As these are my resources you seem to be marshaling,” he said, “I expect an explanation.”
She looked up at him then, annoyed. Had he just referred to his staff, and some of hers for that matter, as his resources? Emma narrowed her eyes, considering the possible ramifications of ignoring him completely. She had more important things to do than appease his “lord of the manor” sensibilities, particularly when this lord hadn’t bothered to grace this manor with his presence in more than a dozen years.