Miss Cheney's Charade (28 page)

“I hope they have no problems. I wonder if we might not have done better to spend another night. Although I expect your parents would be frantic by that time, even if the boys took notes to them explaining where you are.”

“Parents have a way of worrying about the most simple things,” Amelia observed. “I imagine when they learn that Edward and I intend to marry they will forget to quiz me about my stay. I told them I was with you, Emma.”

“Good grief!” Emma replied, thinking of her note that said the reverse.

The hours passed faster than expected, for Amelia chattered about her forthcoming marriage until one by one they drifted asleep. Even the necessary pauses to change horses failed to do more than rouse them slightly.

It was nearly midnight when Emma crept into her house by way of the little door to the scullery. No one was about, and she succeeded reaching her room with little ado.

Morning proved quite a different matter.

Never the most suspicious of women, Mrs. Cheney entered Emma’s room early the next morning—that is to say, about a quarter to twelve—waving Emma’s note in the air.

“And what was this all about, missy?” she demanded. “I have been fraught with worry. There was a celebration of the great victory last evening, and you were nowhere in evidence.”

“Napoleon has been defeated?” Emma exclaimed, sliding from her bed to give her a mother a hug. “Tell me all you know, for we did not learn anything on our traveling. Lady Titheridge begged Amelia and I to assist her. The poor dear has no children and declared she needed our help. Do you know we made a flying trip to her ladyship’s pretty home just outside Under Petersbridge? It is so lovely, Mama.”

Fascinated by this information and hoping to obtain the details of the home to share with Mrs. Bascomb and Lady Hamley, Mrs. Cheney plumped herself on Emma’s favorite chair, demanding to know all. First, she informed Emma that while details were few, there had been a battle at a little town called Waterloo, and the great Wellington had indeed defeated the nasty Napoleon. A small illumination took place on some government buildings, or so she had heard. Mrs. Cheney and her husband had remained at home, disliking crowds.

Later Emma realized that her dearest mama never did ask what it was that Emma was required for, and that was a very good thing. Between the news of the great victory and the fascination with details of Lady Titheridge’s manor house, the explanation had been neglected.

When Emma presented herself at Lady Titheridge’s for tea that afternoon, she immediately inquired for news of Sir Peter.

“The boys broke the record, although I confess I did not know there had been one. They arrived a full hour before us!” her ladyship exclaimed with pride.

Not terribly impressed that the “boys” had risked their necks to be in London in such a rush, Emma shook her head, “No, I mean about the jewels. Sir Peter takes a most casual attitude toward them.”

“Everything is quite fine, and I am not the least
unconcerned,
Miss Cheney,” Sir Peter said, his voice distinctly chilly.

She whirled about to face the doorway, dismayed to be found saying words that might be construed as criticism. “I did not mean that you do not care about them.
I
fear that it was not Mr. Swinburne, and that someone else is responsible for the attempts.” Emma clasped her hands in consternation at the formidable look that had settled on Sir Peter’s face. At this rate, she would not have the most remote chance of attaching his interest.

“Dear Aunt,” Sir Peter said with a bow in her direction, “do not fill this young head with mischief.”

“She did not have to... I felt that way before she said a word,” Emma said indignantly. “But I will confess that your problems were nearly driven from my head with the news from France. Is it not wonderful? Peace at last.”

“Indeed!” Sir Peter raised his quizzing glass, which had the effect of giving Emma a case of the giggles.

They discussed the end of the war and the effect on the country for a few minutes, then Sir Peter raised his glass again to view Emma after she had declared that the French would no longer be a threat to his collection—they had no money.

“You odious man, put that dreadful thing away and tell us how you found things,” Emma said when she could speak again.

“Harry Porter agrees with me. We believe there is nothing more to worry about, unless this chap takes a notion to sell the necklace elsewhere. Porter has been paid off, the pugilist dismissed, and I can once again concentrate on the display and collection. I wish your brother could be handy. I could use a few more drawings.” He paced the floor of the drawing room, rubbing his chin in an absent, reflective manner.

