Miss Cheney's Charade (14 page)

“Emma,” he said in a quiet warning.

“I have never given you leave to use my Christian name,” she charged. “You appear to be a very forward gentleman, I must say.”

“Did your brother tell you he is learning to fence?” Sir Peter said, rather than argue with her.

“Yes,” she managed to admit.

“Did he say if he liked it?”

“I believe he finds it fascinating,” she replied with a strong element of the truth. She fastened her gaze upon the violets in her posy.

“Good. He shows a natural ability. It would be a shame were he not to develop it.”

Emma could not think of a reply to this comment, so she remained silent. She did recall something one of her earlier partners had said about Sir Peter. He told Emma that he wished he might persuade Sir Peter to give him fencing lessons, but that the baronet never took pupils.

So where did that put Emma? Why was he offering to teach George? She wished she knew. She also wished she did not long to be with him at those lessons.

Chapter Eight

They left the ballroom floor to proceed to the room set aside for supper, immediately after the waltz concluded.

Emma found respite in stepping away from Sir Peter’s side—as much as the crowd allowed. Even the touch of his hand had an odd effect on her. It disturbed her hard-won calm.

“Oh, look!” she said with relief. “There is Lady Amelia, and she is with Lord Worcester. I do hope they will join us,” Emma declared with more enthusiasm than she had shown at Sir Peter’s invitation to supper.

She drifted across the room to embrace Lady Amelia lightly, then draw her along to an empty table that would hold six. They were chattering like a flock of magpies so Peter set off to find nourishment.

“Worcester,” Peter said in acknowledgment when they met at the vast table spread with delectables.

Lord Worcester placed a savory on one of the plates in his hand and gave Sir Peter a resigned look. “I suppose you saw my supper partner. Be a good chap and join us.”

“I believe my reluctant partner has already accomplished the matter.” Peter gave his friend a wry grin and glanced over to where Emma sat in animated conversation with Lady Amelia. The girls were joined by Miss de Lacey while Mr. Swinburne crossed to fetch her a plate of food.

“Cat among the pigeons, I perceive,” Peter muttered to Worcester. “The heiress has joined them.”

“Really? What luck. I must find a way to keep from wringing Amelia’s pretty neck. Perhaps I can take up a flirtation with Miss de Lacey?”

“Sorry. I have all ready been ordered to do just that.”

“What? Ordered?” Edward nearly dropped the lobster patty he had been about to place on his plate.

“It seems that Emma is under the impression that the other men at the ball believe she is my particular lady. Emma thinks it is to her detriment. I am under orders to disabuse them of the notion.”

“You don’t say so,” Edward said, pausing to stare at Peter with amazement. “Does she not know what a catch you are, old boy?”

“It would appear she neither knows nor cares,” Peter admitted with chagrin.

“Well, I never,” Edward muttered after a glance at the remarkable Miss Cheney.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Sir Peter said before leaving the table now less laden with food to return to his diffident partner.

“Have you heard anything from Henry Salt?” Lord Worcester quietly asked Peter while the women were chatting and Mr. Swinburne had gone to replenish his plate.

“The last I heard he was trying to get the best of the French consul, Drovetti. Every time Salt finds an antiquity he wants to remove from Egypt to the British Museum, Drovetti screams his objections. Of course Drovetti wants to haul everything back to France. I understand they squabble like a pair of fishwives. They must supply a good deal of amusement for the Egyptian authorities.”

“Odd to think of the British consul-general behaving in that manner,” Worcester replied. “Do you think there might be a connection between what is going on over there and the attempt to steal from your collection?”

“I doubt it, although one never knows. Perhaps I ought to investigate the local French to see if there is a likely possibility. I wonder if either Emma or George speaks French fluently?”

“You aren’t contemplating involving
her
in this, are you?” Worcester looked aghast at the very idea.

“She already is involved. By the bye, did you know I’m giving lessons in fencing?” Peter said softly. “I have found a most excellent pupil.”

“But you never do,” Worcester replied, keeping his voice down with effort for he was clearly dumbfounded at this bit of news.

