Miss Cheney's Charade (8 page)

Although the allotted time for Mr. Swinburne’s call had passed, he improperly remained, contrary to most dandies’ behavior. It seemed he did not wish to yield the field to his friends, although Emma suspected that the friendship was of the most distant sort.

She had begun to relax when Sir Peter spoke into one of those momentary silences that occur. “I fancy you are quite proud of your son. George has been such a help ...” he began.

Emma hastily broke into his flow of words—something she normally would never do—and said, “Sir Peter believes dear George to be an authority on Roman antiquities, Mama. Imagine my brother advising anyone on anything.” Her tinkling laugh sounded false to her ears. Her mother glared at her before smoothing that expression from her face.

“George is rarely at home anymore. He insists he will find a treasure, but I declare, I doubt it.” She sipped at her tea and gave Emma a questioning look regarding her daughter’s unseemly behavior.

Mrs. Bascomb came to an unknowing rescue when she turned the conversation to Sir Peter. “And your antiquities are to be rated superior, we understand. It is so rare that a gentleman shows interest in such elevating matters,” Mrs. Bascomb concluded with a nod of condescension.

Sir Peter bowed in her direction, acknowledging the tribute with a gracious smile.

Emma thought his smile held a gleam of amusement, but that might have been for
Mrs. Bascomb’s tribute, pretentious as it was.

The conversation turned to more general topics like
the
weather—dreadfully cloudy yet not too chilly for this time of year—and the various entertainments abounding in London during the high Season.

The gentlemen were about to take their leave when Sir Peter paused after rising from his chair and bowed to Mrs. Cheney. “I wonder, kind madam, if I might persuade you to join me this evening, with Miss Cheney, of course, and perhaps your husband. There is to be a grand opening of Vauxhall for the Season. I understand the Prince Regent himself is to attend. The owners have promised all manner of innovations.”

“I had heard a rumor they were to close, for they did not do at all well last year,” Mrs. Bascomb murmured.

“Well, it appears that Vauxhall will be even greater and grander
this
season,” Sir Peter said persuasively.

Emma was torn. She had read the account of the grand reopening at Vauxhall. It promised to be wonderful entertainment, and she wanted more than anything in the world to attend this festive occasion. On the other hand, it would mean a close proximity to Sir Peter Dancy for several hours, and that she dare not risk.

Then she glanced at him again. Unless he was for some peculiar reason of his own pretending to go along with her disguise, he had not to this point recognized her as both George and Emma. She continued her debate for only a few moments, for her wish to attend proved a trifle stronger than her fears of detection.

“Oh, Mama,” she cried softly, “do let us go. I have read of all the promised entertainments to be introduced and they sound prodigiously wonderful.”

Mrs. Cheney, looking delightfully affected, nodded her agreement. “I have also read the accounts. You are most kind to offer this treat. Sir Peter.” A cat with a bowl of cream could not have looked more smug than when Mrs. Cheney exchanged a glance with Mrs. Bascomb.

Sir Peter turned to the other gentlemen, his brows raised in inquiry.

“I regret that I am otherwise occupied this evening,” announced the dandy Mr. Swinburne.

“I should like to join you if I may,” Edward, Lord Worcester replied to the unspoken invitation.

“Good enough, Worcester,” Sir Peter said by way of confirmation.

“Emma knows a charming girl she might invite to join us if you wish,” Mrs. Cheney offered hesitantly. “Lady Amelia Littleton.”

“Fine,” Sir Peter said with good humor.

Lord Worcester had given a start at the mentioned name, but said nothing. Emma wondered at the expression on his face.

“It will be a wonderful treat,” Emma declared, deciding that she would send a note to Sir Peter explaining that George would be unable to come in the morning. She didn’t wish to risk Sir Peter’s scrutiny immediately. And besides, if they remained at Vauxhall until the wee hours, she had no desire to  drag herself from her bed to stagger over to Sir Peter’s at some ungodly hour of the morning while pretending to be George, who must have had more sleep.

The gentlemen departed, and at the urging of her dear mama, Emma went to her room to compose a note to Lady Amelia.

