Miss Cheney's Charade (12 page)

Emma struggled not to laugh. Dangerous outside? Nothing could be as
dangerous
as standing in this room with Sir Peter.

“Promise?” He walked at her side on the way to the front door. When Radley opened the door for her, she could see the same hackney waiting at the curb. She longed to make a mad dash for it and flee.

What could she have said in reply to Sir Peter’s offer? She knew enough to understand it was a great honor to be taught by the premier fencer in all of England. But what if he discovered she was a woman?

There was no way out. Emma bowed slightly, then said, “Fine. Perhaps next week?”

“You will enjoy it, I promise. I know I shall.”

Emma left the house, wondering precisely what he meant by that remark. Or was she being foolish to read all manner of things into a simple statement?

Once Emma had departed, Peter turned to his butler and announced, “Mr. George Cheney has agreed to allow me to teach him to fence, Radley.”

“But you never teach anyone, sir,” the butler replied in astonishment.

Peter rubbed his hands together with a certain feeling of glee. “I shall now.” A great deal hinged on Emma’s ability to learn the skill of a fencer. A great deal. He had plans for Emma Cheney.

* * * *

Across Mayfair, Emma ran up the stairs to where Lady Titheridge waited for her in the hall.

“Whatever has happened, dear girl? You are as white as a sheet!” Her ladyship placed an arm about Emma’s shoulders and strolled into the little bedroom with her.

“Oh, dear ma’am, such a disaster has befallen me!” Emma cried while stripping off her brother’s coat. Braddon hurried in and began to help Emma with the awkward clothing.

“I am all ears. Tell! You promised,” she reminded Emma.

“Sir Peter insists upon teaching me to fence!” Emma placed her hands on her hips and exchanged a worried look with her ladyship.

“Oh, dear.” Lady Titheridge sank down on the pretty little chair to contemplate the most recent catastrophe. “Does your brother not know how to fence?”

“George never had time to learn, as far as I recall. He always had his nose in books or was out digging for ancient objects, that sort of thing.” Emma slipped on her petticoat, then permitted Braddon to help her with her dress.

“I believe you must do this thing ... the fencing,” Lady Titheridge reflected. “He has a reason, whatever it might be.”

“Never say so, ma’am,” Emma declared with dismay.

“You are in far too deep at this point to quit, my dear,” her ladyship mused. “I fear you must see this thing through. You want above all to assist my nephew in saving his precious Egyptian collection. Such a sacrifice is nothing in comparison.”

Emma sank down upon the edge of the bed in utter consternation. “But what about the costume for fencing? I fear it will prove dreadfully shocking.”

“Not man to man, dear girl. Nothing shocks a man, or so I believe.”

Emma gave her ladyship a dubious look. “You want me to proceed with fencing lessons? This, in order to help Sir Peter?” Emma didn’t quite see the connection.

“If he needs assistance, you may find it useful... in repelling intruders or something of the sort,” her ladyship replied with maddening vagueness. “It would not harm you to know a form of self-defense.”

The image of herself clad in heaven-knew-what garb, fending off a burglar intent upon stealing the priceless Egyptian collection sounded pretty incredible to Emma.

“Remember Boadicea, Emma dear.”

“Heavens,” Emma murmured, thinking of the warrior queen of early Britain—the brave woman who had led a rebellion, nearly wiping out an entire Roman legion.

Chapter Seven

“This is what I am to wear?” Emma did not remember to use her brother’s voice when the shock of what her garments were to be when taking fencing lessons hit her. She brushed the clinging biscuit pantaloons off with a shaking hand. The white shirt was bad enough, but these ... they were indecent. When partly concealed beneath the coat, the fit was not as noticeable; indeed the coat covered a great part of her legs and ... posterior.

Fortunately, the frills on her shirt front helped to cover her right where she needed it most. There was no way one might disguise her legs when so exposed. No matter, the pantaloons were vastly comfortable, and the freedom of the shirt with its loose sleeves was marvelous. It was shocking. But for a young lady,
not
a man, she reminded herself. Only the leather face covering she wore tied about her head gave her any solace. If anyone was so rash as to enter the room while the lesson was in progress, he would never guess her identity.

