Miss Cheney's Charade (15 page)

“Of course we must leave at once,” Emma said promptly, wanting to avoid a discussion of her mother’s favorite topic. She gathered up her mama’s shawl and her posy of violets.

A glance about the room to see if Mr. Swinburne remained did not find him, and she decided he had found the play in the card room to his liking. The dandy was not athletic and no doubt found dancing for very long to be exceedingly tiring.

Mrs. Bascomb and her mama discussed the ball all the way to the Bascomb residence. After that good lady had made her exit, Mrs. Cheney studied her daughter.

“You look worried, my dear.”

Mrs. Cheney had an alarming tendency to be perceptive at times. Emma was sorry that this had to be one of them.

“It is nothing, Mama. So many parties, routs, and assemblies eventually become fatiguing. I shall welcome a good sleep.”

Those words seemed to appease Mrs. Cheney, who sank back against the squabs with a satisfied expression. “I believe that Mr. Swinburne might be brought to scratch, you know.”

“Reginald Swinburne?” Emma cried in dismay.

“He is a presentable gentleman and dresses in the highest of fashion. We have not discovered the source of his income as yet, but he must have deep pockets if he can afford so many luxuries.” Mrs. Cheney nodded complacently.

“Mama, the first priority of a dandy is his dress. I have no doubt he owes his tailor yet for last year’s bills. Besides, you did promise that I should at least like the man I marry, and I cannot like Mr. Swinburne.”

“Try a bit harder, dear,” was Mrs. Cheney’s reply before leaving the carriage when it drew to a halt before their residence.

Emma said nothing to this, pretending not to hear the injunction.

Come morning, Emma crept from her bed and silently dressed herself before Fanny could enter. Her room was chilly, for the fire had gone out. However, it served to help her wake up.

She was about to slip from her room when Fanny opened the door. She entered the room, then stood there, mouth agape at the sight of Emma, up and dressed.

“Lauks, miss, what you be doin’ at this hour of the day, all ready to go out?” the maid demanded—most impudently, Emma thought.

“Is that my chocolate I smell?” she said in a pleasant manner, ignoring the maid’s inquisitiveness. “Oh, good, you brought me some rolls.”

Emma took the tray and eagerly sipped the steaming chocolate and munched the rolls. She was hungrier than she had realized. But then, last evening she had been too troubled to enjoy her supper.

“You goin’ out?” Fanny said while deftly making up the bed.

“You may remain here. I shan’t require you this morning,” Emma said by way of an answer.

Fanny looked resentful at this reply, but dared not sass her mistress.

As quickly as possible, Emma had donned her shawl and bonnet, caught up her reticule and gloves, and was running lightly down the stairs. Oldham was nowhere to be seen, so she slipped from the house with only Fanny the wiser.

She found a hackney at the stand around the corner. Emma gave him the order to proceed to her ladyship’s address and then contemplated her coming day. Would she again have a fencing lesson? She had best be prepared. And how did Sir Peter expect George to help him?

Her absentminded brother had never been one to exert himself for another. Emma wondered what made Sir Peter think George had changed any.

Lady Titheridge was still abed when Emma presented herself at the front door. Leland ushered Emma to the little bedroom without the necessity of caution. The house was so silent that any sound would have disturbed those sleeping.

Braddon soon appeared to assist Emma from her sprigged muslin gown and into the biscuit pantaloons, white shirt, the bright waistcoat in alarming proportion. She helped with the tinted face cream, then altered Emma’s curls.

Before she left the room, Emma smoothed a white stocking up her leg, wondering again if she would be required to have a fencing lesson. She still ached a bit from the last one. She had taken the precaution of binding up her bosom again, just in case, although anyone with half an eye should be able to tell that Emma was not George. Emma wondered—could Sir Peter really be so absentminded and nearsighted that he couldn’t detect the difference? It was all very strange.

Lady Titheridge’s carriage awaited Emma when she exited the front door. The coachman silently assisted her inside, then drove off to the house on Bruton Street without a word exchanged.