Not having seen a great deal of Lady Amelia since their school days, Emma wasn’t certain how she would view a near-last-minute invitation. She needn’t have worried. Within a brief time an acceptance was returned with the footman to the affect that Lady Amelia had been longing to attend the grand opening and was most pleased to accept

“Mind you, Emma, I was most displeased when you interrupted Sir Peter while he was here. Not good breeding, my girl,” Mrs. Cheney scolded when she recalled the event some hours later.

“I am sorry. Mama,” Emma replied with all due humility. “I found the notion of George assisting someone like Sir Peter to be a bit humorous, you see.”

“George is a sad scamp, I fear,” his loving but sorely tried mother replied.

Emma hurried up to her room in order to dress for the evening. She thought scamp an odd appellation for the absent-minded and serious George, but would never argue with her mother.

In a gown of silver gauze over pink taffeta, newly come from the mantuamakers. Emma felt quite festive. It was more stylish than most of her gowns, and she blessed her papa for insisting she visit the same mantuamaker who had made the gown from Lady Titheridge. So Emma had slipped out and been graced with a pretty gown that fortunately had not been claimed.

For all that he remained silent, Mr. Cheney was most observant. He knew quality when he saw it, and he wanted the best for his Emma. He looked pleased with the results of her shopping trip.

The three were joined by Lady Amelia some time before the gentlemen were to arrive. It had been arranged that they all meet early at the Cheney house before proceeding to the Vauxhall Gardens.

Sir Peter had declared before he left, “It is bound to be crowded this evening. We had best start early, or the bridge will be impassible, and as to the wherries, well, they are a dangerous mode of transport in the event of a throng of people.”

Emma had observed to herself that nothing could be half so dangerous as Sir Peter. The whipcord leanness of his handsome person frightened her even as it thrilled her. Now she awaited his appearance with trembling. Why he had chosen to take them up, she couldn’t imagine. If only
he
had not been the one to possess the Egyptian objects she longed to draw!

Lady Amelia looked charming in apple green silk trimmed with peach rosebuds. Peach silk rosebuds wound through her fair hair. Emma envied her polish.

When the gentlemen arrived, Emma observed that Lord Worcester glared at Lady Amelia and she returned a look perfectly as odious. What a dilemma.

“We have met, I believe. Lady Amelia,” Lord Worcester drawled hatefully, most unlike his previous charming self.

“Edward, you have known me since I was in pigtails and you in short coats. Don’t you come over the lordly lord with me. I know you far too well,” Amelia replied with a snap.

His lordship looked annoyed, but said nothing to this accusation. He offered his arm, which Amelia accepted with good grace.

Mr. and Mrs. Cheney elected to travel in their own coach, having brought Mrs. Bascomb and the widowed Lady Hamley along at their expense.

Lady Amelia settled opposite Lord Worcester while Emma sat next to her and watched Sir Peter sit opposite herself.

“I understand you had an unrolling of a mummy at your home this past Monday,” Lady Amelia said with a nod to Sir Peter.

Emma almost gasped. Had it only been last Monday? Today was Thursday, and it certainly seemed more like a month than a few days.

“That is true. It proved most successful.”

Lord Worcester peered out of the window and exclaimed, “Look at the carriages! I vow we will be fortunate if we ever make it.”

Emma looked to Sir Peter and decided that if the circumstances were different, she would not mind in the least being shut in a carriage with him.

But she was more or less trapped in her deceit. How agonizing to desire to record those priceless antiquities and yet also be drawn to the man who owned them, and who would no doubt be scandalized at her charade. Could she, dare she continue with her deception? She knew she ought to halt her subterfuge. There were many reasons for sanity to reign—her reputation, to mention one. Yet—and she turned a thoughtful gaze on Sir Peter—she would, she
must
risk all just to be near him for a little longer. Whatever happened, she would have this.

And of course she wished to please his aunt, she reminded herself in an effort to add to the outrageous justification of her acts. As if
that
truly was sufficient.

Chapter Five

In spite of the throng of carriages the coachman soon worked his way into the line of vehicles crossing Westminster Bridge to Vauxhall Gardens.

