Miss Cheney's Charade (3 page)

Braddon whipped out a pair of gentleman’s shoes from a small satchel she’d brought with her, then motioned Emma to a bench before a dressing table. She proceeded to slightly darken Emma’s skin with a cream from a pot that had been concealed in an apron pocket. Then she brushed Emma’s hair into a tousled effect. When the maid finally finished her efforts, Emma stared back at an unfamiliar young gentleman. Before her appeared a slim young man with a light tan, a fashionable hair style, and a neckcloth tied in the latest mode, and who looked remarkably like her brother, George, newly returned from one of his digs. She hoped.

“I do believe I shall fool everyone,” Emma declared with dawning assurance.

“It is quite possible you shall pass,” her ladyship observed.

“Tell me, ma’am, just how observant is Sir Peter?” Emma then inquired absently while checking the fall of her coat in the back.

“Aha! You are going to see his mummy unrolled this afternoon,” the astute Lady Titheridge cried. “Well. I suppose he is like most people; he sees what he expects to see.”

“Oh, dear,” Emma said in dismay, placing one hand over her mouth. “I truly had not intended to tell you that. I fear I require practice in telling fabrications. You see, I do so want to see that mummy. When I espied George’s invitation, it seemed like an answer to all my wishes. You are not too terribly horrified?” Emma gazed at Sir Peter’s aunt with hopeful eyes.

“Not at all, well, at least not much. You will find I am the best of accomplices. Braddon will be silent as the grave as well. I hope you will take your drawing pad along and do a sketch or two?” her ladyship suggested slyly. “I am keenly interested, and the wretched boy did not invite me to his unrolling.”

“I shall be happy to make a sketch if you think he will not be displeased. I intend to stay in the background. After all, I do not know how well my brother knows Sir Peter. While I resemble George, I may have trouble if Sir Peter recalls something I know nothing about.” Emma wondered that her ladyship could call one as distinguished as Sir Peter a boy, then turned her concerns toward whether or not she might actually dare to sketch.

“Worry about that if it happens,” Lady Titheridge replied with a smile. She checked the timepiece pinned to her gown and gasped. “You had best hurry if you do not wish to be late. I believe he intends to unroll the mummy shortly after half-past two. It is rising two now, and you will need a bit of time to go from here to his house.”

Braddon walked to the door, then paused. “I shall have Leland summon a hackney for you, miss—or should I say Mr. Cheney?”

“I had best become accustomed to that name if only for the afternoon,” Emma replied.

“You are a very brave girl, my dear. Not many young women would dare to pursue their heart’s desire in such a fashion. You must exercise great caution and not allow anyone to guess your identity.
That
would bring your ruination!” Lady Titheridge admonished.

“I am aware of that, but I really wish to see the mummy. Since George is never in London save on rare occasions, I doubt if any of those in attendance will know him well.” Then Emma declared with her endearing honesty, “I fear I have not made much of a splash in Society, ma’am. I doubt if any there will recognize me even if they might suspect I am not who I pretend to be.”

“See that you remain as silent as possible and do keep to the rear.” Lady Titheridge watched as her young guest left the room, then peered from the window while Emma entered the hackney. The amused gleam in her ladyship’s eyes might have given Emma pause had she seen it. Evelyn, Lady Titheridge, decided then and there to see that Emma made her “splash,” beginning with the much-desired vouchers to the Wednesday evening affairs at Almack’s. Evelyn frequently attended and had never seen Emma present. Lady Titheridge left the room to make her way to her own dressing chamber with the intent of then paying a call on Lady Sefton, that favorite of the patronesses.

Emma was on edge. She was well aware of the dangers that lurked in her path, the least of which was that Sir Peter find her out. She nervously clenched and unclenched her gloved hands all the way across Mayfair.

After paying the jarvey from the little purse she had remembered to place in her pocket, Emma made her way up the steps to the front door. The sound of the knocker echoed within the house. She hoped that its resemblance to a sound of doom was merely her imagination.

The door opened and a jolly-looking man ushered her in with deference once Emma had extended her invitation—that is, George’s invitation.

