Miss Cheney's Charade (24 page)

From there Emma launched into the favored topic of the latest style on gowns. It was but a jump to the silks from France that still managed to be smuggled into England by those more interested in a bit of money than were troubled by aiding the enemy.

“Do you think England is truly in danger?” Amelia whispered as though someone might hear.

“Sir Peter made me feel most hopeful that everything will turn out right,” Emma replied earnestly.

Pink color flooded Amelia’s face, and she breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, I do hope so. It is so dangerous for the ships out at sea with the French at war with us forever. Just think of the poor people in Guernsey.”

Emma was confused at Amelia’s concern over shipping, but made no comment. Nothing could induce Amelia to return to the topic of her worries, nor would she be drawn to the subject of Mr. Swinburne.

But Emma felt uneasy at best and anxious at the worst when she bade good-bye to her friend.

* * * *

“Welcome to my collection, gentlemen,” Sir Peter said with his usual quiet charm and
bon ton
that afternoon.

Edward remained in the background, taking quiet note of each man present and how they reacted to the items on display.

Reginald Swinburne slowly strolled along the cases, inspecting the contents of each until he reached the one containing the necklace.

“Splendid bit of trumpery,” he declared, lowering his quizzing glass when turning to face Peter. He dangled his glass from his hand, swinging it to and fro on its chain while gazing about the room.

“Trumpery?” Edward retorted. “I say, old chap, scarcely that. It’s a priceless piece, and I daresay there isn’t another like it to be found anywhere.”

“Now, Worcester, not all people appreciate the rare and beautiful. Do not be so hard on the fellow.” Peter could see that Edward’s indignation was not feigned, and he hoped to defuse the situation before his good friend spoiled the whole show by a flush hit to Swinburne’s nose.

“I pride myself that I am as much a connoisseur as anyone around,” Swinburne said with a trace of pomposity.

“Is that so?” Edward said with dangerous quiet.

“If I may say so, your collection is by and large an excellent one, although I do wonder about the necklace,” Swinburne proclaimed with an air of sagacity. “It simply is most unlikely that the jewels and stones could be genuine. There are little tricks to imitation, you know.”

“No, really. Do tell me—I have always wondered about that,” Peter said with admirable restraint.

He led Swinburne close to the area of the room where Harry Porter lounged in a shadow. The Bow Street Runner was discreetly attired in gentlemen’s clothing and blended into the background extremely well.

Peter gave Harry Porter the nod and a faint wink. The signal was returned while Peter drew Swinburne into a chat.

The men present gathered around for some of Peter’s excellent port, sherry, and brandy—or anything else one might think of—and discussed the idea Swinburne presented. Quite a number of them objected to his notion of a fake being placed on the mummy during the wrapping.

“I still say,” said Major Jenkins, retired, in his hearty voice that had once reached from one end of a parade ground to the other, “that is the gen-you-ine item. Saw many a gewgaw like that when I was stationed in Egypt. Why, the beggars would dig them up every now and again.” He winked his assurance that
he
knew the truth of the matter and knew it well. He twirled the ends of his magnificent mustache with an air of bravado and strutted up and down the aisle while looking daggers at Mr. Swinburne.

Peter winced at the mere thought of such beauty being desecrated by shabby treatment and careless handling.

Augustus, Lord Fintersham, agreed with Major Jenkins. “Why, when we chaps went abroad of a morning, there were stacks of those mummies here and there about Cairo. I believe they used them for firewood. No reason to bother fabricating one necklace when there were likely a good many about,” he reasoned. “No, I feel certain this is the genuine thing.”

Others continued the debate, coming to the conclusion that Swinburne was wrong and that Sir Peter was on to the real article. Major Jenkins appeared to enjoy his vindication, for his smile at Sir Peter before leaving was one of superior smugness.

Eventually—the subject being debated sufficiently—the men straggled off to their clubs, the afternoon calls, and rides in the park. The rumors regarding the conditions in France were contradicted hourly, and Peter wondered if his plan would fall into ruin because of circumstances. It would be most frustrating to be so close and then fail.

