Miss Cheney's Charade (6 page)

“My dear girl, wherever did you get that gown?” her mother exclaimed when her daughter drifted down the stairs to stand before her. The vinaigrette bottle was produced, and Mrs. Cheney plumped herself down on a hall chair, unable to imagine what Emma had done to warrant such a fashionable gown without any money.

“Lady Titheridge insisted I wear it this evening. She said she had ordered it and then decided it was too young for her. I am to keep it... if you approve, of course.”

There was no way to deny this generosity, and Mrs. Cheney babbled all the way to Almack’s about how glad she was that her dearest friend, Mrs. Bascomb, had persuaded her to attend that delightful evening of music at Lady Titheridge’s house.

Emma ignored the transformation of the painful sounds to that of delightful music. To tell the truth, Emma was uneasy.

Once they had arrived, presented their tickets to the gentleman who ruled the entry, then walked up the stairs, Emma found she was past caring about her impression on those dragons of Society. Come what may, she intended to have a wonderful time, insipid refreshments notwithstanding.

There were but three of the patronesses in attendance this evening. Lady Sefton gave Emma a particularly sweet smile and studied her when presented. “So you are Evelyn’s little friend. I have promised her that you shall have a waltz this evening. Later on?” Lady Sefton gave Emma an encouraging smile, then turned to the next in line.

Emma nodded, too overwhelmed to speak intelligently.

Mrs. Cheney, as dazed as Emma had been earlier, guided her daughter over to where she recognized a few of the matrons. Emma was introduced to two young women she had not yet met and greeted several others she had encountered at parties so far attended. Then she saw Lady Amelia Littleton, her school-days friend, and joined her in nervous chatter.

She could scarcely believe that she was actually where so many craved to be. Attending the dance assemblies at Almack’s was the utter peak of social standing, topped only by a presentation at the Queen’s Drawing Room—and even that was debatable as to priority.

“I believe I shall swoon before the evening is over,” Amelia whispered, echoing Emma’s fears.

However, the evening proceeded tolerably well, for Emma at least. Then Mr. Brummell entered the rooms, and Emma could almost feel a thrill of apprehension flow through the air.

Not fearing him in the least, Emma smiled at him when she caught his eye. She repressed a grin at his answering look of surprise. When he came to her side and gave her a look of inquiry, she almost giggled. “Well, and here I am. Did you ever?” she whispered to him from behind her white lace fan.

“I vow you are quite the most refreshing sight in the rooms, my dear. However did you accomplish the transformation? You look ravishing.” His gaze swept her gorgeous gown, taking note of every detail.

“Lady Titheridge. I cannot explain all, but she has become like a fairy godmother, I believe.” Emma twinkled a look at Mr. Brummell, rather liking his wry reserve.

“Interesting. I see her nephew is gracing us with his presence this evening. Unusual. I must say hello to the chap. One is required to be
au courant
with the latest gossip, you know.”

The dandy sauntered off toward Sir Peter while Emma sank down upon the straight-backed chair providentially behind her. Double drat! What if he came near her? Worse yet, what if he asked her to dance with him? Oh, mercy me, she wailed inwardly. Her heart fluttered like a frightened bird, and she felt as close to fainting as ever in her life.

“You are amazing,” Amelia said, quite awed at Emma’s acquaintance with Mr. Brummell, before she drifted off to dance.

“At last you may meet Sir Peter, my dear,” Mrs. Cheney whispered. “I do believe he is coming in this direction.”

Emma rose and blindly accepted the first request that came her way, a spotty young man who had dashed over to find out what it was that drew George Brummell to this relatively unknown girl.

Peter came to a halt just short of where Emma Cheney took the hand of a young chap for a country dance. He was stunned at the sight of her. Why, she was beautiful! Her skin was creamy and begged to be stroked. Her dark hair now rioted in saucy curls about her head. She danced with grace and charm. And under that gorgeous creation she wore was a pair of the finest legs he had seen on any woman or opera dancer. And only
he
knew, with the exception of her dresser, of course. He suspected his expression might be a trifle smug.

When Emma returned to her mother’s side, she found Sir Peter approaching with Lady Sefton. The countess had a twinkle in her eyes.