Radley was not in evidence. A footman ushered Emma into the workroom, where a much beleaguered Sir Peter studied his collection.

“What is wrong?” Emma said in George’s voice. She might as well ask anew, for it was certain that things had changed since the receipt of the letter last night.

“Radley was shot at this morning.”

“Why, that’s terrible! No idea as to who might have taken aim at him, I suppose?”

“He was in here, cleaning up, making certain all was in order. He is the only one other than myself who has a key to this room.” Sir Peter turned to face Emma, and she was shocked at his expression. Deep distress could be seen in his eyes.

“You cannot blame yourself. How badly is he injured? How did it happen?” Emma was equally distressed over the shooting, for she liked the genial butler.

“Fortunately, it is a mere graze. The felon aimed from that opposite rooftop. Must be a crack shot to hit his target at that distance when Radley was moving about.”

Sir Peter joined Emma at the window and pointed out the roof from where the villain must have shot in order to hit Radley.

“I am impressed with your concern for a servant,” Emma said trying to sound sort of gruff.

“Been with us since I was a lad. He was around far more than my father.”

Sir Peter said no more on the matter, but Emma guessed it was the oft-told tale of absent father and servant to hand.

“Look, old chap, the Bow Street man is coming at noon. There isn’t a great deal we can do until he surveys the place,” Sir Peter said in an abstracted way.

“My, they certainly take their time,” Emma said wryly.

“Nothing was stolen; no one was murdered. A shot servant is not sufficient to cause a great reaction, I gather.” Sir Peter began to pace back and forth in front of the princess.

“But you care,” Emma replied softly, almost forgetting to sound like George in her sympathy.

“Do you suppose there is someone seeking the mummy? They are still in demand for medicine, you know. Believe it or not, there are people who are convinced that a mummy will cure a vast array of ailments.”

Emma gasped, then bit back what would be a girlish chuckle. “How foolish some people are.”

“I wonder if the chap will suggest I pack it all away.”

“Where would you store it?” Emma wondered.

“I refuse to allow some villain to force me to such a position. I will fight,” Sir Peter declared.

Emma drew back in alarm at his fierce expression. “You’ll need your own army,” she said without thinking.

“Ah, you have the right of it. That reminds me ... we had best get on with your lessons. You are prepared to proceed?” Sir Peter grabbed Emma by the arm and led her away from the workroom, locking the door behind him.

Before she knew it, they were back in the narrow room with the mat. The dummy was nowhere in sight. Emma carefully removed the blue coat and hung it on a peg, then turned to face Sir Peter. Surely he must take one look at her and know the truth.

She tied on the molded leather mask he handed her, then marched onto the mat to wait. With long strides he crossed to the box with the swords, removed them—first assuring the buttons were secure—then offered one to Emma.

She remembered the salute from yesterday, but had forgotten her position just a trifle.

“No, no,” he said with a returned patience. “Shift about this way and you will be fine.”

Emma resigned herself to an hour or so of torture and raised her sword.

“We shall practice the positions, the mechanics of our movements today. Now, let us commence.”

He immediately began, without warning and in fierce attack. Emma was on guard at once and attempted to parry his thrusts with what she had learned yesterday.

The going was difficult, for it seemed to her that he gave no quarter. She leaped forward, bounded back in retreat, then plunged at him again, recalling her desire to hit him.

He touched her again and again with the tip of his sword when she failed to evade his long reach. It was not enough to wound, and the button was safely in place, but Emma wondered how she would fare.

At last he paused, permitting Emma to blot her face.

“I believe we shall go over the footwork. You seem to have a natural instinct for this, but still, there are a number of steps or jumps it is good to know. If you are to be an acceptable partner, you must practice everything daily.”

He had turned away from Emma when he said this, which was most fortunate, or he would have seen her place a hand to her bosom in dismay. He could
not
be serious, could he? Nonsense. Why, all Emma had to do was have George disappear.

Then Sir Peter turned again to face Emma, and she hoped none of her fears was revealed in her stance, for the mask protected her from his gaze, such as it was.