Emma solved the dilemma of
not
looking at Sir Peter by admiring the interior of the coach. Dark brown leather panels were offset by beige silk curtains. The seats and squabs were the softest brown velvet and most comfortable. In fact, it was by far the nicest coach Emma had ever had the good fortune to ride in, even if one of the occupants made her decidedly uneasy.

At last the coach halted and the steps were let down. Sir Peter assisted Emma from the coach rather than allowing the groom to help her. She was surprised at that, giving him a quizzical look.

However, he had sent the groom ahead to purchase the tickets and took charge of those when the fellow returned. Emma’s parents and guests arrived before too long. Within less time than any of them could have believed, they were entering the Gardens and strolling along the Great Walk.

Since the Cheneys wished to stroll along at a slower pace, arrangements were made to meet later for supper.

Emma had longed to come to this fascinating place for some time, but her parents had thought of one excuse after another. Now that she was actually here, she felt a rush of pleasure. As much as Sir Peter unnerved her, she would ever be grateful that he was responsible for her visit.

She attended to his explanation of the plan of the Gardens with one ear while looking about her with undisguised delight.

“The Italian Walk is off to the right along with the South Walk and is a trifle more splendid than this. To the left of us is the Hermit’s Walk. There is a transparency of a hermit seated before his hut toward the upper end of it. It is lit from behind and surprisingly lifelike.” Sir Peter gestured in that direction, and Emma turned her head to look.

Emma gazed along the walk and said, “It looks exceedingly dim along there, not the least like where we walk now. I vow, there must be hundreds of lights along this avenue. And,” she said with amazement, “how bright they are. Why do they not have the same sort of lights in the city?” She gestured to the bell-shaped lamps on brackets attached to each tree along the walk.

He gave her a thoughtful look and said, “Some people are not inclined to haste in these sort of matters.”

“The Hermit’s Walk is almost as notorious as the Lover’s Walk, or so I have been told,” Lady Amelia inserted at this point. She had politely placed her hand on her escort’s arm, but looked as though she would gladly box his ears instead. “And what Sir Peter called the Italian Walk is what less proper people call Lover’s Walk.” She bestowed a vexed look on Lord Worcester and then pretended to study something in the opposite direction.

Emma wondered what had been said between the two in their quiet conversation. Lady Amelia was no milk and water miss, and Emma rather admired her for it.

“Do you wish to explore?” Sir Peter said softly for Emma’s ears alone.

“Gracious, no,” Emma whispered back. “I am not that improper.” And then she almost laughed when she remembered how she had dressed in George’s breeches and hose, his coat and cravat, and permitted Sir Peter to see her in such. And when she recalled how her legs were revealed, she blushed.

“I feared as such,” Sir Peter said with such a doleful face that Emma had to laugh. She could feel the heat leave her cheeks and hoped her face had not totally given her away.

“What does that sign say?” she then asked him to change the subject.

“Can’t say. I’m a bit nearsighted, and unless the printing is large and clear, I cannot make it out at this distance.” He frowned in an apparent attempt to read the sign, but did not reveal what it was for Emma’s benefit.

Hope rose within Emma. If he did not see all that well, perhaps that explained why he failed to make the connection between George and herself. It also explained why he frowned at papers so often. Much cheered by this conclusion, Emma brightened and felt immeasurably better.

Sir Peter gestured to a number of pavilions that served as supper boxes and said in a very offhand manner, “We shall have our supper there later on, but first I thought you would enjoy exploring a bit.”

“Indeed,” inserted Lady Amelia, “Edward is excellent at exploring. Why, one time he had me so lost I thought I would never see home again.”

“You would persist in tagging along,” he grumbled.

“Beast,” Lady Amelia hissed back.

“I do believe those two have known each other for an age. They remind me of George and me when we get together,” Emma whispered to Sir Peter.

“Pity your brother couldn’t come along this evening.”

Emma pretended not to hear this comment, turning her head to stare at the approach of a gentleman who was playing what appeared to be several instruments at once.

“Senor Rivolta, I believe,” Sir Peter murmured.

Since Emma had read of the senor’s capabilities in the newspaper, she knew who it was, but found the sight amazing. “I scarce think it is something one would wish to see more than once,” she observed after a bit of the noise. “But he is most amusing.”