“My dear Miss Cheney, may I present Sir Peter Dancy as an acceptable partner for the next waltz. He informs me that as a friend of his aunt’s he feels certain you will be kind enough to accept him.”

Emma placed her gloved hand in his and murmured something in reply. When they twirled out onto the floor, she felt as one awaiting an execution must feel... sort of numb, terrified, and wishing it would all be over soon.

The magic of the music and the dance began to overcome her fears, and she relaxed a trifle. He had not said a word, other than some nonsense about the waltz. She ventured a glance at him, then paled at his next words.

“You look a great deal like your brother, although I suppose you know that. Except George is not half so pretty as you, of course.” He chuckled at his bit of wit.

Emma smiled weakly and longed for the dance—which seemed to go on forever—to be over. That odd sensation of breathlessness had returned. The room seemed to diminish to a tiny area that surrounded just the two of them. It had to be his closeness. The warmth of his hand on her back, even through his gloves, and her hand as well, appeared to radiate outward. A glance at those remarkable green eyes nearly undid her.

“George comes and goes. I seldom see him. He is so busy with his interests, you know,” she finally said, figuring it was better to get it out in the open than wait for the axe to fall on her neck.

“Well, I can tell you that I am jolly glad for his assistance. Don’t know what I would do without the help he is giving me. Worth a fortune, his talent is.” Sir Peter bestowed a heart-melting smile on Emma that dazzled her. She wished he would not smile at her like that. It made her heart flutter at an alarming rate. Yet, those green eyes sparkled with pleasure, it seemed, not censure as she had feared. “Why, do you know his handwriting is superb, and as for his drawing, I feel quite lucky to have talked him into helping me.”

Emma flashed a look at Sir Peter, almost a disbelieving one. Had she heard aright? “That’s lovely,” she murmured in reply, not quite up to something witty.

The dance finally concluded, and Sir Peter properly escorted Emma to where her mother sat in stunned happiness.

He bowed to Mrs. Cheney, then turned to Emma with a warm look. “I suppose your card is filled, but if not, may I beg another dance from you?”

Emma did not have the presence of mind to keep her card from his hands. She watched, quite numb with apprehension, while he deftly caught it up, then signed his name opposite a later waltz. She thought his smile a trifle wicked, but what could she say with her mother sitting there all ears?

If she could just manage to leave this place without disgracing herself, Emma thought she might die happy.

Lord Worcester appeared and requested his dance. Emma threw a helpless look at her mother, wondering if this gentleman would blurt out the truth. Her mother made little shooing motions. Emma could imagine her formulating a tale to share with Mrs. Bascomb come tomorrow afternoon.

Fortunately the dance proved to be a Scottish reel, which was not only lively but kept partners separated much of the dance. If Lord Worcester had any queries, he did not have a chance to ask them, which suited Emma to a tee.

She was confused when Amelia glared at her, but had no time to dwell on the matter.

It was a shock to see Mr. Reginald Swinburne approach her for a dance. She somehow had not expected to see him at Almack’s. While he wore the form-fitting black tights that showed a modest amount of black-striped silk stocking worn by many other men as an alternate to the black knee-britches also allowed at the assemblies, his coattails were excessively long—almost to the ankles—and his cravat had not the simplicity that Mr. Brummell espoused. Indeed, that length of linen immobilized his neck, rising so high he could not turn his head in the least. But then his coat was padded so much, Emma doubted if he could bend, either. She thought he looked a bit silly, like a pouter pigeon about to strut.

“Miss Cheney, may I request a dance?” he said, bowing slightly before her, thus confirming her suspicions about his inability to bend.

Seeing that Sir Peter approached, Emma desired to move as far away from him as she might. Also, it would be rude to refuse Mr. Swinburne.

She gracefully agreed and permitted him to escort her to the center of the dance floor. The dandy was stiff in his movements, yet appeared light on his feet. When the pattern of the dance permitted a few words, he spoke.

“I am well acquainted with your brother, Miss Cheney. You resemble him, as you must know. Fine fellow, George,” he concluded with a solemn nod.