And that was another thing that bothered her. If he was so nearsighted, how could he detect the direction of the bullet? Or had Radley been able to see that man before he fled? There seemed to be more questions than answers. She wished she might ask, but to do so would definitely reveal who she was. Oh, was there ever such a conundrum?

“Pay attention now,” Sir Peter said in a laughing voice. “What a daydreamer you are. And I thought I was bad.”

He began to show Emma a series of steps and jumps that he insisted she learn to perfection. By the end of two hours she was ready to drop in her tracks. She ached with fatigue and worry.

Finally, he took her sword from her to place alongside his in the case. ‘Tomorrow we shall consider the tactics of fencing.”

Emma just barely refrained from crying out that she would not be there ever again, that George was leaving for Rome or some distant spot.

When he turned to take her mask from hands that trembled ever so slightly, he said, “I am grateful you are willing to do this. I need someone I can trust and rely upon to assist me. If this thief is not caught soon, I may have to resort to depending upon my own resources. May I count upon you to help?”

Emma turned her head slightly so he could not see into her eyes, nor all of her expression. What could she do? She took her coat down and proceeded to slip it on.

“You show great promise as a swordsman,” Sir Peter continued. “Before long I would be glad to have you at my side in a fight, were it necessary.”

“A fight?” she echoed. Her blood chilled at the mere thought of it.

“Villains at times seem to exhibit a reluctance to merely drop dead of their own account,” he said in a derisive tone. When Emma glanced at him, she met that green gaze and saw a man who had fears, pains, inner doubts. That he would permit her to see them shook her greatly.

Without considering the ramifications of what she said, she held out her hand in a gesture of assurance. “Of course you may count on me. I will be here tomorrow.”

She thought he seemed excessively relieved, but it served to point up how worried he had been. It must be dreadful to be so alone. Although Lord Worcester appeared to be a good friend, it was not to him Sir Peter turned when this trouble arose.

George had been sought out, and Emma guessed that George must continue. She donned the beaver hat that had come from the back of her brother’s wardrobe—left no doubt because it no longer fit—and walked to the front of the house.

“Tomorrow?” Sir Peter asked in what Emma deemed an anxious manner.

“Tomorrow,” Emma agreed gruffly.

There was a man just coming up the steps as Emma opened the door to leave. Without a doubt he was from Bow Street, what with that red vest and all. Emma scurried past him and into the waiting hackney. She was off to Lady Titheridge’s before that stranger got a good look at her.

Or so she thought.

She peered from the window, taking note of the people along the street. Could one of these have shot Radley? Did that person by chance speak with a French accent?

Thoughts of spies and thieves and dashing about while waving a sword flitted through her mind. Her Season in London was becoming a far distant thing from what she had anticipated. At any rate, life was scarcely dull anymore.

Chapter Nine

Peter turned with curiosity to greet the man the footman showed into the workroom. He’d never met an actual Bow Street Runner, although he had heard numerous stories about them.

This man was a rough-looking character, of medium height and neatly dressed, although not stylish. That he failed to remove his flat beaver hat amused Peter rather than annoyed him. The fellow probably was a former pugilist; he looked the part, with a nose that appeared to have been broken sometime in the past.

“I understand one of your servants was shot while going about his business,” Harry Porter said, coming directly to the point after offering his identity.

When Peter gestured to the nearest chair and suggested Mr. Porter be seated, the man sat with obvious reluctance and looked as uneasy as a man totally out of his milieu can look.

True.” Peter perched atop one of the stools, then gave the particulars as he knew them. When finished, he said, “Have a look around, if you will.”

The Bow Street Runner wandered about the room, examining all the cases exhibiting the antiquities from Egypt, pausing to study the unwrapped mummy. This object seemed to fascinate him, for he shook his head a number of times before continuing his inspection of the workroom. Then he hooked his thumbs in his red vest and squinted sharp blue eyes at the hole in the window where the bullet had entered.

“As you can see, whoever shot Radley must have done so from that roof over there.” Peter pointed to the opposite building. “Since my man was moving about, the villain had to be a crack shot.”