“Right this way, Mr. Cheney,” the butler urged, having quickly perused the name on the card.

Emma followed him up the stairs, thankful that Lady Titheridge had insisted upon better-fitting shoes. Really, the pantaloons were most comfortable, and Emma wondered why young ladies might not wear something that offered such ease and freedom.

The drawing room was blessedly full of men. They were gathered in small clusters and were all deep in earnest conversation. Across the room the mummy reposed on an oak table, its bandaged contents waiting to be unrolled. Emma scarcely took note of the unusual and exotic furniture about her. Chairs with scroll curving arms and backs and rounded X-frame front legs were decorated with designs of lotus leaves, scarabs, and sphinxes all done in gold and black.

Emma slipped off to one side and around to a point where she thought she might see fairly well, making sure not to meet the eyes of anyone near her. She really ought not have attempted such a dangerous exploit. Sir Peter—or someone— was certain to catch her out, and then where would she be? In the soup, that’s where. Her mouth was dry and she wished she dared to sip some of the wine she detected on a tray not far from where she stood. That was a sure way to disaster, and she dare not request water. Then she sensed someone had come up to her.

“George, how good of you to come. I had feared you would be off in Sussex,” said a cultured voice to Emma’s left. It had to be Sir Peter.

Heart pounding madly, she turned slowly, hoping she might manage to scrape by his scrutiny. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Emma replied in the voice that she had been practicing in the privacy of her room. She hoped that she managed to sound like George. She chanced to look in Sir Peter’s eyes to see if he accepted her disguise.

Not by a flicker of an eyelash did Peter reveal his shock at what he saw when the young man before him turned around. While there was a superficial resemblance to his casual friend, it was not George! And if it was not George, who was it? He pretended to countenance the impostor and chatted briefly before excusing himself to check on something with Radley. His butler had eyes as astute as Peter’s, and it would be interesting to see what Radley made of this astounding development.

“Our last guest has arrived,” Peter began.

“Indeed,” Radley responded in his correct manner with only a slight elevation of his eyebrows to indicate he found anything out of the ordinary in the circumstances.

“Did you notice something unusual about him?” Peter turned so he might casually inspect this somewhat nervous newcomer who appeared to shun contact with the others.

“He had the proper invitation, and we often see young gentlemen who are somewhat slender, do we not?” Radley replied with a narrow gaze at this particular guest. As usual, his perception went beyond what might be expected, briefly observed, when his expression shifted to one of suspicion.

Peter couldn’t prevent a grin from momentarily flashing across his face. He hastily wiped it away, but continued to dart glances at the young person who had pulled a drawing pad from beneath a coat and begun to sketch the mummy in all its wrappings.

Then Peter stilled for a moment. He knew bones very well, and those bones were not masculine in the least. Those long slender legs and the curvaceous hips did
not
belong to a young man. When he scrutinized the person further, the hands proved far too delicate in appearance. It was a woman! But who? She was tall for a woman, but shapely nonetheless, unless she had more padding than he suspected. She certainly resembled his friend, enough to fool nearly all who were not well acquainted with the elusive George Cheney.

Then he remembered. George had a younger sister who must be of an age to be making her come-out in London about now. She could have had access to the invitation and penned an acceptance with ease. How she thought she might perform such a charade was beyond Peter. She definitely presented a riddle and certainly was dramatic in presentation. But it was obvious she did
not
wish her identity to be guessed.

He observed that the other men in the room appeared not to notice a thing wrong with the young chap who so properly took a place off to one side. It showed a fitting respect to the older men, and they looked on the newcomer with benign disregard.

Deciding he had best attend to business before someone looked more closely and precipitated a scandal, Peter strode to the front of the room to stand by the mummy.

“And now, gentlemen, the thing that has brought you here this afternoon ... the mummy from Thebes.” Peter began to weave the tale of how the mummy had been removed from Egypt and shipped home along with a great deal of other treasure his father had appropriated in the name of scholarship.