“Emma is most talented with drawing,” Lady Titheridge inserted. “I suspect it runs in the family.”

The young lady in question found it difficult not to laugh at this preposterous statement, for George’s ability was most rudimentary. Beatrice had proven to be a blessing with her sketching talent.

“Emma? Would it not raise a few eyebrows were she to enter a bachelor establishment?” he frowned at his aunt, then looked at Emma as though to study her reaction. Even if he had considered it before, he would not risk harming her name just to satisfy his wish of the moment. Having her come as George was entirely different.

Lady Titheridge sighed in acknowledgment of this truth. “Of course you are right. I fear you will have to manage on your own. Unless, of course, George should come to London for some reason.”

“We have not had a letter from him in the past few days,” Emma said. “I could write to him, find out his intentions.”

“Would you?” Sir Peter said with relief. “I would welcome perhaps one more day of work, if he might spare me the time. I like his style, and it would be a nice touch to have all drawings done by the same artist.”

They chatted for a brief time, then Sir Peter excused himself.

He had set the cat among the pigeons with his request, he reflected while running lightly down the stairs and out to where his carriage awaited. It was quite reprehensible of him to want Emma to
again
come to his home, but he really did want those remaining drawings, and how else to arrange it? He hoped that his scheming aunt would take matters in hand. She could usually be counted upon to see things his way.

Back at Bruton Street Radley opened the door for him before he had reached the top step.

“Well... is all in readiness, do you think?” he inquired of his butler and often conspirator when he wanted something out of the ordinary.

“Indeed, it is, sir,” Radley confirmed. “How long do you think it will be before our artist appears?”

“I predict
he
will show up on my doorstep by tomorrow at the latest with some tale about finding a treasure.”

“My, my,” Radley said, all admiration.

* * * *

“Good grief,” Emma declared after Sir Peter had departed. She turned from the window where she had watched his carriage disappear from view around the corner in the direction of Berkeley Square. What are we to do?”

“That is simple,” her ladyship countered. “George will have to make a flying trip to London for the purpose of assessing the value of the treasure he has uncovered. I hope he has dug up something of worth,” she added as an afterthought.

“Do you realize how complicated this has become?” Emma demanded. “I vow, if I ever manage to squeak through this with my skin intact, it will be a miracle.”

“How soon shall you have George pay a visit to Bruton Street?”

“It cannot be until tomorrow morning. I can only hope for a letter in the mail, else I will have to compose something to satisfy dear mama. I cannot like this deceit, dear ma’am.” Emma gave Lady Titheridge a rueful look.

“I know. I feel dreadful about it myself,” Lady Titheridge said in a cheerful voice.

Emma left shortly after that, worrying and wondering how in the world she might manage one more appearance at Bruton Street without detection. One of these days there was apt to come a person who was neither nearsighted nor absentminded nor totally absorbed in something else.

The following morning Emma presented herself at Lady Titheridge’s establishment at an early hour. Her face wreathed in a broad smile, she hurried up the stairs to the room where she usually turned into George.

“Good news, I trust,” her ladyship said as she entered, wrapped in her dressing gown.

“Oh, indeed there is. A letter
did
come from George, and he wrote that he has truly found a treasure! There are bracelets, necklaces, coins, all of unsurpassing beauty and value. He does intend to come to London soon, but has promised to stay with a friend who is one of the Antiquarian Society. Sir William travels with him, as does a respectable guard. There is no chance he will encounter Sir Peter. None at all.”

“Good. You had best be on your way then. This should be the last time you will need to act a charade. And since the defeat of the French, I am persuaded there is not the least thing to worry about.”

Emma gave her ladyship a cautious look, then crossed her fingers.

Chapter Sixteen

Emma stared at the front door of the house on Bruton Street with more than a few misgivings. This would absolutely, positively be the last time she would come here in her disguise. No matter what.

When Radley ushered her along the hall to the workroom, she cast him a disbelieving look. Not so much as a raised eyebrow at Emma’s appearance. He must be one of those marvelous butlers who neither saw nor heard anything unless he was supposed to, in which case Sir Peter was only to be envied.

