Miss Cheney's Charade (5 page)

“Ah, George, good of you to come. You don’t know how I appreciate your help. I suppose you developed that wonderful talent for sketching while in the field—all those Roman remains, you know.” Sir Peter strolled into the room, joining Emma by the table. “Do you intend to return to Sussex when the weather improves?”

To Emma’s knowledge George never allowed a little thing like inclement weather to stop him. Even if it poured rain or dusted snow, he found something to do. She avoided meeting Sir Peter’s green eyes and nodded. The less she said, the better.

“You are looking a trifle peaked, if you forgive me saying so,” Sir Peter continued without waiting for Emma to speak, squinting at her through narrowed eyes. “Best have a mind for your health. You know what they say ... if you do not have a care, no one else will, either.” He chuckled at his little
bon mot,
then turned his attention to the drawings.

“This is what I propose. You work at the coloring of these drawings today. Ought to be able to do a few this morning. I shall catalog—or try to catalog—each of the amulets uncovered yesterday.”

Emma found George’s voice. “You have a difficulty with cataloging?”

“My handwriting is barely readable. Never one of my strong points, y’know,” Sir Peter confessed with a twinkle in his eyes that Emma found rather endearing when she ventured to meet his gaze. “I say ... you might be of help there. My secretary broke his arm last week. I sent him home to recover—not the least use to me. I could not help but notice
your
handwriting in the note you sent round this morning. Neat. Nice. I’d pay you the same amount. It would help you out with those digging chaps. I don’t expect my friends to put themselves out to great effort without recompense, you know. Think on it if you will.”

He affected a morose sigh, then went to a small adjacent room where Emma could see him bend over a desk piled high with papers. Poor man. Without a secretary to assist him, he truly needed help. But not hers, she reminded herself. She was not quite
that
desperate for money to take that sort of risk.

She resolutely turned her attention to her drawings and began to delicately color the first of the collection. Soon she was totally lost to the world, utterly absorbed in creating a perfect likeness of the first of the blue scarabs. This was followed by another amulet, and she sighed with satisfaction at the effect she achieved.

When next she glanced at the pocket watch Lady Titheridge had urged her to slip into her fob pocket, Emma was horrified to find the morning had flown. She popped up from her stool and marched to the door where Sir Peter sat in unhappy silence. Well, she amended, he was not exactly silent, for he kept muttering things under his breath that she most likely would be better off not knowing.

“I must leave for now. Sir Peter. I believe I may be able to return tomorrow morning if you like.” Emma hovered near the door, wondering if she ought to persuade her mama to flee the country and away from danger. Yet, Emma ardently desired to sketch and color the artifacts arranged about the room. She would brazen it out as long as she might. That she felt an attraction to the sandy-haired man was completely disregarded.

“Since when have we been so formal?” Sir Peter grinned at Emma, and she felt an odd pang in her heart. “Plain Peter to you, George. And tomorrow will be fine. By the bye, how is that sister of yours doing? She come to London for her come-out as yet?” Sir Peter bent his head, seeming to examine the paper close to his nose.

Emma gulped and thought if Sir Peter was anything, it was
not
plain. “Emma is in Town. Mama’s in a dither. You know how it can be.”

“I expect Emma dances at Almack’s by now?” he said with a casual air, glancing back up at her.

Emma decided that the reason his eyes had been described as strange was that they were changeable. One minute they seemed a translucent sea green, glowing like sunlight through ocean water. The next moment they were the unfathomable color of a deep forest glade. Either way, they were extraordinary.

“I do not know,” Emma said. She had no idea what Wednesday evening would bring. “She’ll attend this week,” she stupidly admitted, then wondered if her brains had taken leave of her. Her only comfort was that Sir Peter was not likely to attend; she had heard he never did.

“That’s nice,” Sir Peter murmured in reply, returning his attention to the stack of papers. “See you tomorrow. And George, I do appreciate all you are doing for me.”

Emma glowed inside at the thought that she was helping in so scholarly a venture. She whisked herself down the hall with a hurried smile at the butler as she sailed out the front door.

