Miss Cheney's Charade (29 page)

Still, she wondered who the woman was that Sir Peter intended to marry—if and when he remembered to ask the poor dear.

Radley bustled forth to greet Emma when she ventured into the hall. Any hope she had of slipping out without having to face Sir Peter again was abandoned when Radley spoke.

“Sir Peter wishes you to join him in the fencing room, Mr. Cheney. Will you follow me?” It was quite clear that denial was unthinkable.

Emma knew the way, but fell in behind Radley without a word. Indeed, she felt quite at a loss to understand why Sir Peter would want to see her, unless he merely wished to thank her for her efforts. Deciding that had to be the case, she braced herself for their final scene. After this she would go home and never, never don a disguise again as long as she lived. Charades were simply too dangerous to her peace of mind.

“Sir?” Radley said when he stepped into the room.

“Thank you, Radley. Done with the drawings, Cheney? I appreciate the superb work you do.” Sir Peter turned around to face Emma, and she observed his garb with a sinking heart.

It was not possible that the dratted man wished to practice again! Apparently he did. He wore a short, neat-looking sort of jacket that buttoned up along one side. Emma felt at a disadvantage in her shirt with the ruffle along the opening below her neck. Her waistcoat and knee breeches seemed frivolous compared to his knit pantaloons that clung to that masculine form far too faithfully and offered a greater freedom of movement. Still, her garb had the advantage of concealment, and she needed that.

“I had not anticipated another bout of fencing, old fellow,” Emma said gruffly. He made no reply.

She accepted the mask from him with a sense of fatality, then took the epee he handed her and walked to the
piste
with a sense of impending doom hanging over her head.

After saluting him, she began to perform the various positions, lunges, and parries that she had practiced in the privacy of her room. In her anger she was more aggressive than usual, perhaps wishing that she might sneak under his defense.

“You are improving your technique,” he said, not seeming the least breathless from his exertions. He neared her side and looked down at her, his eyes glittering from behind the mask. Then, that look gone, he leaped back with one of his graceful maneuvers.

“Indeed,” Emma snapped back, lunging at him in the hope of catching him off his guard. She succeeded for a moment, then he pushed her foil aside with ease.

Emma was puzzled when he said, “Enough.” He returned the implements and masks to their places, then joined Emma in the stride to the front door. She hastily donned George’s coat while they walked, thinking her exit was accomplished with unseemly speed.

“You will do well enough,” he said, rather mysteriously to Emma’s thinking.

“Is everything set for this evening, sir?” Radley said when Emma and Sir Peter joined him in the entry hall.

Looking at her nemesis, Emma wondered what was to happen this evening, although it certainly had nothing to do with her.

“Yes, all is in readiness.” He turned again to Emma. “By the way, George, I took your sister’s advice and planted a few hints of additional treasure in the various clubs and with the greatest gossips. Since Emma is convinced that a thief still lurks about London, I have set a trap for him. Harry Porter indicated he might stop by here later on, toward dark. Would you be so kind as to join us?” He thought a moment, then added, “I know you are occupied with your newly found treasure, but I could use your skill with the epee.”

She was utterly speechless. Could he actually desire her help? But she was a mere woman, even if he thought she was George. Yet, he said she would do well enough and now he claimed to desire her skills.

Echoing her thought, she said, “You desire me?”

“I certainly do,” Sir Peter replied with gratifying promptness. If Emma did not know of his interest in a particular woman, she might have wondered a trifle at that enthusiastic answer to George’s query.

She considered what her mama planned for the evening and at last nodded her agreement. In spite of her vow to never don this disguise again, she had to know what happened and how better than to be in on the action? “What time?”

Sir Peter exchanged a look with his butler, who appeared to have a great deal more to say about things than Oldham did.

‘Twilight lasts quite long this time of year,” Radley said with a considering frown.

“I suggest you plan to arrive here about nine of the clock,” Sir Peter said while Radley opened the front door for Emma to depart.

“Nine,” she repeated, then headed for the hackney that awaited her as usual. She was all kinds of fool, she knew that, but she had to be with Sir Peter this evening.