Peter nodded, while carefully not looking at Emma. “I’m finding it quite a challenge. I believe I have missed something by not sharing my skill in the sport.”

“Keep this to yourself, or you will have chaps lined up outside your door by the dozen,” Worcester cautioned.

“Mum’s the word,” Peter agreed. Then he glanced around to observe that others had begun to drift back to the ballroom. “I believe I shall take Emma in hand and see what we can discover.”

“You think she will go with you? When she isn’t much interested in you as a catch?” Worcester grinned in amusement at his friend’s discomfiture.

“Believe me, she will go along,” Peter said with confidence.

Turning to face Sir Peter, Emma wondered what it was that had been said to bring that look of unholy glee to Lord Worcester’s face. She was about to chastise Sir Peter for failing to flirt with Miss de Lacey when he turned to her with a serious expression on his face.

“Emma,” Sir Peter began, then lowered his voice so she had to strain to hear him, “I need your help. Worcester wonders if a Frenchman might be involved in the attempt to steal the artifacts in my collection. Do you speak French?”

“I do,” she replied. She frowned, wondering how on earth she might assist him.

“Stroll around the ballroom with me. It is possible we might hear something of interest.” He rose, holding out his hand to assist her.

“Why, of course. Is it possible?” she whispered while rising from the table to join him.

“Anything is possible,” he replied close to her ear while deftly placing her hand on his arm. If Emma thought him a trifle proprietary, at least he had ignored her during supper. She feared to be linked with him when she was quite certain he had no personal interest in her.

She gave him a quick look and wondered at that gleam in his eyes. It had to be brought on by the challenge of tracking down who it was that sought to steal the collection. What else could it be?

Lord Worcester claimed the beautiful Miss de Lacey as a partner for the next country dance. Lady Amelia flounced off to her mama’s side where her next partner could solicit her hand for the dance. Mr. Swinburne disappeared in the direction of the card room.

“We are alone so I can explain a little. It is known that the French are eagerly trying to cheat the English out of the treasures found in Egypt. French Consul Drovetti is nothing more than a brigand, screaming at
our
consul-general with every find he makes. Worcester wondered if Drovetti had a Frenchman here in London, perhaps one of the sham refugees who have served as spies. My collection is well known; there is no difficulty in obtaining information on it, or where I reside.”

“With Napoleon on the rampage again, how can the French even remotely think of such a matter as antiquities?” Emma demanded, looking about her with questing eyes. Could there be such a spy at work? Here? She well knew they had infiltrated the country into a great many positions and places. It shocked her to think how many English had aided the French in one way or another.

“Drovetti is in Egypt, far from home. Neither England nor France can spare men to stand guard on those two. Salt and Drovetti are as though they were in another world, for communications are difficult at best and take forever to reach home. It would be a matter of a man having been given orders and following them—even if his country is in dire straits at the moment. He may not learn of it for weeks. It is a matter of money.”

Emma stared at him for a moment, then took a step forward. “I suspect we had better not wear such serious faces. People will either think we have been quarreling, or that we have received news of a death.”

“True,” he said with a grin while commencing their stroll about the vast room. “Or worse yet, that we have had bad news from the French battle front.”

Emma shivered at the very thought. She hated the very notion of war, of young men dying. Yet England must be defended against the Corsican monster. How appalling that Napoleon had managed to escape from Elba while the Duke of Wellington was off in Vienna. Of course Wellington had left the Congress and was now headquartered in Brussels where he assembled an army from England’s allies. Surely the duke would find a way to defeat Napoleon. To do otherwise was unthinkable.

“Do you think the duke will be able to destroy that brute Napoleon?” Emma asked while pretending to admire one of the floral arrangements.

“I have every confidence in the man,” Sir Peter replied.

Emma paused, turning her head as though listening to something Sir Peter was saying to her, but in reality straining to hear a softly spoken conversation to her left—in French. While nearly all the gentry and aristocrats of England could speak passable French, this couple expressed their sentiments in flawless Parisian.

At a quizzical glance from Sir Peter, Emma quickly frowned, then faintly shook her head. At last she gestured they should continue their stroll.

