Miss Cheney's Charade (23 page)

Emma lost interest in the war when she espied Sir Peter strolling along with friends, deep in conversation. When he saw her, he broke off and came in their direction.

“Miss Cheney, will you do me the honor of this dance?” Sir Peter said, bowing before her after greeting his aunt and Mrs. Cheney with due deference.

“I should be delighted. Sir Peter,” Emma said, wondering if he was disappointed that Amelia was not in attendance.

She watched him, trying to think of something clever to say. At last, having abandoned being witty, she said, “How goes the protection of your collection? Does the fellow with the cauliflower ears and broken nose still keep the thief at bay?”

He looked down at her with a faint smile. “That he does. And Harry Porter does an admirable job of snooping about London for clues. He thinks he is on to something, but has yet to report what it might be.”

Emma shuddered briefly, for the thought of a thief with a gun who was willing to shoot at anyone who came into view frightened her.

“None of this, please,” he said in admonition. “I believe there is enough gloom here for the entire nation.” He looked about him, shaking his head in dismay.

“Do you believe Wellington has lost the battle and the war against the Monster from Corsica, as the newspapers call him?” Emma gave Sir Peter a worried look with a tender glance at her fragile mother. That poor lady always feared the very worst and believed the French were about to set foot on English shores at any day.

“England shall prevail, never fear,” he replied as though repeating a phrase often said. Then, to obviously change the subject, he continued in a very different direction. “Has your brother come to London as yet? I wish he would call in the morning. Does he rise early? Could you tell him I’d appreciate talking with him about the collection? And remind him that his next lesson is to be on tactics.”

Emma swallowed with difficulty and nodded, almost afraid to say a word. At last, when her silence became too much, she said, “I’ll speak to him when I return to the house. I imagine he will come for a time, although he does have an appointment in the late morning,” she concluded, thinking of Lady Amelia.

“Of course.”

And she wondered precisely what he meant by that. His look seemed far too knowing.

Chapter Thirteen

“How do I look?” Emma asked Braddon. “I must be able remove this coat so as to fence,” she reminded the maid.

“You will do excellently,” the maid assured. “Now you had best be off, for it will only be a brief lesson so you may dash home to meet with Lady Amelia.”

Emma had revealed her appointment with the puzzling Amelia and her fears for her. With scarcely a backward glance, Emma ran lightly down the stairs, thinking again how vastly more convenient pantaloons were instead of her confining skins.

Once at Bruton Street, Emma entered the house with a wary step. Never certain what to expect from Sir Peter, she walked back to the workroom, where she found him studying the contents of one of the cases.

“Good morning,” Emma said, trying to duplicate George’s voice and intonations. “Afraid I cannot stay very long, for I have an appointment late this morning. May I be of assistance in something?”

“Your sister mentioned you were to be occupied later on,” Sir Peter murmured. “Dashed pretty girl, your sister.” He concentrated on the case contents, tilting his head first one way, then the other, as though trying to decide if the arrangement was just right.

Emma prayed that she would not blush at this bit of an encomium from Sir Peter. She mumbled something totally unintelligible in reply, then bent over the case to look at what was within.

“What? You have brought home the necklace? I thought you intended to keep it safe!” Emma cried in alarm, almost forgetting her George voice in her shock.

“Well, if I hope to nab the crook, I had best have adequate bait,” he said, sounding most reasonable.

While Emma could see the sense of this, she thought he might have substituted a fake and said so.

“A counterfeit? And where could I find a jeweller I could trust to make such a thing? He’d likely palm off the false one and abscond with the real. You know there is a ready market for the piece,” he concluded, finally looking up to meet her troubled gaze.

“I do not see how the French can afford to buy much of anything. From what I have seen in the newspapers. Napoleon has about bankrupted the country,” Emma pointed out.

“There is always someone with money” was his vague reply. “Well, what do you think about the arrangements?”

Emma slowly turned around, absorbing every detail of the room. The glaziers had neatly replaced the broken window. One or two of Emma’s sketches hung on the wall over each case, with explanations regarding those items.