“Perfectly respectable,” Sir Peter replied.

“Oh, quite, of course,” Emma said in a gruff voice, reminding herself that she must have no missish airs nor react to things as she might otherwise. Oh, she inwardly wailed, this was bound to be a disaster. The only good thing, if you could call it thus, was that Sir Peter did not permit anyone else in the room when he was teaching.

It sounded as though he must have had scores of pupils, and Emma knew she ought to be grateful that she would at last do something a man could do. What a pity she had to pretend every moment.

Her daydreams had never been like this. In them she had always been the fragile princess, cherished and adored, petted and loved. This fencing seemed a trifle too energetic, but then, Sir Peter was not the man of her dreams. He was odious, dictatorial ... and dangerous to know.

“I suppose you could wear your waistcoat if you like. A good many fellows do,” he added in an offhand way while strolling across to a case from which he drew a dueling sword, or épée.

Emma hastily donned her bright patterned waistcoat and felt a little better for it. Every layer of clothing offered her more protection.

He took another sword out, then turned to face Emma. He offered one sword to her. It was long, flexible, and had a button on the tip—to protect them from an accidental wound, she supposed.

“First we salute.” He brought his sword into a perpendicular position, point uppermost and guard close to and on a level with his chin. “Thus so,” he concluded.

Emma followed suit, feeling just a trifle silly. It looked so very serious, but then perhaps it was at times.

“Now, the first matter of importance is distance.”

Emma wondered how anyone with a nearsighted problem could fence if any distance was involved.

He continued, ignoring her abstraction. “It is of the utmost importance to keep a proper distance from your opponent at all times, both in attack and defense. Also, I will teach you how to gain ground on your opponent without exposing yourself to great danger.”

Emma could not refrain from a gasp of dismay. He ignored this.

“Now, you will shortly discover how to rectify this problem should you find yourself misjudging the distance. I will show you how to withdraw instantly to a safer position.” He gave her that reassuring smile of his. Emma wondered if it was the sort of look a fox gave a hen just before eating her.

“It all sounds most dangerous to me,” Emma muttered under her breath while positioning herself as he began to demonstrate.

“Your first position is the prime, or parry. It is called thus because of the sword being whipped out to defend oneself in the event of attack. It will protect the entire left side of the body from exposure to your opponent’s sword.” He made a slash through the air with his sword that looked like a dangerous action to Emma.

“If I stayed home, I’d not have to worry,” Emma said quietly, mostly to herself.

“Attention,” Sir Peter scolded.

Emma subsided immediately.

When she arose this morning, she had not guessed that she would be in a long narrow room, alone with Sir Peter, and garbed in just her pantaloons, waistcoat, and a ruffled shirt. She felt exposed and wondered if the leaping about that he began to demonstrate might not undo her carefully bound breasts. She decided she would not be terribly active.

“You position your arm thus,” he said with a glance at her. “The hand should be in line with the left shoulder and on the same level.”

Emma tried to duplicate his actions and failed.

“No, no,” he scolded patiently after she made several attempts. “Allow me.”

Her eyes grew large and most alarmed as Sir Peter placed his arms about her to correct her position.

“See here, the forearm should not be exactly at a right angle to the upper arm, but slightly in advance. The blade will be slanting forward, a trifle downward, never vertically. This is a common mistake for beginners, one I feel sure
you
will not make.” He guided her arm into the correct position with a gentle touch.

She could not find her voice to reply. He stood close to her, one arm about her, and then the dratted man had the audacity to smile down at her with that bone-melting intensity. She would be undone, she knew it. At the moment she could only hope she did not dissolve.

“You drop the point of the sword toward the area just above your opponent’s knee,” he instructed in that patient way he had.

Emma smiled. There was nothing she would like better than to take a stab at Sir Peter. He was a fiend, insisting that she must take fencing instruction. Whatever could she do with that ability? Fight? She quelled a shudder and tried to pay attention to his words. This was difficult because he would look into her eyes and then she was lost again. Oh, why was he so dashing, so daring, so dangerously male!