Neither Amelia nor Mr. Swinburne attended Almack’s that Wednesday evening, an omission that bothered Emma a trifle. Lady Amelia adored the assemblies, with the scheming and preening of the girls making their come-outs, not to mention the manipulations of their dear mamas. June brought the flowers of the marriage mart of the
ton
into full bloom.

But Emma had little time in which to discover any reason, for her dance card filled rapidly. She wondered why, then decided that the partiality shown her by Sir Peter intrigued the others.

“I see you are taking to London very well. Miss Cheney,” Mr. Brummell said when he approached her during a lull between dances.

“Perhaps for the moment,” Emma admitted. She plied her fan more than customary, for the rooms were stuffy and the dances energetic.

“The people mill about with more than usual gossip and gaiety this evening, I believe,” he said, looking around them.

Aware that she was receiving a great number of curious looks from those who followed the fashionable Mr. Brummell with avid eyes and ears, Emma also looked about the room and nodded.

“It is as though a restlessness seizes them, that they wait for word from Wellington and occupy their hours beforehand to keep from speculating on the worst,” she said.

“How astute you are for one so young,” he replied, looking down at her with his quizzing glass in hand before him.

“Not to mention female,” she said in surprise, laughing at his expression of chagrined amusement.

“I did not say that,” he complained, then chuckled softly at her.

Emma merely smiled and, when he strolled on to visit with another, found herself besieged by gentlemen curious to see what had held the celebrated Brummell by her side, not to mention made him chuckle.

But Lady Amelia still did not come. Even when eleven of the clock arrived, she had not yet appeared. Emma thought it most strange.

“Well, you wear the ruff again. I cannot decide if you intend to set your own style or revitalize our esteemed queen’s fashion,” Sir Peter said. He took Emma’s hand in his, leading her to the floor for a Scottish reel.

“I like the ruff, and you do not have this dance,” she said with spirit. She did not have to check her card, for Sir Peter’s name was not there. The lines had been filled before he arrived, and she secretly had been enormously pleased at this.

“Fobbed the lad off. Told him I’d slice him to bits if he dared to claim your hand for the dance,” Sir Peter said just loudly enough for her to hear while they danced through to the bottom of the line.

Emma gave Sir Peter a scandalized look. “I do hope you are joking, sir. I should hate to think you really said such silliness.”

“Does it bother you that I wish to partner you?” He bestowed one of those rakish looks on her that always set her pulse racing, before she drew up to the position opposite him in the line.

Bother
was scarcely the word she might use to describe her emotions when confronted with Sir Peter. Apprehension, vexation, indignation, not to mention a serious case of the chills. At least, she attributed the tremors and flutters to a sort of chill. She refused to admit what she knew hid in her heart.

A curious increase in the level of conversation caught her attention. Heads turned, people drew together.

“Something has happened,” Emma mouthed, hoping Sir Peter would understand her.

He nodded in reply, and as the dance drew to a swift and gay flourish, he guided her along with him to a gentleman who was a member of the cabinet.

“It has been reported that the Honorable Major Percy has arrived at the War Office with a message from Wellington. Nothing is known about the contents of his dispatches,” the cabinet member said quietly to Sir Peter. “The news was brought to me and smuggled up by means of a bribe.” He grimaced with the reminder of the strict refusal by the esteemed patronesses for admittance to anyone who presented himself after the hour of eleven.

“I imagine you want to join Bathurst immediately,” Sir Peter replied.

The gentleman nodded. “Although Bathurst will be off to report to Prinney regardless, I’d like to know what has happened. This demmed business of not knowing is driving me as mad as the rest of these poor souls.” He gestured to the people who milled about the rooms, then began to edge himself through the restive crowd and soon was lost to view.

“I wonder when we will know the truth of the matter,” Emma said while they strolled to the room where the insipid refreshments were offered.

“Do you wish to leave now?” Sir Peter asked with insight.

“I have the most peculiar feeling regarding Amelia,” Emma said after agreeing. “She would never miss an evening at Almack’s, and she was as fine as fivepence when I last saw her, unless you count her uneasiness. I tried to find out what troubled her, and I fear I only made her wary. She did say something to the effect that she always kept her promises.”

