Miss Cheney's Charade (22 page)

Emma strolled back to the window and could see him cutting across the lawn in the direction of his dig in the drained swamp.

“When may we go out there?” she murmured to Beatrice.

“Oh, I believe we ought to wait.” At Emma’s disappointed expression, Beatrice relented and continued, “At least until we find our hats and gloves, and possibly a parasol. The sun promises to be warm today.”

Emma beamed her pleasure. “What do we tarry here for then?”

Before long the two girls, dressed in sprigged muslin— Emma sporting the pretty ruff at her neck—strolled across the lawn in the same direction George had gone. They most properly wore gloves, straw hats tied beneath their chins, and carried colorful parasols to guard their skin against the danger of the sun.

“It is such a relief for me to put aside my troubles for a time. And I hadn’t seen George in an age. I shall report to Mama that he is fine. I shall also hint that there is more than one reason for him to linger here.”

“Your mama . . .” Beatrice said hesitantly as they approached the field where George was already at work. “Is she likely to be upset at an alliance between her son and my family?”

“Mercy no,” Emma replied with heartfelt sincerity. “Mama will be in alt, you wait and see. She has always carried a special feeling for George, and this will please her no end.”

If Emma knew a pang of envy for the special regard her brother received from their mother, she didn’t reveal it by the flutter of an eyelash.

“Come,” she sang out, “let us hurry along. We wouldn’t want George to find his treasure before we arrive!”

Across the fields Peter drove toward London with much to consider.

At Dorking he took a detour north of the town to visit an old acquaintance of his, David Percy, Lord Leighton. He had but recently returned from his lengthy honeymoon. However, Peter wished to visit with his bride, the former Elizabeth Dancy, who was also Peter’s cousin. Perhaps she might be forthcoming with a bit of cousinly advice.

The more he thought about it, the more he worried. It was not going to be easy to handle Emma Cheney once she found out about
his
deception. Hers was wicked enough, but he ought to have let her know that he was aware of it long before this. It seemed that the longer the charade continued, the more complicated matters became.

He was welcomed into his cousin’s house with warm regard. He took note of her devotion to her husband, plus her interesting condition and realized why the couple had not come up to London for the Season.

When asked—in a most subtle way, mind you—the reason for this surprise visit, Peter breathed a sigh and began, “Well, I need a bit of advice, Elizabeth.”

* * * *

“If you ask my advice, you should forget the entire matter,” Beatrice counseled while they awaited the arrival of Lady Titheridge’s traveling coach. “I cannot imagine appearing in public, wearing a gentleman’s breeches! And fencing!” She paused for a thoughtful moment, then said, “What is it like?”

“Actually,” Emma replied with equal reflection, “the breeches are exceedingly comfortable. They permit far more freedom of movement than our gowns. As to the fencing, well,” she admitted, “it is rather fun, all things considered.”

“Even though it causes you to wear a ruff all the time?” Beatrice asked while eyeing the pretty bit of pleated muslin.

“It shall become an eccentricity of mine, I fancy,” Emma replied with a hint of a smile.

Beatrice exchanged a look with her, then said, “I shall miss you and think of you bearding the dragon in his lair, fending off the epee, having all manner of fascinating exploits. I believe it may become rather dull when you must become just you again.”

“I can scarcely wait,” Emma replied with a rueful shake
of
her head.

Lady Titheridge bustled down the stairs, urging Emma to follow her and ordering Braddon to carry the things considered necessary for a journey back to London.

The parting was swift and brief, for all of them had become close in those few days and thought it sad to separate. Amid promises to visit again and good wishes for an agreeable trip, the trio left Sir William’s home with some regret.

“At least you know that George is safe and happy,” her ladyship said when they had reached the main road that led to London.

“And,” Emma added, “that he will not be returning to the City anytime soon.”

“You had best hint to your parents that an acceptable marriage is in the offing there. I believe they would prefer to be forewarned, as it were,” Lady Titheridge advised.

“I shall, you may be certain.” Emma paused, then continued, “Did you ever find out why dear Lady Johnson must sit
in
that wheeled chair?” Emma inquired of her ladyship.