Behind her the door shut with a firm click. Peter whistled softly while his butler shook his head at him.

“It should be a lark,” Peter said with amusement.

“You ought not draw the young lady into this, sir,” Radley gently scolded.

“Nothing will happen. I will have a last evening with good old George and that will be that”

Radley did not appear convinced.

* * * *

“What? Are you to go to my nephew’s house in the evening? Is that not dangerous? While no one is about early in the morning, with every passing hour you risk detection.” Lady Titheridge voiced her concern while pacing back and forth in the little bedroom where Emma hurriedly changed into her dress.

“Can you not see?” Emma begged. “I simply have to know what happens. I am convinced that if there is someone who intends to steal the treasure, it will be soon and why not tonight?”

“The moon will be hidden by clouds, ‘tis true,” her ladyship mused after a glance out of the window. “And were one in pressing need of money, the sooner one struck, the better. But what about the swordplay? Do not tell me that Peter expects George to lurk about the house with sword in hand!”

“That I cannot say,” Emma replied, taking one last peek in the looking glass before leaving the house to assure herself that she no longer resembled George, but looked herself.

“Well, do be careful. I shall be gone this evening, but Braddon will assist you in your disguise. For one final time,” her ladyship concluded with a minatory look at Emma.

“He promised it would not be dangerous.”

“I believe men are quite free with their promises at times. Do not believe a word of it, my dear.”

Emma paused by the door, then with her head bent, said, “He mentioned that he intends to marry shortly and take his bride with him to Egypt He did not reveal her name, but it is not Richenda de Lacey. I asked, for she is the only woman I can drink of with whom he has been involved as of late.”

“Except for yourself,” Lady Titheridge said quietly.

Emma digested that remark while marching down the staircase to the front door and all the way home. There could be no conclusion, for she refused to accept that Sir Peter would possibly find her as possible marriage material—no matter that she loved him most desperately and would agree, even were he to be tardy in his request.

The day passed slowly. Serving tea to Mrs. Bascomb and Lady Hamley was tedious in the extreme. She had fetched Dr. Vernal’s Tonic Pills for her dear mama when she was appraised of George’s great news. Fortunately that was the topic for the afternoon, and Emma could listen with one ear while contemplating the upcoming evening with something between dread and anticipation.

“I would hope that Sir William and his family will come to London before too long,” Mrs. Cheney said to Emma, penetrating her abstraction.

“I rather doubt that, for Lady Johnson is confined to her chair, as you may recall. She adores company and will love to have you and papa come to visit, I daresay.”

The prospect of a trip south to Sussex occupied the remainder of the call until it was time for those dear ladies to depart, having exhausted every aspect of the subject.

“I would have you put on your pretty cream sarcenet this evening,” Mrs. Cheney admonished Emma. “It is feminine, and those curls are neither here nor there if you catch my meaning. I cannot see why some gentleman has not sought out your papa for your hand. You have done well at the balls and assemblies, and not every girl acquires vouchers to Almack’s. ‘Tis a puzzle,” she concluded before wandering up to her room for a quiet rest.

Emma watched her dear mama leave. Turning aside, the young woman faced reality. Not only would she have to cope with the sight of Sir Peter fawning over some other woman, she had to accept the fact that
she
must marry someone. Every girl must, or face a life of service as a companion or unpaid servant in the household of some relative. Unless she found someone she might tolerate, Emma would most likely end up helping out George and Beatrice.

However, Sir Peter wanted her by his side this evening. Emma resolved to do her best—whatever that might be.

* * * *

The cream sarcenet was a success, judging by the reaction of her many partners that evening. Even Mr. Brummell praised her attire, and that must be appreciated. He came early for a change. Emma kept checking the clock on the far mantel as to the time.

“One would think you wish to be elsewhere,” Mr. Brummell chided, to her embarrassment.

“La, sir, I merely look to the hour.”

She looked in vain for Sir Peter to show his handsome face. Perhaps he was off to see that lady he claimed he was to marry.

“There you are,” said a familiar voice some minutes later. “I have hunted everywhere for you.”

