Miss Cheney's Charade (11 page)

“I depend upon you,” Sir Peter replied, then picked up one of the hands Emma had clasped before her to bestow a gentle kiss on the palm.

She swallowed carefully while trying to ignore the thrill that had shot through her with his gesture, then bravely said. “Good-bye, sir.”

“Not good-bye, Emma. Just good night,” he said with a dashing smile that cut straight to her heart.

She managed a reproving look at his improper use of her given name, but didn’t scold him. It would call attention to something best ignored for the moment.

While marching purposefully up the stairs, she ignored the tumult of emotions what whirled through her. Hoping to avoid a discussion of Sir Peter’s intentions with his particular notice of her, she went directly to her room.

“Laws, miss,” the irrepressible Fanny said when Emma entered, “you look as though you had quite a time of it this evening.”

Emma glanced down at her gown to see a slight tear near the hem. She supposed the limb with which she struck the villain must have damaged it

“Well, could it be repaired, for I dearly like this gown.”

Fanny gave the silk a dubious look. “Best give it to Hocknell, then.”

While exasperated with Fanny and her considerable efforts to escape extra work, Emma acknowledged that her mother’s abigail was a better seamstress and nodded her head in reluctant agreement.

Fortunately, Fanny quickly helped Emma into her bed gown and took herself off. That was one blessing with Fanny... she never lingered to chat, so eager to head for bed was she. Which was why Emma preferred her not to wait up.

Once under the covers Emma debated her dilemma. Dare she go to Sir Peter’s in the morning? She had truly intended to send George off to Sussex and then offer her own services, taking Fanny along for propriety. Were she very careful, it might work.

“No, it would never do,” she confessed to the moonbeams that peeped through her window. “I’d be found out, and that would put paid to a respectable marriage for me. And
that
would break Mama’s heart. Not to mention put Papa into a fit of the dismals.” She sighed. “No, George will have to go in the morning. I can only pray that Sir Peter continues to see what he is supposed to see,” she whispered in desperation.

* * * *

Oldham scarcely blinked when Emma marched out the front door the following day. She bravely set forth in the hackney that now lurked in the vicinity every morning, hoping to see her emerge from the house, Emma suspected.

“The same address, miss?” he asked.

“The same,” she replied, then sank back to contemplate what she needed to say to her ladyship.

By the time she arrived at Lady Titheridge’s home, Emma was in a fine state. “Thank you, Leland,” she murmured upon entering the quietly impressive hall.

Braddon caught sight of Emma in the upstairs hallway and hurried to meet her. “Just go in the usual room, and I’ll fetch her ladyship.”

Emma nodded in agreement and swiftly went into the pretty little room where her things were neatly hung. George’s things, that is.

She was staring out of the window across the chimney pots when Lady Titheridge bustled into the room.

“What? You are off this morning in spite of what must have been late hours?” Her ladyship crossed to the fireplace where Braddon stirred a small fire into life, then sat down to await Emma’s explanation.

“Someone tried to force entry into Sir Peter’s house. From what I could tell, it must have been the workroom where most of his collection is housed. He means to obtain the services of guards. He also wants George to assist him with something. Oh, dear ma’am! What am I to do? I had so hoped to end this charade.” Emma held out her hands in a plea for help.

“Hm. You do have a dilemma.” Her ladyship rubbed her chin in reflection, then cleared her throat. “It is apparent he values your opinion, not to mention services. I believe it best if you proceed with a visit to his house. That is the only way you will know what he wishes George to do.”

“I admit a longing to know what is going on. Is that so very dreadful of me, ma’am? A girl is usually left out of anything interesting. For once in my life I shall be a part of something exciting.” Emma advanced to face her ladyship with a determined step. “I shall do it... for his sake, and I shall confess for my own as well. Of course this is our secret,” she said with an appealing look at both women. “When I consider what might happen should my foolishness become known, I positively shudder.”

“Rest easy on that score. You are certain that Peter has not guessed?” Her ladyship gave Emma a bland look.

“Well, if he had, would he invite me to share in the action he intends?” Emma replied, although not sure of her point.