“A nasty fall some years back. That is why they never had any more children. Sir William appears to be an extremely thoughtful man,” Lady Titheridge concluded in a musing tone.

Emma agreed and leaned back against her seat to consider what she must do when back at her home. The first matter of business was Sir Peter, of course. And she needed to send off another embroidery pattern to the magazine. Odd, she hadn’t thought to even look at the latest issue to view her design.

They arrived late in the afternoon of the following day. Mrs. Cheney fluttered about, her vinaigrette in one hand, a handkerchief in the other.

“And dearest George? I trust you found him well? Such a flying trip, I declare.”

Emma sat her mother down and poured out a considerably edited tale suitable for her ears. Mention of the exchange of identities was omitted, but she did mention the appearance of Sir Peter, for the dratted man might just say something to Mama and the fat would be in the fire.

“And Mama, George found a hoard of Roman coins, some of which were gold,” Emma concluded, again generously ascribing the find to her brother. “He feels certain he will find more, and that will enable him to marry Beatrice.”

Mrs. Cheney had looked rather unhappy when she had learned of George’s interest. “You like this girl?”

“When George described her as an angel, he couldn’t have found a better word. And Mama, Beatrice is the only child of an exceedingly wealthy farmer. Actually, Sir William is more than a farmer; he breeds special cattle and practices all manner of advanced farming methods. He is viewed with great esteem in that area.”

Mrs. Cheney began to smile. “The girl sounds most acceptable.”

Emma decided her mama would just have to meet Beatrice and fall under her charm.

“Sir Peter left a note for you. I believe it is on the hall table,” Mrs. Cheney said absently, her mind clearly with her precious son.

Emma tried not to dash to the hall and succeeded admirably. Breaking open the seal, she scanned the missive hastily, then read it a second time. She returned to the drawing room to address her parent.

“He wishes me to go for a drive with him tomorrow afternoon. May I?” Emma studied her mother, wondering what schemes floated through her mind. She might not mind in the least to have George the heir of a baronet, even if it was to a profitable farm.

“What? Of course,” Mrs. Cheney replied in the same absence of attention as before.

Giving up on her mother, Emma hurried to her room, locking the door behind her. She picked up a whip that was about the size of the epee and began to practice the lunges, parry and thrust, she had learned in her lessons. She wasn’t sure she had remembered the timing correctly, but figured Sir Peter would be happier to scold her about something.

Why did he wish to take her driving? Or was she searching for motives when none were necessary. Perhaps he merely wished to keep on the good side of the Cheney family and George by showering her with a bit of attention.

A knock on the door tore her from her musings.

“Flowers for you, miss,” Fanny announced through the crack.

Emma quickly unlocked the door and flung it open. There in Fanny’s hands was a bouquet of June roses and other summer flowers. It was a romantic cluster that reminded her of the afternoon she had spent in the digs with Sir Peter thinking she was George.

Ignoring the inquisitive look on Fanny’s face, Emma found the card tucked well into the bouquet. “Sir Peter,” she softly exclaimed.

Once she learned who the sender was, the maid disappeared to spread the word belowstairs.

Emma drifted across the room to sit by the window in her favorite chair. Leaning back, she floated off into a daydream in which she had
not
practiced to deceive, nor had all the other dreadful things occurred. Rather, Sir Peter had seen her at Almack’s, sought her out because he found her silly cap of dark curls and ordinary gray eyes of interest, and he didn’t mind her height in the least.

The following afternoon Emma was dressed in her prettiest green-and-white carriage dress with the dark green spencer over it. She paced back and forth in her room, smoothing her gloves over nervous fingers.

“What if he invites me to drive only to tell me that he knows me to perform a charade?” she asked her looking glass. “I do not know if I could weather a storm like that.”

“Sir Peter be downstairs,” Fanny announced from the doorway. It was a trifle early for a Society drive, but Emma was too eager to leave to care. Not that it mattered to her one way or the other, anyway.

Emma thanked the girl, then walked down the two flights of stairs, emotions warring within.

“Good day. Sir Peter,” she said, annoyed that a squeak appeared in her voice.