She turned to face Sir Peter with a resigned sigh and an inward leap of her heart. “Did you try the dance floor? I have just finished a country dance, and that quite occupied my time and concentration.”

“You look very lovely this evening. I like that dress. No Betsie tonight?” he inquired with a pointed look at her exposed neckline.

Her hand fluttered to cover her skin, for it seemed his gaze burned with intensity. “No, I do not wish to become tedious.”

“Dance with me, my dear.” The strains of a minuet floated out from the little orchestra led by Comet, the conductor at Almack’s who frequently played for private parties.

She could not refuse; polite Society would frown on such. She wanted to touch his hand and be at his side through the patterns of the elaborate dance, worse luck. If Amelia was a ninnyhammer, Emma was far more foolish.

She met his gaze over raised hands as they advanced and retreated in the pattern of the minuet. There was something seductive about the dance, a thing she had never noticed in the past. Was it perhaps her yearnings toward Sir Peter that prompted this emotion? She steeled herself to think of something else entirely until such time as she might leave his side and flee. What a blessing that it was so easy to persuade Mama to go home early.

At the conclusion of the provocative dance Emma curtsied gracefully, then thanked Sir Peter when he brought her back to her mother’s side. She had to leave. She could not bear to see who he elected to dance with next. Besides, it was nearly nine of the clock, time to depart.

Emma dropped on the chair at her mother’s side, professing concern. “Are you all right? You look dreadfully pale.”

“Oh, mercy,” exclaimed the susceptible Mrs. Cheney. “And I do not have Dr. Vernal’s Tonic Pills along with me tonight. I believe I best go home. I am sorry, love, but I cannot take a chance with my poor health.” She arose in a flutter of her fan, reticule, handkerchief, then leaned on Emma’s arm to say good night to their hostess.

After one brief glance at the clock to note that the hands marked eight and thirty of the clock, Emma kept her gaze narrowly confined to the floor in front of them, the people they must pass. Not until they were safely down the stairs and out into the carriage did she relax. How she would manage to survive the remainder of this dreadful evening was beyond her.

She patiently fussed over her mother before leaving her in Hocknell’s capable hands. The maid knew precisely how to soothe her mistress.

Emma wrapped a cloak about her and slipped from the house with no one the wiser.

Braddon urged speed once Emma arrived. “One does not know when a thief will decide to strike,” she counseled while checking Emma’s face and hair.

Giving the maid a swift hug for her excellent care, Emma then slipped from that house to dash over to Bruton Street. Radley allowed her entry, then silently ushered her to the workroom.

One candle burned on the far wall. Emma searched the shadows for Sir Peter, wondering how long he had stayed at the ball.

“I am pleased to see you could make it. I feared you would be deep in conversation with Sir William and forget all about the promise for this evening.” Sir Peter came out of the shadows in the hall, dressed all in black.

“I do not forget promises,” Emma replied indignantly.

“Good. I will remember that,” he said softly. “Now, here is your sword. Do not use it unless necessary, but then aim to wound seriously, yet not kill. We must know—in the event there is a plot to steal the Egyptian treasures—who is behind it.”

Emma accepted the sword, placing it on one of the glass-topped cases while she removed her coat. Looking down at her cambric shirt, she grimaced. “I stand out like a beacon.”

Sir Peter disappeared, then returned with a black shirt in hand. “Here, pull this over your head. It ought to cover you nicely. Oh,” he added, “I let it be known that I planned an evening of merrymaking—the ball, then the clubs.”

“A night on the town,” she whispered back, disconcerted to find his ear so close to her mouth.

Emma pulled on the black shirt as requested, then silently waited.

There in the warm darkness Emma glanced at the man she loved. What an utter rogue he was, although he could not possibly know the feelings he aroused in her. She dare not reveal them either way. As George it was unthinkable. As Emma it was prohibited. A proper young lady simply did not throw herself at the gentleman she desired.

So she sat in the deepening darkness, silently studying his face, what she could see of it, until she could see nothing but the faintest glimmer of his skin.