Miss Cheney's Charade (16 page)

“Know anybody who might be wantin’ to take this here Radley’s life?” The Runner’s voice was slightly raspy, as though his windpipe had once been badly injured.

“None,” Peter said patiently. “But I am known to have a number of valuable antiquities stored in this room. It might be a Frenchman, hired to acquire several of the objects for their national collection.” Briefly, Peter explained what he had been told.

“Or?” the Runner inquired, narrowing his eyes as he studied Peter.

“It could be someone who desires the mummy or the necklace for other reasons,” Peter suggested.

The Runner shook his head again. “Wide field, that.”

Peter agreed. “Could be a chap who needs money.” But he offered this reason without a great deal of conviction. When the thought had first occurred to him, he had dismissed it, for there were far easier ways to snabble a bit of the ready than attempt to sell such well-known items.

Mr. Porter wandered back to study the mummy again. “A market for these, is there? Queer thing to steal.”

“There are a few people who believe a mummy possesses special healing properties. They have been used for a long time, but never proven effective. Yet, you know how it is—if someone becomes convinced, that is what he or she must have.”

“Hmm,” Porter replied, beginning to stroll about again. “I’d like to talk to your butler, this Radley, if I can. Maybe he can tell me something else, seein’s as how he was here.” Porter gave Peter a quizzical look.

Peter wondered what went on in the fellow’s mind when he gazed about. He summoned the footman to take the Runner off to where Radley was recovering from his wound.

Once he was alone again, Peter turned his thoughts back to Emma. He hoped she would show up again tomorrow. He sensed she longed to have George flee, for it was apparent she felt quite uncomfortable in her charade.

As to why he allowed it to continue, he supposed he had several reasons.

For one, if he revealed his awareness of her identity, that would end the fencing lessons—her parents would be properly scandalized. He had come to care for Emma very much, but did not wish her forced to marry him. Rather, he hoped to inspire his dear girl to form a strong attachment, growing to match his own. In Emma he sensed that rare capacity to love and take all that life has to offer with both hands. What a magnificent time they could have together exploring Egypt... life. He didn’t think she could ever disappoint him.

He had the notion Emma would make a first-rate fencer. The fire he detected beneath her proper exterior when she sparred with him bode well for future pleasure. It promised a good life in every respect.

As well, he had to admit that it would be amusing to thwart all those ambitious mamas and their scheming daughters who hoped to lure him into marriage simply for his fortune. How he detested their obvious attempts. It had driven him to spend more and more time with his collection.

But there was another reason, albeit a curious one. If someone thought that Peter had an ally, that person might be more hesitant to attempt anything serious.

“I suppose I ought to spread it about that I’ve put that necklace into safekeeping,” he mumbled to himself before setting off to see if the Runner had learned anything of interest from Radley. And yet, were he to do such a thing, it might prevent the identity of the would-be thief from ever being known. Of course this was predicated on the necklace being the target of the thief. If, on the other hand, he wanted the mummy, well, the mummy remained.

Radley had been able to add little to Peter’s story. The man from Bow Street walked back to the front door with Peter, explaining what he intended to do. It mostly involved haunting places where information of the activities of thieves who dealt in these sort of articles was known.

“If I have a coin or two to slip into the right hands, I can save a deal of time, I can,” Porter concluded. He silently accepted the small sack of coins from his employer, who had supposed that a bit of monetary advance would be necessary.

“I shall await your findings with great interest,” Peter said before the door closed behind the Runner.

Peter hadn’t returned to the workroom before the knocker sounded again. When the door was opened, his friend Edward, Lord Worcester, entered.

“What is this I hear about someone being shot,” he demanded as he strode down the hall to confront his friend.

“Radley was tidying up the workroom—you know I never allow anyone else in there. Not that the maids would enter, what with the mummy there and all,” Peter added in a reflective way. “At any rate, someone who had to be a crack shot aimed his gun from across the way over there.” Peter had drawn his friend into the workroom and now gestured to the point where he felt sure the gunman had waited for his target to move into view.

“It might have been you, you know,” Edward said fiercely. “I trust you have called in Bow Street?”