It had reposed in a dim corner of one of the storerooms until recently. Peter had decided to investigate the identity if possible. And that required unwrapping the body.

He noted that the young woman off to one side flinched when he mentioned the body encased in the yards of wrappings. He repressed a smile that longed to sneak out and continued with his intent.

With a flourish worthy of a showman, he began with the end of the linen strip and carefully, slowly, unrolled it, taking care to keep that roll snug so that the linen wrapping would not become an unmanageable tangle.

From where she stood, Emma watched Sir Peter commence the unrolling of the mummy. She had captured an excellent likeness of the wrapped body before he began, and she waited, pencil poised, for him to conclude. She concentrated on the details, the peculiar smell that drifted across the room to tease her nostrils, the coarse texture of the linen, and the small objects that came to light as the wrappings proceeded.

A scarab, large and faded blue, came to sight. Emma edged closer so she might draw it. Another amulet came to view, and Emma felt her excitement rise. She again edged closer to the table upon which the mummy rested.

Peter took note of the young woman’s interest and lack of vapors. Whatever her name might be, she was indeed a plucky thing. He glanced at Radley, who assisted him with the delicate task of winding up the yards and yards of linen bandages, when he handed him another neat roll. At the end of each strip that roll was carefully numbered and placed aside on a nearby table. It seemed his butler also had watched the young woman and appeared to be impressed.

Peter took all the amulets and bits of jewelry he came upon and put them to the front of the table. The look of total absorption on the face of the strange young woman caught his curiosity. She continued to sketch each little amulet, and her eyes grew round with excitement when she viewed the pieces of jewelry. Just like a woman, he thought—captivated by jewelry even if it is old stuff removed from a mummy.

Yet he had to admit he found each item exquisitely beautiful. He wondered if there was any order or reason to where the amulets had been placed on the wrappings, or were they perhaps included at random. He’d likely never guess, but he found himself pleased that the young artist was recording them in order of removal.

Really, she proved to be a godsend, did she but know it. He had looked in vain for a man who would consent to draw his findings and had found not a soul. Apparently, the artists of the day considered it beneath them to do such a thing as sketch scarabs and necklaces, much less a mummy.

Peter’s eyes gleamed at the sight that met his eyes when he lifted up the bandages close to the body. He held up a necklace that came to light as the piles of bandages had reached amazing proportions. The necklace was incredibly beautiful to his eyes.

In the middle of the center portion a pale green quartz scarab seemed to have odd wings sprouting from each side of it. These had carnelians and lapis lazuli set in narrow rows. A design he recognized as stylized lotus buds made a row of decoration that dangled from the lower edge of the design, which consisted of carnelian and lapis lazuli, gold, and a few other stones.

He reverently lifted up the necklace so that all might see. His little artist’s gasp of delight would normally have given her away, but there was such a widespread reaction by the gentlemen in attendance that she went unnoticed. Murmurs went through the group, sounding like the hum from a hive.

“I say. Sir Peter, you have found a real treasure there,” Mr. Reginald Swinburne declared in a hearty voice. “Fancy it lurking about your storeroom all these years. Good joke, what?”

Peter gave the man—a guest of a friend who had received an invitation and not someone he knew well—an annoyed glance.

“The gold alone must be worth a tidy fortune,” added Peter’s good friend Edward, Lord Worcester. He moved closer to the table to have a better look at the beautiful necklace, worthy of a queen.

“What a lucky chap, to have a father who brought home trinkets such as that,” Lord Petersham said, envy clear in his voice. Since all knew his perpetual lack of ready funds, laughter drifted through the room, breaking some of the tension that had built up as the unrolling proceeded.

“I say, old fellow, you will have to hire a guard if you intend to keep all these things in the house,” Mr. Swinburne advised.

Peter gave him a thoughtful glance, then reverently placed the necklace on the table so that his young artist might draw it next.

No one paid the least attention to the young man who so diligently drew each item. Peter figured that the others must have decided that he had hired an artist. No one spoke to the lad, nor did that artist receive more than the most casual of glances—fortunately. The last thing Peter wanted was a scandal on his hands.