Miss Cheney's Charade (30 page)

Then she heard it—a noise. Her indrawn breath was matched by Sir Peter. He placed a cautioning hand on her arm.

“I truly had not believed Emma. Apologize to her for me,” he whispered.

He did not plan to see her again, Emma decided. Obviously, he intended to whisk his intended bride away from London and off to Egypt with no further ado.

The sound of breaking glass was heard, then muttered imprecations flowed through the air, turning it somewhat blue. Emma longed to cover her ears, but dared not move an inch. Which feeling was made more difficult by the proximity of Sir Peter. He had shifted until his thigh nudged hers. It must be accidental. In his effort to avoid detection, he most likely had hunkered down behind the display case.

A light flickered, then took hold as a candle flamed to life. Emma peeped around the case, hoping to see the man.

When he half turned, she nearly cried out. It was none other than Mr. Swinburne! A very changed Swinburne. Gone were the dandy’s exquisite clothes and airs. Rather, he wore dark garb similar to that which Sir Peter had donned.

Sir Peter began to creep from behind one case to another. He might have succeeded in achieving his goal but for his sword. It scraped across the floor just as he neared the villain, sounding like an explosion in the near silence of the room.

Swinburne whirled about from where he had been at work on the first of the cases. “Who’s there?” He stared into the darkness, looking about with alert eyes.

Sir Peter waited. Emma carefully edged to the opposite direction from the one Sir Peter had taken. She took care to keep her sword up and away from any surface where it might accidentally make contact.

“I heard something.” He froze in place, searching the shadows of the room.

“Meow.”

“A blasted cat,” Swinburne muttered in a voice unlike the one paraded before the ladies of the
ton.
Emma almost giggled at the imitation of a cat until she saw the animal jump up on one of the cases. It surveyed the intruder, then began to stalk him.

The cat knocked over one of the tools Swinburne had brought with him, and that noise startled both the cat and the thief. “Scat,” he raged at the hapless animal.

The cat jumped down to disappear from sight.

Emma had lost track of Sir Peter and flinched when she heard the sound of tinkling glass as the first of the cases was smashed open.

Continuing to edge to the other side of Swinburne, Emma strained for some sign that Sir Peter was still in the room. She heard a whispered swish like that of a foot being slid on the floor.

“Cat?” Swinburne snarled. “Leave be. Go while you can.”

His voice made Emma tremble with its hint of viciousness.

All at once the room exploded. In the flickering light of the candle Emma saw Sir Peter jump Swinburne, knocking him to the floor. She crept forward, sword still in hand. There was a great deal of thrashing about, curses yelled and muttered, threats shouted.

A lamp, then another lit the scene as Radley and Porter dashed into the room with Argand lamps in hand.

It was horrible. Swinburne had his arm about Sir Peter’s neck and looked to be choking him to death. With a face turning paler and bluer by the moment, Sir Peter appeared defeated.

Emma rose from her place of concealment, sword at the ready. “You villain,” she growled. “You complete knave, you scoundrel!”

He was clearly startled that a third person was in the room, one who crept up on him from behind, while the others advanced from the door.

“You were supposed to be out on the Town,” he snarled at Sir Peter.

Giving a mighty lurch. Sir Peter freed himself from the awful clutch. However, he had to gasp for breath as he rolled away from Swinburne and could not attack.

Emma recalled the words Sir Peter had shouted at her in one of their sessions. “Seize the advantage of any momentary lapse your opponent may make,” he had called out. Swinburne concentrated upon Sir Peter, evidently taking Emma to be of no account or worry.

She inched her way closer until she was within striking distance. Gradually shifting into a lunge position, she leaped forward and plunged her sword into Swinburne’s shoulder.

The man screamed with pain, whirling about to see who had dared to strike him thus.

Emma held tightly to her sword, ready to strike again.

Sir Peter yelled, “Good show!” He staggered to his feet, then charged at Swinburne from the opposite side.

The villain moved in Emma’s direction. She found herself unable to strike again and pushed rudely against the wall. She could feebly defend herself, but not advance. What a nuisance to be such a weak female at a time like this, she fumed.