“It looks much like a museum,” Emma said at last.

“Good,” he said with relish. “I have invited a few chaps over to view the results. Do you want to join us?” The invitation was casually put forth, tossed off as Sir Peter walked toward the door, obviously expecting George to follow him.

“When is it to be?” Emma countered in a strained voice. As deeply as she was involved at this point, she really dare not attend any function where someone might have better eyesight! As long as she kept this business to just the two of them, she felt she had a chance to escape unscathed.

“This afternoon. The invitations went out yesterday, but I thought I’d be seeing you this morning so waited to ask you now.”

“Too bad, old fellow. I would like to be here, but I’ll be occupied all afternoon,” she replied. Emma did not bother to explain; she could not think of a thing that George might take part in that could not be set aside if he so chose.

“Pity,” Sir Peter tossed over his shoulder. “Well, we had best get on with our lesson, for it will be a brief one. Shame you had a morning appointment. Your sister has one too— with Lady Amelia.”

“Umm,” Emma murmured, deciding her best defense would be vague replies and ambiguous comments.

He selected the foils, then handed Emma her mask. While she tied it securely over her face, she watched him do the same. Then they picked up their epees and walked to the center of the mat, which he referred to as a
piste.

“Tactics,” Sir Peter began, “involve the application of swordplay to differing situations or perhaps different types of opponents.”

“But,” Emma objected, “I have no intention of becoming involved in a match or the like, and certainly not a duel.”

“True, you may not plan that, but it is well to be able to defend yourself if necessary,” he advised.

And so they began. Emma flexed her legs and arms, prepared for another grueling session. He might say the lesson would be brief, but she suspected he would make up for that by the intensity.

Why she did not simply refuse his offer to teach her she did not know. Perhaps it had something to do with her truly wanting to learn the masculine sport that challenged her to such an extent. And, she confessed, she rather enjoyed being with him.

When she brought up her sword in the salute, she almost wished she might face him as herself. It would be so good to get the best of him, though she admitted it would be beyond her ability. But practice improved one, and one might always have hope of the impossible, particularly with someone who insisted he was nearsighted.

“Too slow, too slow,” Sir Peter scolded when Emma’s timing was off and he was able to complete his attack of her. He seemed to fly through the air with a swiftness that took her breath. She rapidly ran backward from him when it seemed he would collide with her. He paused, almost touching her, looking at her with a peculiar expression in those green eyes. An odd sort of tension hung in the air between them.

Emma wondered what he was thinking. If she were herself, what would he do? His eyes held what almost seemed to be a longing in them. Or was she merely imagining things? That could never be if he believed her to be George! She put that thought from her mind and concentrated upon her lesson.

He swiftly backed away, turning from her for a moment before he again faced her. Standing with his epee balanced in one hand, his other hand on the tip, he glared at her. “You must not only defend yourself, you must be prepared to counterattack.”

As she had thought, he seemed to enjoy admonishing her. She made no reply, but listened and watched while he demonstrated the correct cadence.

“It is necessary to seize the advantage of any momentary lapse your opponent may make,” he pointed out with perfect sense. “Now, again.”

Practice continued on the footwork, the thrust and parry, the riposte, until Emma longed to collapse on the mat. Perhaps she ought to allow him to stab her. At least she would have good reason to fall down.

He glanced at the clock that sat on the table below the case where he stored the swords. “It is growing late. I suppose I had best let you go. If you are tardy for your appointment, I may find your counterattack too fierce.” He chuckled at his
bon mot
and accepted Emma’s sword along with her mask. “I enjoy our sessions,” he said. “I trust you find them agreeable as well?”

“Indeed,” she said with more truth than he knew. Emma felt herself lucky he kept that button on the tip of his epee, or she probably would be off her toes—forever.

While he stowed the equipment away, careful as always, Emma hastily pulled her coat back on and edged toward the door.

“Sorry I must leave so soon. You know how it is,” she said with less than perfect truth. She then added, “the lessons interest me.”

