Miss Cheney's Charade (17 page)

The ladies all chatted a bit, then Lady Titheridge turned to Mrs. Cheney. “And how is your son?” Emma tells me that he is off in Sussex on a digging expedition. I have a great desire to see what one is like. I wonder if you would permit Emma to travel with me so that I might meet your son and see what he does?”

At first Mrs. Cheney was stunned into silence at the astounding notion that anyone, particularly someone as elevated in Society as Lady Titheridge, would have the least interest in what her foolish son did.

“I could bring George his mail and see how he is,” Emma coaxed while coping with her surprise at this suggestion. “You never know. Mama, one day George could become famous. Or so says Sir Peter.”

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Cheney gasped. “I should speak to your father, I suppose.” Clearly she was torn between immediately giving permission and the pretense of consulting with her husband when all knew that Mr. Cheney would promptly agree. He did not hold with how his son chose to occupy his time, but thought it was far better than falling into debt or carousing about London.

“Please, Mama,” Emma begged quite prettily, although the request had come as much of a shock to her as to her mother.

“When would you go?” Mrs. Cheney inquired, nervously reaching for her vinaigrette.

Mrs. Bascomb and Lady Henley exchanged approving glances and nods.

“Two days after tomorrow, I believe,” her ladyship decreed. “We would not wish Emma to miss Almack’s, now would we?” She was ever accustomed to getting her way, and most likely the idea that she might not never entered her head. ‘That ought to give us ample time to prepare for the journey. I shall take my traveling coach, and Emma need bring only her clothing, plus the items for her brother. I imagine he will be wanting a few shirts and the like. I recall my Peter—Sir Peter was named for my husband, you know—was ever wishing for clean shirts when we were off on a jaunt. I suppose we had best remain silent about this trip. I would not wish any trouble while on the road.”

Mrs. Cheney was so thrilled to be the recipient of Lady Titheridge’s confidences with her bosom friends looking and listening on that she would have agreed to anything at this point Also, the reminder that Emma had achieved that holy of holies, the assemblies at Almack’s, was utter bliss to Mrs. Cheney. She had never dared hope for Emma to aspire to that height.

“That would be most kind of you, I’m sure,” Mrs. Cheney replied after resorting to a dainty sniff from her vinaigrette bottle.

After a short time her ladyship bade them farewell.

Emma offered to accompany her to the door and silently walked down the stairs, not speaking until she was certain she could not be heard back in the drawing room.

“That was indeed a surprise, my lady,” Emma said in a soft little voice.

“It came to me while we were talking with Peter and Edward that George might take it into his head to return home— for clean shirts, if nothing else. You must persuade him that under no circumstances is he to show his face in London until safe.”

“Oh, mercy,” Emma whispered. “That thought never occurred to me.”

Lady Titheridge gave Emma a playful tap on her arm with her fan. “You must learn to consider all aspects of a situation if you are to be a good conspirator,” she whispered back. Then looking enormously pleased with herself, she returned to her landau and drove off in great state.

* * * *

When Sir Peter called to escort Emma for their afternoon walk in Hyde Park, she found her heart fluttered nervously. She peered over the banister at the tall figure who entered, then followed Oldham to the morning room.

Putting her hand on her heart and taking a deep breath to calm that quaking beat, she walked down the steps until she reached the ground floor. At the door to the morning room she paused, assessing Sir Peter.

Every time they met, she sensed danger lay in wait for her. She could so easily give herself away, and when the wretched man looked down at her with that wicked twinkle in his exotic green eyes, she scarcely knew what she said at all.

“Now I have seen everything,” Sir Peter exclaimed with a bow, “a lady who is on time for an appointment.”

“It would be very rude to keep a gentleman waiting, I think.
I
do not believe in being rude,” Emma replied, trying to avoid clashing with those bewitching eyes and failing.

Firmly taking herself in hand, she tore her gaze away and took several steps toward the hall. “Shall we go?”

“We are to pick up Worcester and Lady Amelia on our way.” Sir Peter joined her in the exodus to where the carriage awaited. “Aunt Titheridge kindly lent me her landau so we should not be crowded.”

“Oh, I am so glad,” Emma said with ringing sincerity. The last thing she wanted was to be crushed up against that dratted man.