“Now we shall practice.”

Emma tried to duplicate his foot movements and tried holding her arm just so, remembering to keep her hand so high and positioned as he had demonstrated. It was not easy. She found herself repeating and repeating until she could have screamed with frustration.

And then she began to understand the intent of the positions. Little by little she made progress. Her feet began to dance lightly over the mat; her arms and hands obeyed her wishes.

At last he said, “Very good.”

It would have been nice to wipe off that surprised look from his face. She was beginning to think a woman might do very well at this sport. It appeared to require light footwork and a deft touch ... something women usually possessed.

Emma courageously thrust her sword precisely as he directed, hitting the dummy of holland cloth stuffed with feathers right above the knee. She leaped forward and back on the thin mat intended for the practice with what she hoped was grace—or at the very least agile footwork.

“Bravo,” Sir Peter cried at last, leaping around to face her while nudging the dummy aside. “Now, again!”

And again and again Emma repeated the action until she thought she would drop with fatigue and strain.

Then he countered with a different thrust, and Emma backed away from him, wondering what she ought to do.

His eyes danced with that peculiar sparkle she had observed before, and she rather wondered at it. Perhaps it was his enjoyment of the situation, or maybe his pleasure with the fencing. Somehow she mistrusted it.

“Seconde!”
he cried, then performed the same thrust once again to demonstrate it for her.

Emma concentrated on his action, then copied it precisely, if a bit clumsily.

. “Excellent,” Sir Peter shouted as he dashed about to confront her from another direction.

She spun as well, parrying his attacks as best she could. It was not long before she could almost anticipate how he would thrust at her. She grew more confident with her footwork, dancing and leaping lightly across the mat while swinging her sword in the correct manner. She had not forgotten her desire to hit him. Perhaps that was what impelled her to continue— her desire to best him.

“Enough,” he cried at last.
He brought his sword up before him once again to place a light kiss on the hilt, a sort of ceremonial salute.

Emma gulped at the image that sprang to her mind when he saluted the sword... and her in that manner. It had nothing to do with fencing in the least.

Placing his sword into its case, he joined her. She knew she must look bemused, and certainly felt so. He whipped off his face mask, then removed Emma’s. “You did very well, George.”

While mentally scolding herself for succumbing to missish airs for a few moments, Emma felt pride that she had done well in a man’s sport... even were she never to use it again. She mopped her face with a towel, thinking it fortunate that men were allowed to sweat without censure.

“You must go now?” he said when Emma donned her coat in preparation to leaving.

“Oh, I must.” Emma said with a shaken voice. He was doing it again, gazing down into her eyes, resulting in that peculiar effect on her nerves. She wondered if that odd light in his eyes might be due to his nearsightedness.

She backed toward the door, intent upon her escape.

“I had hoped we could go over the security measures I have taken,” Sir Peter said while strolling along the hall at her side.

Emma thought weakly that if she did not find a place to plunk her body down, it would take matters into its own and she would find herself on the floor.

Striving to appear nonchalant, Emma in her best George voice said, “What have you done besides remove the necklace to Rundle and Bridge?”

“I have a chap from Bow Street coming over this afternoon. And he promised to locate a pugilist for me who would be an adequate guard for the night.” Sir Peter paused before the front door. Radley lurked in the background, but Emma was only dimly conscious of his presence. Her entire being was focused on the gentleman before her.

“It sounds as though you are taking the correct direction,” she managed to say while longing to lean against the door.

“I would beg your assistance again. We shall have another lesson when possible. I look forward to a good bit of exercise. Confess—do you not feel better?” He gave her an arch look, quite as though he knew how she yearned to collapse on a bed and sleep.

Emma nodded, then edged her way out the door. “Sorry old man, I really must depart. Meeting, and all that. Appreciate the lessons more than I can say,” she mumbled. Then before he could delay her again, she dashed for the hackney, calling out, “Same address.”