Miss Cheney's Charade (25 page)

Her departure went far better than she had dared to hope. Wrapped in a cloak with a soft brim hat pulled down about her face, she doubted her own mother would know her.

Her ears strained for the sound of a carriage, and as soon as she heard the clip-clop of the horses’ approach, she stepped to the side of the street. He was driving a barouche, a vehicle popular with the sporting gentlemen. Emma supposed that he liked to travel in a fast, safe carriage out to the racecourses, although she couldn’t recall his mentioning going to races.

When the barouche pulled up before the Cheney house. Sir Peter urged her inside. He sat up front where the driver usually sat. No groom was present to assist Emma. But then, George would have managed for himself, and so she did, flinging the door open with surprising ease.

Emma hopped up and inside, then almost gasped when she saw Lord Worcester had joined them. She hadn’t counted upon this complication. Lord Worcester was not nearsighted in the least. However, he seemed to pay her no attention, urging Sir Peter to great speed.

“Swinburne has a good deal of time on us, best take the fastest route out of town,” Lord Worcester called out.

Sir Peter merely nodded, guiding the horses with skill through the thoroughfares toward Westminster Bridge and the road that led south and east to Southampton—and with any luck, the pair of runaways.

They clattered along the darkened streets, avoiding merrymakers on their way home from parties and carriages and chairs returning from balls and routs. Here and there a house gleamed with lights from every window, evidence of a party within. Otherwise, an occasional flambeau outside a front door or candles shining through a window offered small illumination for the travelers.

Worcester turned to Emma and said, “Do you have any idea as to when they might have left? Did Emma have the least clue?”

Taking note that Worcester had not identified her as Emma, no doubt due to the lack of light, Emma replied, “Amelia called on my sister this morning. Emma said she appeared nervous and most ill at ease. But... it might have been anytime after that.”

“We paused to question her maid,” Lord Worcester explained. “Amelia did not leave there until this evening, supposedly to attend a masquerade. She took a bandbox, which presumably held her costume. Claimed she was to change at your house with Emma.”

“And darling Emma was at Almack’s this evening. I danced with her,” Sir Peter called back from where he perched.

Emma took note of his use of the word
darling
and hugged it to her heart.

The carriage was open to the front, although the hood curved over where they sat, offering protection from the chill of the evening and the wind, which had risen some.

Wrapping George’s cloak about her for greater warmth, Emma subsided into the corner of the barouche and hoped Lord Worcester continued to stare straight ahead.

“I had not expected Amelia to do such a bird-brained thing,” Lord Worcester complained.

“Why do you quarrel with her forever and anon?” Emma wondered aloud. Then, recalling that George might not know this, she added, “Emma says you two have a go at it every time you are together.”

“I have always been in the habit of doing so since we were tots. It was only when I saw that odious Swinburne paying court to her with his perfumed violets and scented note paper and that blasted violet poodle that I realized I could never permit her to marry the wretch.”

“Violet poodle?” Emma exclaimed in amazement. She hadn’t seen this apparition.

“He insists the dog adds to his consequence, and he adores violets, demmed twiddlepoop. It is his own innovation and sets him apart from all others—or so he claims.” Lord Worcester sighed, slumping back into his corner of the commodious vehicle with a decidedly blue-deviled expression, from what little Emma could see in the dim light of the lamps that had been clipped to the frame on either side of the driver.

The carriage had been modified so as to drive through the night, and Emma prayed that they would have no accident along the way. Too many stories had reached her ears of night-time terrors on the road.

They clattered through the Pimlico Gate while scarcely slowing down, then dashed across the Westminster Bridge, which was quiet this time of night. Once over the bridge Sir Peter urged the horses to run flat out.

The lights from Vauxhall glimmered through the trees and shone into the sky. Memories of her evening there with Sir Peter returned to bring a wistful smile to her lips. Maybe, just maybe, she might escape from this predicament and at least have a stab at her heart’s desire.

Loving Sir Peter, as she confessed she did, she
must
have hope. She could not live without some shred of confidence that all would turn out well in the end.