“Prepare to surrender,” Sir Peter called to Swinburne.

“Not on your life,” the villain snapped. He grabbed the statuette of the goddess, and before Emma realized what he intended, he brought it down on her head.

The last thing she knew was a sinking sensation, with Swinburne leaping over her head and Sir Peter yelling something that sounded utterly dreadful.

* * * *

When she came to, she tried to sit up, but could not. Her head ached, though that did not worry her. She was trapped, held in someone’s arms—masculine arms covered in dark cloth.

“Who... what happened?” she whispered, aware that she sounded very groggy.

“Thank heavens,” came a fervent prayer from none other than Sir Peter. He drew Emma close to him and cradled her most comfortingly in his arms. She found herself being stroked and petted and liked the sensations very much. Gentle kisses rained across her forehead and face between softly murmured words of reassurance and affection. The scent of costmary and lavender mingled with spice to tease her nose. His hands performed marvelously delightful caresses on her sensitive back and shoulders.

“Poor darling” and “precious treasure” were music to her ears after all she’d been through. She had for so long yearned to be clasped snugly against his manly chest, and now she nestled against him, savoring every sensation. The fine cambric shirt could not prevent the warmth of his body from offering her a sense of well-being in spite of her aching head.

She lifted a tentative hand to stroke his dear face. How she had wished to do such a thing. His beard rasped against her fingers, sending a frightfully intimate sensation through her.

And to have him gazing at her as though she were a chest of priceless jewels made her heart soar. Even in the dim light she could see the fiercely adoring look in those remarkable green eyes.

And then it hit her.

Gentlemen did not cradle and caress one another in her book. She struggled to rise and was prevented by being clasped more tightly, to her growing dismay.

“If anything had happened to you, I don’t think I could bear it,” Sir Peter said in a distraught voice. He tilted up her face and proceeded to kiss her until she thought she would swoon. If being caressed and cuddled until distraction was delightful, being kissed by Sir Peter Dancy was nigh unto extraordinary.

Then her senses battled to the fore, and she pulled away, although it really was most difficult when the rest of her clamored for another of those most remarkable kisses.

“You ought not do this, you know,” she scolded. Her voice sounded odd and raspy, not unlike George’s.

“Oh, it is quite proper. I intend to take you away with me. Seize the advantage and all that,” he said in the most tender of manners, stroking her curls away from her brow before dropping a tiny kiss on her forehead.

“You cannot!” declared a scandalized Emma, struggling to rise against all the desires that had surfaced, urging the contrary.

“I feel certain your parents will agree, once I tell them the details,” he said, caressing her cheek, soothing the hair over the bump on her head with gentle concern.

“But you think I am George,” she wailed in distress.

“George? He’s staying with Sir William,” came the calm reply. Then Emma coped with another kiss more precious than the first.

When she could speak once again, rational thought finally won out. “You
know I
am not George?” she said with bewilderment and yet relief. “And you are not furious with me for deceiving you?” Her mind strove to grasp the new realities.

“My adored Emma, I have known who you were from the very first when you swiped George’s invitation to the unrolling and came for a viewing of the mummy. You may sound a bit like him, even resemble him slightly, but believe me, George’s legs cannot begin to compare to yours. I am not the least nearsighted, you see.” He tilted his head in a considering way. “You shall wear the princess’s necklace at our wedding. I think you would look wonderful in it.”

At this an indignant Emma struggled to sit up and succeeded. Ignoring the bit about the necklace and a wedding, she punched Sir Peter as hard as she could and shouted, “You knew? And to think of all I went through. Oh!” She might have continued in this vein for some time, for she was highly incensed, but Sir Peter had other ideas.

He reached for her again and proceeded to settle the duel in a most satisfying manner.

And within moments Emma subsided into his arms, content to agree—for the time being.

Standing on guard by the doorway after having seen Harry Porter off with the villain, Radley beamed a smile of approval at the pair over by the Egyptian goddess now restored to an honored place in an exhibit case.

And as for the goddess, she smiled on all with her tender regard.

Copyright © 1994 by Doris Emily Hendrickson

Originally published by Signet (0451179234)

Electronically published in 2010 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.