“I suppose not,” her ladyship agreed. She waved her hand at Braddon, and that good abigail hastily brought forth the second set of garments for Emma to wear. A bright vest was produced to put on over the pantaloons. There was not much variety, but as most gentlemen favored a dark blue coat and biscuit pantaloons, it would not be remarked were Emma to show up in the same garb for days on end, with an occasional switch to the gray set of garments for a change.

Emma stared back at her reflection after Braddon had completed her ministrations. “That does it, I suppose. I am not sure my own mama would be positive of my identity in this garb. I shall see you later and tell you all.”

“It is our secret, rest assured,” her ladyship said with a fond look at Emma’s brave stance.

At the house on Bruton Street Emma found the rotund Radley in a dither most unlike his calm, smiling self.

“Sir Peter is expecting me, I believe,” she said with a hesitant look at the butler.

“Oh, sir, we are so pleased you have come. My master was worried you might be called away to Sussex.”

Emma gave a start and wondered how he had suspected she had considered such a flight for George. Then she gave a sniff of derision. He couldn’t have known, for there would be no reason to suspect that George would rush away, particularly when Emma revealed Sir Peter needed him.

She followed Radley back to the workroom, then halted in her steps.

“What are you doing?” she cried, just barely remembering to use George’s voice,

“I thought I might install bars on the inside of this window. Be a good chap and hand me the hammer.” Sir Peter stood near the top of a decidedly wobbly ladder. In one hand he held an iron bar, the other hand leaned against the wall. He looked perplexed as to how he ought to proceed.

“I think you are batty,” Emma murmured, but complied with his request.

“I suppose you can think of something better?” He turned around to glare at her, and the ladder gave an alarming lurch.

“Actually, I suppose bars are useful... for
this
room. Tell me, do you intend to place bars on every window in the house?” Emma put her hands on her hips in her amusement, standing as she had seen her brother stand countless times.

Sir Peter climbed down from the ladder placed against the wall and sank down upon the stool Emma used when drawing.

“Blast! I hadn’t thought of that. I told Emma last night I needed your good head. Glad you could come.” He rose from the stool to give Emma a firm handshake, not the lightly proper sort given to ladies.

“I am surprised you use her given name. Sir Peter,” Emma said in attempted rebuke.

“Up in the boughs at that, are you? Never fear, my intentions are honorable.” Sir Peter flashed a handsome grin at George and placed the iron rail back in a box on the floor.

Beyond that he said nothing, and Emma knew a strong desire to kick him in the shins or box his ears. Perhaps this was the feeling Lady Amelia knew when she glared at Lord Worcester? Exasperation.

“What I want at the moment,” Sir Peter continued, “is to have you complete the drawing of the necklace. I have a hunch
that
is the item the thief was after last night. What I’d like to do is hang the drawing up in the room, then possibly take the actual necklace to the British Museum for temporary safekeeping.”

“It seems to me that you would be better off bringing it to Rundle and Bridge for the time being. They must have an excellent safe to hold their jewels.” Emma studied the window surround. It showed evidence of a prying bar having been used. How fortunate Radley had fired that shot to frighten the intruder away.

“Capital! What a good head you have on your shoulders. I hope you find that treasure you seek, for you certainly deserve it.” Sir Peter rubbed his hands together, a pleased expression on his face. He strode to the concealed safe in his wall behind a representation of an Egyptian wall painting.

Emma devoutly hoped George would find his treasure, but for different reasons. She discreetly averted her eyes from Sir Peter’s efforts to open the safe, then turned when she heard the sound of a box being placed on the table.

“Like to see it again?” Sir Peter gave her an inquiring look, and Emma observed that odd light was back in his eyes again.

“Yes, indeed,” Emma said, almost breathless with anticipation.

He lifted the lid of the flat black box. Inside, reposing on a bed of velvet, was the necklace. Emma sighed at the exquisite simplicity of the design, the beauty of the color and workmanship. She hesitantly touched the center gem with one finger.

“Think Emma would like to wear this?” Sir Peter asked in a careless way with a casual gesture toward the elegant and priceless piece of jewelry.