“And what was that about?”

“I heard excellent French spoken and wondered what they found to say while at a ball. I fear it was nothing much of interest . . . unless they spoke in code. There I fear I am of no help to you in the least.”

“Pity my cousin is not in town. Victoria and her husband are rather skilled in codes and the like.”

“Are they indeed?” Emma said with a touch of awe. It seemed the Dancy family possessed a number of unusual females from what she had heard. A painter, a sculptress, an engraver—so many talented and creative women. “And your sister?”

“She once managed to fall into scrapes with distressing regularity. Now she is married and off my hands.”

“Your poor sister.” Emma paused again, ostensibly to adjust the fall of her elegant silk shawl, a gift from Lady Hamley.

“Another conversation?” Sir Peter immediately understood what she was about and attempted to assist her with the rearrangement of the white shawl.

“I am not certain,” Emma whispered. “At times it is difficult to tell whether a person is merely attempting to use a dab of French to impress another, or if it is a genuine exchange.”

“I am impressed with your many talents. My aunt tells me that you sketch as well as your brother. She is very pleased with the colored drawings you have done for her.” His smile invited her confidence.

Emma blushed; she could feel the heat stealing across her face and down her neck. Oh, what a wretched situation. She wanted nothing more than to reveal her complete identity to Sir Peter. Yet could she? What would happen?

Setting aside her worry for the moment, she gestured they should continue their lap about the room.

Nothing more reached their ears. When they reached Emma’s mama, that dear lady looked up in surprise.

“Dear me, I wondered where you had disappeared. It is not the thing to go off like that,” she scolded gently.

“We merely strolled about the room. Mama,” Emma replied patiently.

Mrs. Bascomb directed a knowing gaze at Sir Peter, but blessedly said nothing.

At that moment a servant approached Sir Peter with a silver salver in hand. On it reposed a small letter.

“What on earth?” Sir Peter said with a deal of puzzlement One did not normally receive messages while at a ball.

Begging the lady’s permission, he broke the seal, then scanned the brief contents.

“Trouble?” inquired Emma astutely.

“Indeed,” replied Sir Peter, holding the now refolded missive before him. “There has been another attempt on the house. Someone tried to enter through the upstairs window. One of the maids happened to be in the room, making up the fire. Her scream sent him across the rooftops in a hurry.”

“How fortunate she was in there at the time,” Emma said quietly, trying not to look alarmed.

“Tell your brother I shall be in need of his excellent help come morning, will you?” Sir Peter murmured so that Mrs. Cheney was not aware he addressed Emma.

“Oh, dear,” Emma whispered. Then she firmed her spine and nodded. “I will.”

“You will what, dear?” Mrs. Cheney inquired, her gaze darting back and forth between Emma and Sir Peter like a ferret on the prowl.

“I will be happy to assist his aunt tomorrow morning,” Emma lied, feeling utterly awful that it was necessary. “She has been such a dear delight, and I do admire all the beautiful things she has collected.”

“I stand to inherit the lot of them, you know,” Sir Peter said with that twinkle back in his eyes.

“I see,” Emma replied, trying to sound impressed. Actually, she was, but she didn’t understand his purpose in telling her about it.

Since Mrs. Cheney had great hopes for Emma and she did not wish to harm the excellent connection with Lady Titheridge, she smilingly agreed it was wonderful that Emma could be of use to her dear ladyship.

Emma exchanged a rueful glance with Sir Peter, then watched him weave his way through the crowd. He had again placed a kiss on her hand before leaving, a light touch but felt even if she wore her gloves.

Then she was claimed for a Scots reel, and she had no time for reflections. When the gentleman brought her back to her mother, Emma was relieved to hear her express a wish to leave.

“I vow, all these late nights just do me in. As it is, I shall have to sleep until noon. I do not know where Emma finds the energy to rise so early.” She smiled fondly at her dearest daughter and hope for the family future. She again looked to Mrs. Bascomb and continued, “Were it not for Dr. Venial’s pills, I should expire, I just know it.”