The bridge and Vauxhall, along with her memories, behind them. Sir Peter again urged the horses to greater speed. Once through the Kensington Gate, London was far distant. There was nothing much to see, for although the clouds were thin and scattered, the moon wasn’t full.

Emma was certain they clipped along at a good speed—at least ten miles per hour now they were in the country. She suspected a cloud of dust rose in the air behind them, for even the better roads were not free of this nuisance.

Rather than sit in silence, Emma decided to attempt conversation. Perhaps if she might find out something of Lord Worcester’s feelings for Amelia, she might be able to help the pair.

“You care for Amelia, do you not?” Emma ventured into forbidden territory, that of another’s most personal feelings.

“You might say that,” he admitted reluctantly.

“I doubt she believes that to be the case . . . from what Emma has said,” Emma added hastily. It was very difficult to remember that she was not herself.

“As to that,—” He stopped, possibly reflecting on his past words and actions, “Well, my concern for her ought to tell her something.” He sounded so indignant that Emma stifled a laugh with difficulty.

“Somehow, I believe a young lady likes to be told of a gentleman’s feelings on the subject. I know Emma would,” she said.

“Indeed? You must be very close to your sister in that case,” came the dry rejoinder.

“We are surprisingly close,” Emma agreed, thinking that if Lord Worcester but knew the truth, he would be vastly amused.

“I still say the chit is daft in the head for running off with Swinburne when she could have me.”

Emma wanted to hit the lofty gentleman right over his conceited head. “Since I doubt if Amelia has acquired the ability to read minds, you may have to relent and tell her of your affection in so many words. Besides, from what Emma said, ‘tis possible she did not go willingly. She was most worried about the dangers from the French fleet, for you know how close the Isle of Guernsey is to French shores. When Emma met her in the park while driving out with Sir Peter, she noticed that Swinburne appeared to have some sort of control over Amelia, for she looked to him regarding a simple meeting with Emma.”

“By Jove!” Edward exclaimed. That bit of information set him to thinking, leaving Emma once again to silence.

It was about then that trouble began. A coach approached from the opposite direction. Emma peered around Sir Peter, thinking that the oncoming vehicle, whose lights swayed in an alarming manner, seemed exceedingly erratic and the horses out of control.

“Hold on tight,” Sir Peter called back at them.

It was clear to Emma that he would try to keep as far to one side of the road as possible, hoping to scrape past the wayward vehicle as best he could. She closed her eyes, unwilling to watch. Yet, if she were to be tossed into the ditch, she had best be prepared, so she reluctantly opened them again.

“Here it comes,” Lord Worcester shouted in alarm.

Sir Peter veered to the left as far as he could without going completely off the road. For a few moments it seemed that they would make it. The other carriage sailed past them, the drunken driver waving his hat in merry glee.

Then the barouche hit a stone, the vehicle wavered, and over they went as neat as pie. Not a splinter, nor a break—just plopped on their side. When Emma had learned the barouche was a safe vehicle, she hadn’t envisioned testing the knowledge. All that was likely to result from the accident was scraped paint and perhaps a dent or two and one smashed lantern. How fortunate that they landed on an upward slanting slope with thick grass to cushion the upset.

“This is a fine kettle of fish,” Lord Worcester grumbled.

Having tumbled to the floor rather than upon Lord Worcester, Emma scrambled over the side of the carriage to join Sir Peter, who stood staring at the carriage with a most resigned expression.

“You all right?” he bothered to inquire while checking the barouche, carrying one of the lanterns so he could see.

“Fine,” Emma said in a husky voice just a trifle lower than normal. “What can I do to help?”

“We have to right the dratted thing ourselves, or we could be stranded here for hours.”

“Right-o,” Lord Worcester replied. “Good thing this is a light vehicle.”

“Light?” she whispered. Staring at the barouche, Emma tried to think how much use she would be; her muscles were hardly up to a gentleman’s, particularly one who sparred at Jackson’s. In her estimation the carriage looked as heavy as lead.

Sir Peter gave her an amused look, then joined Worcester by the side of the carriage where they discussed the best approach to righting the vehicle.