Emma whirled down the line of the country dance with a wild desire to giggle. George? Well acquainted with this foppish dandy? Absurd. Fortunately for her, she kept her countenance, for proper decorum at Almack’s assemblies was strictly observed.

At least no one had accused her of trading places with her brother, and for that she was humbly grateful. Then it came time for the second waltz with Sir Peter. Butterflies took wing in her stomach, and a strange desire to giggle over nothing assailed her. Nerves, she decided, steeling herself for the coming ordeal.

One gloved hand touched another. It was when his gloved hand slipped around her slender waist that she felt faint. Oh, she must not reveal her inner sensibilities. His effect on her became more pronounced each time he neared. She had best strive for distance!

Firming her resolve, she met his gaze with resignation. “I am surprised to see you here this evening. Someone chanced to mention that you never grace the assemblies with your presence.” She wished it had proven true.

“I wanted to please my aunt,” he lazily replied while expertly twirling Emma through a breathless turn. He looked off to his left. When Emma glanced in that direction, she saw Lady Titheridge standing by Lady Sefton. Emma returned a nod of recognition, then again looked at Sir Peter.

“You are much attached to your aunt? She is a very dear lady,” Emma concluded with genuine pleasure.

“There is nothing I would not do to please her,” he said, but looked at Emma with a peculiar light in his eyes that made her very curious.

When Emma and her mother finally took leave of the dancing assembly, they were both exhausted. Mrs. Cheney was nearly beside herself with happiness for her dear girl.

Emma was merely relieved that she had survived unscathed. How she was to rise at an early hour to present herself at Sir Peter’s house was beyond her. But she would do it. She had a strange urge to see if he would recognize her. It was like a death wish, she supposed.

Chapter Four

When Emma opened her eyes the next morning, she peered at her clock on the chimneypiece through a fog of fatigue. Then the time registered, and she slid from her bed with groggy haste.

Fanny slipped into her room with a tray of hot chocolate. “La, miss, I thought you would still be abed. You did come home a bit late last evening.”

Emma sipped the chocolate with gratitude for a sustaining liquid, then began her preparations for the day. It mattered little what she wore to Lady Titheridge’s house, for she changed immediately. So she pointed to the simple green sprigged muslin and commenced dressing.

“You ain’t goin’ out this morning?” a scandalized Fanny cried in alarm when she saw Emma grab for the reticule that held her little purse.

“Lady Titheridge depends on me,” Emma murmured vaguely. She left Fanny muttering dire remarks about young ladies who ventured out into the mists of the morning before it was proper. Emma was glad she might slip out without the garrulous Fanny tagging along with her as would be deemed proper under most circumstances. While the maid did her work well enough, she was a tattler, make no mistake. Emma didn’t need any complications at this point.

Lady Titheridge was still in bed when Emma walked up to the little bedroom. She whispered to Braddon that it wasn’t necessary to disturb her ladyship, and the maid fully agreed.

In a shorter time than Emma would have believed, she was again on the street and on her way to Sir Peter’s house.

His cheerful butler let her in and ushered her back toward the workroom with dispatch. She checked the timepiece in her pocket to discover that it was now one hour since she had climbed from her bed—a record to be sure.

“A pot of tea and perhaps a few biscuits, sir?” the butler inquired.

Emma’s empty stomach gurgled, and the butler raised his brows in dismay.

“I suspect you neglected to eat a proper breakfast. Why do you not join Sir Peter in his breakfast room, for he has not left the table as yet.” The butler paused, waiting expectantly at her side.

She didn’t know whether to agree and appease her appetite or remain and be safely away from Sir Peter. Her decision was taken from her hands when the butler patted her on the shoulder and urged, “Come along, sir, there is plenty of everything, and Sir Peter will enjoy your company.”

She thought he exhibited a high degree of familiarity with his employer, but on reflection decided it must be nice for a lonely bachelor to have someone who was friendly.

“Well,” Sir Peter declared while placing his fork on his plate and rising from the table, “I certainly didn’t expect you to be so early this morning.”

Emma stared at him in puzzlement. George had not left the house last night so far as Sir Peter knew.

“Ah, your sister must have created a bit of a fuss when she came home so late. Hard to sleep through that,” Sir Peter said in a rush.