Emma closed her eyes. He couldn’t mean what he said, could he? “I should think any woman would be pleased to adorn herself with this creation.”

“Funny, I had no idea you were so knowledgeable about women, George, old man.” Sir Peter clapped Emma on the back with a vigor that nearly threw her off balance.

Yes, she mentally concluded, a kick in the shins ought to do nicely. However, she attained her balance and attempted a smile in reply.

“This is what I propose,” Sir Peter began in a confiding way, and Emma felt a rising excitement.

“First, you shall finish the drawing you began, coloring it in with watercolors. Think you could make it more intense, brighter than usual?”

“If I put several layers of color down, the color deepens,” Emma said, eyeing the valuable necklace with a feeling somewhere between awe and desire.

“By all means, deepen.”

It wasn’t so much what he said, it was the way he said it that prompted Emma to glance up at him. His face was as bland and devoid of insinuation as possible. She decided she was being foolish and overly suspicious.

She climbed onto the stool, opened her drawing pad to the first sketch she had done, then proceeded to concentrate on a new one. She dimly perceived Sir Peter’s retreating footsteps.

Radley disturbed her peace with a tray bearing tea and ginger biscuits. Emma murmured an absent word of thanks. She didn’t bother to wonder what Sir Peter was doing, for the necklace captured her entire attention.

But the memory of his words lingered while she worked. He had wondered if Emma would like to wear the necklace. Would she? She turned her head to study the princess, so neatly laid out on the pallet with her arms crossed over her chest. The necklace had been placed on the wrappings not far from the top, so it hadn’t touched the skeleton. But even if it had, Emma had no fears on that account, nor was she inclined to be superstitious. She would don it in a flash, had she the chance.

In several hours of intense effort she finished what she felt was an accurate representation of the necklace. She had captured the highlights on the stones, the variations in color, even the shadows that served to give the piece depth.

She looked across the little room where Sir Peter had worked previously and found him watching her. It made her uneasy to think he might have observed something in her movements that could appear feminine. Oh, to be done with this charade. And yet, she would never have had the rare opportunity that George had been given simply because he was a male.

“Finished?” he said, rising from his desk.

“Done,” Emma replied with satisfaction. She rubbed the back of her neck while watching him cross the room to join her. She hadn’t realized how stiff she’d become. Her neck was sore and her shoulders ached from bending over the table.

Sir Peter observed her distress and blandly suggested, “What you need is a bit of activity. Do you fence? It is wonderful exercise and teaches balance and refinement of movement as well.”

“No,” she snapped back. Emma gave him a horrified glance, then hastily concealed her feelings behind an equally bland expression suitable for George.

“Pity.” He considered this lack a moment, then continued, “I shall give you lessons. I’m no novice at the sport, as my friends will attest. It will be good for you. You have grown too pale at this work, and I blame myself. This will permit me to atone.”

He picked up the finished painting and strode off with it while Emma sat in a daze. How was she to handle this matter? It was utterly dreadful. She could never appear in a fencing costume—whatever that might be—and risk exposing herself to Sir Peter and anyone else who lounged about the place. Where
did
one fence? What did they wear?

She rubbed her forehead, feeling a headache coming on with grim intensity.

It was some time later when Sir Peter reappeared, although it seemed but minutes to Emma.

“Let us be on our way, then,” he said with a grin.

“Our way?” Emma echoed, feeling distinctly as though she had been asleep rather than awake.

“Rundle and Bridge. Remember? It was your excellent suggestion.” His genial words struck alarm in Emma’s heart.

“Oh.” Emma searched her mind with frantic haste. “I cannot go with you! 1 did have that business to handle, you may recall. Take a stout footman with you. Perhaps Worcester will oblige?” She edged her way around the table and toward the door, intent upon making her escape. She grabbed her hat before slipping through the doorway. George would assuredly have to make his way down into Sussex.

“Very well,” Sir Peter replied with good grace. “But I insist on the fencing lessons. You never know when it will come in handy, old chap. As your father said only last night, it is dangerous for a man to walk out after dark these days.”