For some reason this made Sir Peter chuckle, and Emma wondered what she had said that was so amusing.

She edged onto the cushioned seat, taking care to keep her distance. Never must she forget for one second that this man was the most dangerous man in all of London—as far as she was concerned.

“The last I heard, I was not classified among those who bite,” Sir Peter murmured while arranging a lap rug over her knees.

“Indeed?” He could have fooled her. Next to him a ferocious lion was a mere house pet.

“It is a lovely day,” she offered, wondering if he would find that amusing as well.

“Indeed,” he replied, echoing her inflection.

“Well, it is,” she said, annoyed he would make fun of her.

“I agreed,” he protested. “But after drizzles it is nice to see the sun shining again. Or does the weather not bother you overmuch?” He folded his hands before him. Emma studied his neat gloves rather than meet his gaze.

“Well, I do not develop aches and pains—at least from that.” Her hand unconsciously crept up to finger the pretty Betsie frill at her neck which concealed the tiny bruises.

“I rather like that thing around your neck. It somewhat gives you the innocent look of a choirboy. Or cherub, perhaps?” He reached out to flick the pleated muslin with one finger, and Emma gave him a startled look.

“Sir,” she demurred. He had made her look into his eyes again, and she had intended to avoid them at all costs. She truly did not trust herself with this man, not that he had done one improper thing, mind you. It was
how
he made her feel.

“You are in a prickly mood today. I wondered what happened.”

She most fortunately did not have to reply to that provocative remark as the landau drew up before Lady Amelia’s home.

The groom marched up to thwack the door knocker with dispatch. Within short order Lady Amelia and Lord Worcester joined Sir Peter and Emma in the carriage, and the four were off to the park.

“That is a fetching attire, dear Emma,” Lady Amelia said with a lift of a brow.

In return Emma gave her a glance that told Amelia all would be explained later regarding the green velvet spencer, hat to match, and the innocent muslin ruff.

“ ‘Tis a lovely day,” Lady Amelia offered with a demure air.

Emma chanced to meet Sir Peter’s gaze and couldn’t help it. She giggled. That dratted man had her laughing helplessly in moments.

“Well,” Lady Amelia said in a huff, “it
is
a lovely day, and I see nothing whatsoever humorous about that.” She tilted her adorable nose and made a quiet remark to Lord Worcester.

He was saved from a reply by their arrival in the park.

“Are you certain you would rather stroll than drive?” Lady Amelia asked Emma.

Since Emma had debated whether it was safer to sit at Sir Peter’s side in the landau or walk close by him along a path, she was in no condition to make a rational reply.

It all began innocently enough, she thought. They joined the throng of fashionable ladies and gentlemen who were similarly occupied. There were ever so many, and she ought to be as safe here as in church. Or so she believed.

Carriages rolled along parallel to Rotten Row, where the bucks and blades rode to show off their fancy attire and horses and ladies their gorgeous riding habits and splendid mares. Emma cast a critical eye at the scene and decided she was glad they decided to walk.

“You are in deep thought,” Sir Peter prompted when she had been silent for a time.

“No, merely not a chatterbox.” Besides, if she kept her mouth shut, she couldn’t trip over her tongue.

“You know,” Sir Peter mused, “it really is amazing how much you resemble your brother. I suppose you hear that frequently.” He leaned forward to view her more clearly beneath the brim of her smart green velvet hat.

“No,” Emma chirped after swallowing with care. “Not really. He is so rarely at home, you see. And we never go places together, so there is little opportunity for comparison. Although when he was in short coats, there was occasionally some confusion,” she admitted. “We are only a year and a half apart in age, you see.”

“I do hope George will come for another lesson in fencing. He shows great promise in his parry and thrust. I should like to teach him a few tactics.” Sir Peter complacently placed Emma’s neatly gloved hand on his arm—bringing her much closer to his side—and proceeded to stroll along the lane, totally ignoring the stares of the fashionable.

“Tactics?” Emma choked on the word. To her the word called to mind intrigue, plotting, and strategy, none of which she wished to engage in with Sir Peter.

“Oh, indeed. It is most necessary to learn tactics. He wants to improve his riposte and certainly learn a better counterattack.” Sir Peter guided Emma around a couple who had stopped in the middle of the path.