Sir Peter stood on the far side of the room, studying a bronze statuette that Emma had not seen before. She passed a case containing a collection of scarabs to join him.

“I found this at the bottom of one of the boxes that contained the things brought from Egypt. It was wrapped in old clothes and papers, and I nearly threw the lot out.”

Emma reached to gently touch the exquisite likeness of a woman, presumably a goddess of some sort. It was small, not more than eighteen inches tall. With her arms outstretched, she looked welcoming and almost tender in her expression. “Lovely, truly lovely,” Emma said reverently.

“I intend to go to Egypt as soon as may be, now that hostilities have ceased. I want to learn more about the things my father brought here. These drawings ought to be of enormous help to me.” Sir Peter gestured to the neatly matted representations Emma had created of the major finds.

Her heart sinking to her toes, Emma merely nodded sagely and murmured her agreement. How she longed to travel with Sir Peter and see the places where these exotic objects had originated. There was little chance of that occurring.

“I don’t suppose you would like to join me? No,” he said, answering his own question, “I imagine you will be off to Rome one of these days to explore that area. On your honeymoon, most likely. Lucky chap. However, I have similar plans. I intend to take my lady with me to Egypt,” he announced with a sparkle in his eyes.

The announcement hit Emma with all the impact of an immense dray loaded to the hilt and pierced her heart like the epee Sir Peter had her use for practice—with the button off.

She tried to think of any particular woman with whom Sir Peter had been linked and could only come up with Richenda de Lacey. Anyone less likely to enjoy a trip to Egypt Emma could not imagine. Richenda was born to be pampered and could not survive such hardships as Emma had read about.

“I had not realized you were contemplating matrimony,” Emma said in a frozen little voice. “May I be among the first to wish you happy?”

“You may,” Sir Peter murmured, turning again to study the statuette.

“Actually, I shall be married quite soon,” Emma countered, happy for her brother and Beatrice. “I had a spot of luck and dug up a treasure worthy of an emperor. I fancy it will make a bit of a stir in the antiquarian community.” Emma was past caring whether Sir Peter ran into George at one of the meetings. She wished to be done with her promised help, then retreat.

But, oh, how she longed to spear Sir Peter with his blasted epee. He had teased her, kissed her, brought all manner of yearnings to her heart, and now she was to be dumped aside, abandoned like the wrappings from the statuette. But then, Richenda de Lacey had a plump dowry that would be useful in a trek to the realm of the pharaohs.

“My, that is a fierce expression,” Sir Peter commented when he raised his face from his contemplation of the little bronze goddess.

“Indeed?” Smoothing her countenance into one of polite inquiry, Emma merely glanced at him, then took out her pencils and pad. She set to work, perched on one of the high stools. How she wished she might keep coming here to draw for Sir Peter, unrealistic though her desire might be. If her quiet hours in this wondrous room of treasures might go on, she would be most happy. With a bit of effort she managed to put aside the declaration of Sir Peter’s impending marriage and concentrate on the drawings.

“She is a lovely thing, is she not?” Sir Peter said quietly over Emma’s shoulder while she worked at a sketch of the goddess.

“Richenda? I suppose so. She is deemed a Diamond of the First Water by most.” Once the words were said, Emma realized she had betrayed herself .

“How did
she
enter this conversation?”

Sir Peter seemed genuinely puzzled, and a tiny hope rose within Emma. “Well, Emma mentioned that you seemed most taken with the girl.”

“No,” Sir Peter replied vaguely. “I have another in mind.”

“She does not know of your intent?” Emma said, unable to keep the surprise from her voice or face.

“She will before too long.” Sir Peter produced other items he wished drawn, then sauntered from the room.

That man deserved to be rejected for his enormous conceit. Fancy planning to wed a girl and not telling her about it!

Emma worked at top speed, her hurt and anger lending impetus to her fingers. By noon she placed her beautifully colored drawings in a neat pile. Not seeing Sir Peter around, she intended to slip from the house with nothing more said. In fact, she decided that she had already said more than enough.