Whether or not they did, Emma had a sinking feeling that this was a prelude to an unsuccessful trip. By the time they managed to reach Southampton, Amelia would most likely be long gone. Unless ... the little minx truly did not wish to go and she managed a diversion or two along the way.

* * * *

“I am dreadfully hungry, Mr. Swinburne,” Amelia complained.

“We stopped for tea at the last inn,” Reginald Swinburne replied, clearly vexed with his chosen bride.

“Be that as it may, I am hungry and when I am hungry I can become horridly ill. I do not wish to cause a problem, but it is utterly wretched to be ill in a carriage,” she cried, ending with a most affecting sob. She pulled her handkerchief from her reticule to dab at her nose, then her mouth, and hoped she looked as pale and wan as the looking glass had revealed after she had applied a generous amount of rice powder to her face.

“Very well,” came the reply through undoubtedly gritted teeth. He pulled into the inn that stood at the edge of Basingstoke, then turned with an impatient look at Amelia.

“Thank you,” she said demurely. Amelia accepted the assistance of the groom who came dashing up to help, then tottered into the inn on Swinburne’s arm.

“Tea, I believe, and perhaps a nice slice of roast beef with potatoes and the tiniest wedge of pigeon pie followed by a dainty sliver of poppy seed cake ought to do me for a little.” She wasn’t certain she could eat all that, but she would give it her best.

“Good grief,” Mr. Swinburne muttered. “I had no idea you possessed such an expensive appetite.”

“I brought all my pin money as you suggested, dear Reginald. I shall pay for my own food,” she declared with the air of a martyr.

“I have sufficient blunt for now,” he snapped. Then realizing that this was perhaps not the best way to treat the woman he intended to marry, he amended, “I did not have time to procure funds from my bank before we left. When we reach Guernsey, there will be not the least problem.”

Amelia gave him a skeptical look. From what she suspected, he most likely was in Dun Territory and owed everyone. How could she have allowed herself to be so taken in by this violet-scented rogue now escaped her. He might be a dandy and appear as though he wouldn’t bother to harm a flea, but underneath he was something else.

It was all Edward’s fault. Had he not driven her utterly mad with his stupidly obtuse refusal to see her other than the little girl next door—and a pest, at that—she would never have given Reginald Swinburne more than an amused glance. She had played her part well, until even dearest Emma had been convinced and cautioned her against Swinburne.

How she wished she had taken that advice. She never dreamed that Reginald Swinburne possessed the spirit to kidnap her—for that is what it amounted to, as she went against her inclinations—and flee to Southampton. She held little hope that Emma had taken the hints dropped to her. Emma had seemed most preoccupied for some time now, most likely with thoughts about Sir Peter Dancy.

Oh, if Edward only had half of Sir Peter’s sensitivity and astuteness, she would have been married for at least a year by now. Wretched man!

The food arrived and Amelia gave a dismayed look at the quantity before her. The only good thing about it was that it would take time to consume and time was about the only thing in her favor at this point.

* * * *

“All right now, while George pulls on the strap over there, you and I will push from this side, agreed?” Sir Peter pointed to the strap attached to the roof of the right side of the vehicle. The other end of strap wound around one of Emma’s hands; she prayed that she would be able to do what had been asked of her. While tall, she wasn’t sure of her strength.

“Sounds as though it might work,” Worcester admitted. “Let’s go then, or we will never make it to Southampton by tomorrow, much less in time to stop Swinburne.”

Sir Peter and Worcester positioned themselves against the lower side of the barouche, taking hold of the roof. With much straining of muscles and a good deal of pulling on Emma’s part, they managed to lift it part of the way. But that was all. “Pity we can’t use the horses,” Emma murmured. “I suppose we could, although I don’t know the beasts all that well,” Sir Peter said of the horses received at the last staging inn.

The animals were taken around, the straps attached to the harness, then Sir Peter led them along, watching with wary eyes as to their response. They proved to be easy-tempered and agreeable to a bit of work other than pulling a carriage. Within a remarkably short time the barouche had been righted.

“Well,” Worcester declared with surprise, “it’s a good thing we had George with us, or we’d be still trying to push the dratted thing up.”