“Counterattack? You make it sound as though I, er, George would be going into battle—as in a duel or such. I cannot wish George to fight.”

Sir Peter appeared not to notice her little blunder, and Emma thought she may have made a successful recovery.

“I would that you give him that message about his lesson, for I never seem to see him about.”

“Oh, George is terribly elusive. I scarcely see him myself. Any day now I expect to see him off to Sussex, for he is most anxious to resume his digging.”

“I sympathize with his desires,” Sir
Peter said while assisting Emma over a tree root.

She looked about her and realized they had somehow strayed off the path and were now in a lovely shaded part of the park. They were also very much alone.

“I think we had best join the others,” she said in a tiny voice.

“If you insist,” he replied with a sigh. “You will promise me a cotillion at Almack’s tomorrow evening?” He reached out his free hand to lightly touch her cheek and looked at her with such yearning in his eyes that Emma felt as though she must melt with the heat of his gaze.

“Indeed,” she managed to whisper and then wondered why he laughed.

Chapter Ten

“Dear Amelia,” Emma said tentatively, “do have a care regarding Mr. Swinburne.”

“But Emma, he is the nicest person,” Lady Amelia objected. “His manners are so very refined, and I adore the scent of violets.”

Emma shrugged and looked over the assembled throng at Almack’s this Wednesday evening. “As long as you view him as no more than an amusing flirt, there is no danger, I suppose.” She feared she did not sound convinced in the least.

“Well, he treats me far better than Lord Worcester, you may be sure,” Lady Amelia replied with a sniff. Then she confided, “He told me that he has a family on the Isle of Guernsey. Is that not romantic?”

“I cannot imagine why,” Emma said, utterly confused at this turn of conversation.

“Think of all those who elope to that isle. I understand that there are boats sailing to Guernsey from Southampton for only five guineas. ‘Tis like Scotland; one does not need a license,” Lady Amelia explained in the event that Emma had not known about this.

“Sounds ridiculous to me,” Emma replied while taking note of Mr. Swinburne as he approached. He again wore his claret coat over the black knee breeches. Emma wondered if he hoped to establish the same sort of following that Mr. Brummell did with his dark blue coat.

Lady Amelia whirled off for a dance on the arm of the stylishly coxcombical Mr. Swinburne, but Emma paid not the least attention now. Someone else claimed her attention.

“Miss Cheney,” Sir Peter said from her left, making Emma’s poor heart flutter along in a cotillion of its own.

Wordlessly, she accepted his arm and walked at his side, thinking that tomorrow she would be on her way into Sussex. With that thought held fast in her mind, she turned to face her partner.

“So quiet this evening. Is Almack’s becoming commonplace for you? You seem so abstracted.” He swirled her around in a graceful loop, deftly avoiding the others on the floor as they proceeded through the pattern of the dance.

Ashamed that she allowed her worries to overset her to such a degree, Emma smiled and shook her head. “I have a great deal on my mind,” she admitted. “I see Lady Amelia is dancing with Mr. Swinburne. Did you know he has family on the Isle of Guernsey?”

“He told Lady Amelia that?” Sir Peter said with a frown and a dark glance at the fellow.

“I do hope it was nothing more than idle chitchat.”

“Worcester thinks Swinburne offers her nothing but Spanish coin,” Sir Peter said abruptly.

“I thought he was tipping the butter boat a bit heavy last evening,” Emma admitted, then recalled that she deplored gossip and this was little better than that, never mind that she was genuinely concerned for Amelia.

The next time they joined in the pattern of the dance she bravely continued in a different vein, dredging up bits and scraps she thought might amuse him. At last the music concluded. She returned to her mama, grateful this part of the evening was over. Sir Peter was utterly too unnerving.

“I see Mr. Swinburne paying court to Lady Amelia,” Mrs. Cheney whispered to Emma from behind her fan. “A title and a fat dowry add incentive for a gentleman,” she concluded sourly.

“Mama, Lady Amelia is the dearest creature. While she might be a trifle goosish, she has a warm heart.” Emma might envy the girl her looks, money, and perhaps her title, but it was impossible not to love her. Her artless charm and delightful enthusiasm captivated one.