“You are improving. I’ll wager you have done a bit of practice in your off hours. Am I right?” Sir Peter clapped Emma on the back with a hearty slap that nearly unbalanced her. She just barely managed not to stagger from the blow.

“Indeed,” she managed to croak in reply while wondering if she would not only have those wretched bruises but a stiff shoulder from this lesson.

At the doorway she stopped to thank him again, and he waved her appreciation aside.

“Your sketches are more than compensation to me. In fact, I intend to pay you for them.” He smiled, that perfectly charming, beguiling smile that lit up the depths of his eyes in a way that turned Emma’s knees to jelly.

“Not necessary,” Emma replied gruffly. How could she accept the money—even if she
could
use it? She was so besotted with the man that she could not possibly accept compensation for doing something for him.

“I shall find a way to satisfy the situation. Perhaps you would like to be in on the final chase for the jewel thief? Ought to be a bit of excitement, I daresay,” he said in a coaxing way.

Emma ran a nervous tongue over her lower lip and nodded, “Oh, jolly fun, to be sure. However, I might be gone by then, you know. I am thinking of returning to Sussex quite soon.”

“I understand,” Sir Peter said with a knowing wink. “Beatrice is a beautiful girl. You would do well to marry her before some other chap steps in. You know how it is, while the cat’s away, the mice will play.”

Emma could not believe her ears. How could he joke about such a thing.

She fled from the house within minutes and rode back to Lady Titheridge’s in confusion.

Peter leaned back against the door and permitted the laughter that had longed to escape to be freed. Dear Emma scarcely knew which way to turn. As he had said to Radley, she was confused and he intended to keep her that way.

Once he released his pent-up merriment, he strolled back to the workroom, whistling a popular tune. He studied the arranged precautions again, then turned to greet Harry Porter when he entered the room.

“Shall we cover the details one more time, sir?” the Runner inquired with proper deference.

“Let’s do,” Peter said with a decisive snap that had been absent while he was with Emma Cheney.

* * * *

Upon her return home, Emma informed Oldham regarding her expected guest, then quickly ran up to her room. She checked her appearance to see that every curl was as it ought to be and that her Betsie covered any telltale bruises. Fortunately, this dress possessed a higher neck than most she owned.

“Lady Amelia has come,” Fanny announced from the door. Behind her Amelia peeped into the room.

“I thought perhaps it might be better were we to have a comfortable coze up here,” Emma said to a hesitant Amelia. After requesting Fanny bring them tea and biscuits, Emma drew her friend along to the window. Emma settled Amelia so she faced the window while Emma carefully put her back to the light. She intended to watch every expression on her friend’s pretty face. First she told Amelia all about the trip south and George’s lovely find of coins.

“And now, my dearest Amelia,” Emma began when Fanny had brought the pot of tea with thin slices of buttered bread and tiny ginger biscuits, “tell me what is going on.”

She had not really intended to be so direct. She ought to apply her lessons in tactics here, but the sight of the pale worried face had made her forget her motive.

“Nothing, Emma, nothing at all.” Amelia absently shredded her sheer cambric handkerchief into bits while her forehead was pleated into worry lines. “I... er... I” She halted, unable to say what was on her mind.

“I see. Ginger biscuit?” Emma offered. She poured out a cup of steaming tea, sat back, then watched Amelia while not saying a word, hoping the silence might draw her friend into speech.

“Well,” Amelia began hesitantly. “No. I promised, and I never break my word,” the anxious girl concluded softly.

“I would never wish you to do that,” Emma replied, wondering precisely what it was that bothered Amelia. Emma figured the odds were that whatever it was had something to do with Mr. Swinburne. He had appeared to have some manner of hold over Amelia when they had met in the park.

Rather than pursue the issue Emma longed to investigate, she turned the conversation to the weather and likelihood of rain on Wednesday evening. Not that any of those who were privileged to attend Almack’s would allow a trifle like a rainstorm to interfere with their being present at the prestigious assemblies.