“Indeed,” Peter acknowledged. “Why do we not leave this somewhat distressing place and saunter down to White’s?” Peter had had enough of the matter for the moment. He doubted if anyone would attempt a break-in during broad daylight with the servants on the alert. Besides, with the glaziers at work, he could do nothing of interest here, and they were due within the hour.

“Rather not. I ran into that coxcomb Swinburne there the other day. Must have been a guest of someone, for I know he’d be blackballed were he to be put up for membership,” Edward declared in affront, turning again to enter the hallway.

“You’d do that to him? Why?” Peter led his friend into the spacious book-lined library where excellent brandy could be had along with comfortable leather chairs.

“I don’t like the attentions he’s paying to Amelia. Dratted man offers nothing but Spanish coin. Pours the butter boat over her head something dreadful. She’s not such a bad sort, you know. Just because we never see eye to eye don’t mean I wish her ill,” Edward said in a most defensive manner. He leaned back in his chair and pulled off his gloves. Then he absently slapped them against his thigh, gazing up at the shelves of books while sipping his brandy.

It was clear to Peter that Edward felt more than a brotherly interest in Lady Amelia—regardless of what he claimed. When would he realized it for himself? Peter wondered.

“You’ve known her for so long, it’s a wonder she would not listen to you when you offer advice,” Peter said while trying to keep a straight face at Edward’s situation, not to mention his expression of annoyance.

“Amelia? Dratted girl merely says I’m jealous. What a lot of rot that is,” Edward grumbled.

“Indeed,” Peter replied while refilling Edward’s glass.

The two mulled over the problem of Lady Amelia and the coxcombical Mr. Swinburne for several minutes before Peter was able to convince his friend that a drive in the country was just the needed thing.

They went off together, Edward setting aside the matter of the fickle Lady Amelia in favor of the pleasure of Peter’s matched grays.

* * * *

“Oh, dear! What has happened?” Soft gray eyes stared into the looking glass with concern before turning to Braddon for consultation.

Lady Titheridge entered the room just as Emma spoke, swiftly crossing the room to join her. “Good gracious, girl, what have you done to yourself? You are all over little spots— and they are not the least red, but more like tiny bruises. How curious.” Her ladyship touched one spot with a cautious finger, watching to see what Emma’s reaction might be.

“I cannot say they are very painful, but I look as though I have a ghastly disease of some sort.” Emma considered the location of the spots, then concluded, “I expect they are from the fencing. Sir Peter was most merciless in his attacks. Even though his foil has a small button on its tip, it can make a rather annoying jab. Wretched man!”

“But if he believes you to be George, there would be no reason to use great care,” Lady Titheridge pointed out.

“Hm,” Emma replied thoughtfully. “What am I to do about them?”

“You must wear something close about your throat,” Braddon said decisively.

“Perhaps you have a pretty dress with a ruff at the neck?” her ladyship inquired.

“I fear not. I did have one, but outgrew it two years ago.” Emma touched several of the spots, grimacing at the sight of them. “They will scarcely look attractive at a party. I shudder to think what a patroness of Almack’s will imagine.”

“Braddon, what can we do?” Lady Titheridge said by way of ordering.

“A Betsie, my lady. I believe there is one at the bottom of one of the drawers in your chest. Shall I fetch it?”

“Of course,” her ladyship said absently. “Now, tell me about the fencing lesson today,” she demanded of Emma.

“We practice positions and the mechanics of the movements. I fear I was frightfully clumsy, although he pronounced it a good lesson. He claims that I have the makings of a good fencer, though how he can say that I cannot imagine.”

“You are light on your feet and quick to learn, I expect. I believe women are more intelligent than men,” Lady Titheridge pronounced to a shocked Emma.

“Well, ma’am, as to that, we are not trusted with our money, nor are we consulted about anything that affects us. We are told whom we shall marry, where we shall live, and that we shall bear children, for it is our duty.”

Braddon entered before her ladyship could comment on this particular heretical observation.

The Betsie, derived from the ruff worn by Queen Elizabeth, was composed of seven tiers of pleated sheer muslin. Two stood up, the others fanning out about the neck. The ruff filled in the area above Emma’s gown quite admirably and nicely framed her pretty face. When Braddon added a green velvet spencer over the green sprigged muslin dress, no one would guess that Emma hid anything such as numerous tiny bruises on her delicate skin.