“And that is odd?”

“It is when you consider she seemed to wish to confide to me what was bothering her.”

Mrs. Cheney was found only too glad to leave early. She also felt the disquiet that permeated the rooms. “I declare,” she said in a soft voice, “I would rather be home under the covers of my bed.”

Sir Peter joined them on the ride, inviting himself and accepting Mrs. Cheney’s appreciation with calm assurance.

Emma shrugged at her dearest mama’s transparent hopes and turned her thoughts to her friend Amelia.

“Would you like to find out if Lady Amelia has taken ill?”

“Oh, yes,” Emma said gratefully.

They paused before the Littleton home, but found no one there.

“I believe the earl and his countess were to dine at Mansion House this evening. Could no one tell you anything about Amelia?”

“Not a word. She is not to home.”

Emma frowned, mulling over some of the peculiar remarks Amelia had uttered in the past week. When they arrived at the Cheney residence, the trio entered the house, and Mrs. Cheney went off to consult with Oldham regarding her husband and refreshments.

Emma stayed in the entry hall, toying with her silver mesh reticule, wondering again about the look she had seen in Sir Peter’s eyes this morning. What would he do if alone with her? But then, if she were so silly as to fall in love with an utterly impossible man, she could jolly well speculate and it would serve her right if he waltzed off with someone else.

“Do you have fears for Lady Amelia?”

“Oh, I do, indeed. Remember when we met Amelia in the park? She was with Mr. Swinburne. Did you not think she acted as though he had some manner of hold over her? Or am I being fanciful?”

“You believe he might elope with her?”

Emma gasped at the bold words that when spoken, were ominous. “I do. That odious dandy needs her plump dowry. Regardless of the airs he puffs about, I suspect he needs money quite badly, and soon.”

“Do you think I should go after them?” When Emma nodded emphatically, he added, “Would your brother come along?”

Emma had been wishing to follow Amelia, for little things were beginning to return, dredged up from her memory. The notion of going off as her brother offered her the chance, for it was unlikely that she could travel as herself.

“While I shall remain here, I believe George would relish the chance to puncture the pretensions of that detestable Reginald Swinburne. I shall give him the message. Where can he meet you?”

Sir Peter considered this a moment, then said, “I will return to Bruton Street to change and be back here as quickly as possible. If George could be waiting for me, we can leave London immediately. I suppose they would flee to Scotland?”

“I do not think so,” Emma said thoughtfully. “Amelia mentioned that Swinburne had relatives on the Isle of Guernsey, and you know they do not require the calling of banns there. She also seemed to be concerned about danger to shipping, which could also refer to the boats that sail to the island. She even knew that it costs only five shillings to take the boat from Southampton to Guernsey. Is it not possible they went in that direction?”

“He might convince her that he takes her to his family,” Sir Peter said with an agreeing nod.

“I will find George,” Emma said, edging toward the stairs while wondering how she would manage the change of clothing without Braddon’s help.

Sir Peter agreed, then clapped on his hat while leaving the house in a hurry.

“Dear me,” Mrs. Cheney complained when she returned to the entry hall. “He certainly left in a rush. I had thought we might have a bit of tea or sherry.”

“He had an errand, Mama. And I must go up to bed, for I am dreadfully tired,” Emma said, wishing she might confide in her mother, but afraid to explain, for it would unleash all manner of problems.

Leaving her mother murmuring to herself while pattering along the hall to the morning room, Emma lifted her skirts and hurried up the stairs to her room. She must change and be ready to go at once. The worst thing in the world would be for Amelia to marry Swinburne.

But Emma found the challenge of becoming George once again and charging off in the company of the man whom she adored to be immensely agreeable. Together they would find their quarry.

Chapter Fourteen

Emma waited until it grew silent below, then slipped down the darkened stairs to the entry. Oldham was attending her mother, and so she could leave the house with no one the wiser. The carefully worded note left on her dressing table would explain enough when she was far away.