“Ready?” If he noticed that Mrs. Cheney hadn’t bothered to appear, he failed to show it. Mrs. Bascomb and Lady Hamley could be heard in conference with Mrs. Cheney up in the drawing room. Emma suspected they were pouring over the history of the Johnson family to determine the lovely Beatrice’s worthiness.

The day could not possibly have been lovelier. Few clouds marred the sky, and once they reached Hyde Park, the combined scent of freshly scythed grass and spring flowers brought a smile to Emma’s face. She was a silly peagoose. Sir Peter would not have sent her flowers were he to expose her charade. She relaxed to enjoy the drive and the summer sunshine.

“The flowers were lovely. Sir Peter,” she said once they had cleared the gate into the park.

“They reminded me of an afternoon down in Sussex,” he replied without looking at her.

Emma suspected she paled at those words. Did he know? Would he accuse her? She clasped her hands together as though that might ward off the worst.

“I thought you might enjoy a memory of your visit at Sir William’s home as well. You seemed to enjoy the country,” he added with a friendly glance at her.

Emma visibly relaxed. “I did, and the flowers immediately brought it to mind. It was most kind of you.”

“Do you see what I see?” he murmured to Emma as they approached another vehicle coming toward them.

“Good grief. Lady Amelia and Mr. Swinburne. I had not thought she would go so far.”

“The chap is barely acceptable. I have it on good authority that were he to seek entry into White’s, he would be blackballed,” he said in an undertone.

“No!” Emma exclaimed under her breath. “George told me that Mr. Swinburne was in Dun Territory the last he had heard.”

“True, I have heard the same. Have you any influence with her at all?”

Emma was prevented from replying to this when they drew side by side with Mr. Swinburne’s vehicle. It was a fancy phaeton—the very latest design—and looked to have just arrived from the carriage maker’s shop.

“Swinburne,” Sir Peter acknowledged with a faint nod.

“Lady Amelia,” Emma said most properly, “I have not seen you in days. I have such exciting news to share. Do tell me that we may have a lovely chat soon.”

Lady Amelia looked confused and turned to Mr. Swinburne for help of a sort.

“I believe you said you have tomorrow morning free, did you not?” the dandy declared. He picked a piece of nonexistent lint from his sleeve, then bestowed an icy smile on Emma.

She narrowed her gaze in return, then concentrated upon Amelia instead.

“Tomorrow morning ... late?” Amelia said far more hesitantly than was her wont.

Emma agreed and the two carriages parted.

“There is something strange there or I miss my guess,” Emma declared to Sir Peter. “How
can
she turn to that odious toad for guidance like that?”

“I seem to recall his presence in your drawing room,” Sir Peter said with that bland manner he had used before.

“That was my mama’s doing, and before he found out that my dowry is a mere pittance compared to Amelia’s.” Emma gave a little flounce and settled in an indignant mound of muslin.

“You truly care about Lady Amelia, don’t you?”

“Indeed. She may be a raving beauty, titled, and have packets of money, but she also has a warm heart and a sensitive nature that in the past has been a delight. I do not like to see her played for a fool.”

“Well said,” he replied with obvious approval.

Which left Emma wondering what his feelings might be for the beautiful Amelia. It was difficult for Emma to see how any gentleman could prefer herself to such an admirable young woman as Amelia.

The remainder of the drive passed in quiet reflection for Emma, while Sir Peter wore that confused expression again if she had but turned her head to see it.

At Almack’s that evening Emma found the place abuzz with rumors. Some said that Napoleon must have defeated Lord Wellington and that the army had suffered terrible casualties. Others talked about the reports that hundreds of English had fled Brussels. A man who had caught the first boat taking on the escapees had dashed to London, so to be the first with his news.

A feeling of gloom battled with the hope that somehow the great Wellington would succeed.

Needless to say, the dancers were affected. Lady Amelia was not to be seen, so Emma sat quietly conversing with her mama and Lady Titheridge, who thought the entire affair badly managed.

“Had I the running of the government and the war, I’d have shot Napoleon long ago. Utter nonsense to coddle the tyrant only to allow him to escape from Elba. Fools!” she declared with a nod of her turbaned and bejeweled head.