Topping the ensemble with a neat green velvet hat to match the spencer was a stroke of genius Braddon declared with absolutely no modesty. The shawl Emma had wrapped lightly about her when she’d left that morning was now draped over her arms. The white on the dark green velvet looked charming, Emma thought.

“Did I not have a lace Betsie?” her ladyship inquired, studying Emma from all angles.

From a small pile of fabric Braddon produced the other, more elaborate ruff, composed of six tiers of fine Brabant lace in the same design.

“This takes care of your evening problems. Even if this style is a year or two old, you must carry it off with aplomb rather than look apologetic. Some society women are like predators; if they scent fear, they will attack you without mercy. You must go with head high and a smile on your lips. Always let them believe you are what you are because of design, not accident.”

Emma wondered why her own mama had never thought to counsel her thus.

“Now, we shall go for a ride in the park. I wish a breath of air, and I do not always enjoy the fashionable hour.” Her ladyship paused, then added, “It can be so dreadfully tedious.” Her smile was a trifle wicked, reminding Emma of her nephew for a moment.

So Emma shortly found herself in Lady Titheridge’s landau, driving behind the liveried coachman in the wilds of Hyde Park. It was a lovely June day, and the worries of the Corsican monster and the battle shaping up on the Continent seemed very remote.

They had not gone very far when Emma felt a jab in her ribs. “See who is out and about now,” her ladyship whispered.

Coming directly toward them were Sir Peter and Lord Worcester. They both bloomed with a healthy glow in their faces, and Sir Peter, at least, looked as though he was in good spirits. He drew his carriage to a halt just as Lady Titheridge commanded her coachman to stop.

“Good day, dear aunt, Miss Cheney. I am surprised to see you two ladies out so early,” Sir Peter said with that roguish twinkle in his unusual green eyes. Emma decided they had the look of dark glade today.

“Naughty boy,” her ladyship chided. “It is nearly noon. Emma and I are taking a turn in the fresh air while all those peageese are still abed.” She tilted her head, examining her nephew with a narrowed gaze. “I understand that you have had a spot of bother at your house. You do know that if things heat up, you can take refuge at my establishment.”

Sir Peter bowed and smiled. “I doubt that it will come to that, but thank you at any rate. Who tattled?”

“Emma’s brother told her, and she shared it with me. Emma and I have become close friends over the past weeks.” She turned to wink at Emma, “Haven’t we, girl?”

“Indeed,” Emma replied, feeling the heat of a blush stain her cheeks.

“May I say that you look especially fine this morning. Miss Cheney?” Sir Peter said with a slight bow from the waist.

‘Thank you, sir.” Emma couldn’t refrain from touching the Betsie, as though to reassure herself that it remained in place to cover her bruises.

“Perhaps you would take a stroll in the park with me this afternoon?” he said with a lazy smile and a warm look directly into her eyes. “Worcester will bring Lady Amelia—that is, if she still speaks to him.”

Emma tried to repress a giggle and failed. “Unless my mama has other plans, I should be pleased to accept.”

The horses were all getting restless, particularly the fine grays that drew Sir Peter’s equipage.

“Run along and mend your fences with Lady Amelia,” Lady Titheridge said to Lord Worcester. “She’s a fine gel, but mind you, she’ll take careful handling. Can’t treat her like a horse, y’know. She’ll bolt and run off.”

Lord Worcester looked faintly scandalized at those words and mutely nodded his reply.

“I think you shocked him,” Emma said with a backward glance after the carriages had parted.

“Good. It’s about time that someone did. He is in great danger of becoming as pompous as his father,” her ladyship replied after ordering the coachman to return Emma to her home.

“I want to see your mama about something, so I shall go in with you.”

That suited Emma to a tee as then her dear mama couldn’t ask embarrassing questions. By the time Lady Titheridge had left, those problems would have been forgotten.

The ladies entered the Cheney house together. Oldham became puffed up at the presence of the prominent Lady Titheridge. Emma hid a smile at his attitude when he announced her ladyship to Mrs. Cheney, who sat over tea and biscuits with Mrs. Bascomb and Lady Hamley.