Behind her Radley gently closed the door, then bustled down the hall to pause before the desk where his employer worked. “Learn anything of interest, sir?”

“Her name is Emma Cheney. And she will be at Almack’s come this Wednesday evening. I shall take your advice, I believe. Come Wednesday I will also attend Almack’s.”

“Lady Titheridge may acquire a few ideas, sir,” Radley ventured.

“Let her,” Peter murmured as he reapplied himself to his work.

Radley bowed, then bustled off to the kitchen for a pot of coffee and a few small buns that were favorites of his employer. He placed the tray close to hand, poured a cup of steaming coffee, then quietly slipped from the room.

* * * *

At Lady Titheridge’s establishment Emma found herself petted and fussed over. “What a wonderful girl you are,” her ladyship declared when the last of the makeup had been removed and Emma’s pretty face was back to its natural quiet beauty.

Emma grimaced. “Thank you. My dear mama would be pleased were some gentleman to think so. I believe it worries her that I have received so little interest. I understand she was a belle in her day.”

“And so she was. And you shall be as well, mark my words.” She turned to her maid. “Braddon, can you think of anything Emma might do to improve her looks by tomorrow evening?”

“What do you intend to wear?” Braddon inquired while studying Emma from all angles.

Emma gave the maid a confused look, turning to watch her expression. Judging from that, Emma must be hopeless.

“Mama hoped to order me a new dress in time, but the mantuamaker was inundated with orders. With everyone rushing from one ball and party to another, it is scarcely to be wondered.”

“So you will wear... ?” Lady Titheridge said.

“The same dress I wore to your musical evening, I fear. What Mr. Brummell will say when he sees I have nothing else to put on does not bear thinking.” Emma did not even consider fibbing to her ladyship. Why bother? Everyone in London had a pretty fair notion of what everyone else’s prospects might be.

“Bring it with you tomorrow. Braddon is a miracle when it comes to altering a pretty dress. And as I recall, you looked quite pretty that evening.”

Emma gave her ladyship an appreciative smile. Perhaps if her own mama would say a few kind words instead of nagging Emma to stand thus and sit so and countless little items, she would not be so nervous.

* * * *

Tuesday evening was to be devoted to learning the waltz in case Emma be granted the privilege of performing that somewhat scandalous dance.

Mr. Cheney was pressed into service, for although he rarely attended parties, he truly enjoyed a whirl about the floor with his pretty wife once in a while.

“Now attend, Emma. It goes like this.” He held her mama in his arms, and they began twirling about the floor in a delightful swaying rhythm that set Emma to tapping her foot. She watched carefully and then rose from her chair to attempt to duplicate the steps. With her natural grace it was not long before she caught on to the relatively simple steps. It was not like the quadrille or cotillion in the least. When her dear papa changed partners, drilling the steps, he found Emma a ready follower.

“You learn quite fast, my dear.”

“If only she would take,” Mrs. Cheney murmured into her handkerchief. “Although I cannot say I agree that unmarried ladies should be allowed to waltz. I should think
that
dance would put all manner of notions into their heads,” she grumbled.

“I suspect those notions are already in place, my dear,” Mr. Cheney softly said before escaping from the drawing room before his wife could think of something else for him to do.

The following morning, when Emma slipped from the house, she carried her best white muslin over her arms as well as the jar of cinnamon-spiced potpourri. Fanny had been that curious about the dress being removed from the house on the very day that Emma would wear it to Almack’s. However, she could scarcely make an issue of it, a circumstance for which Emma was devoutly grateful.

Braddon looked over the dress, inspecting the flounces and the prettily embroidered bodice with a knowing eye. Then she assisted Emma into her disguise and sent her off.

Once Emma had left the house, her ladyship summoned her abigail to her side. “What can be done with the dress?”

The maid shook her head. “Not a great deal, my lady. ‘Tis a comely dress, but would not take to alteration.”

“I was afraid of that. Come, we will take it along with us to Madame Clotilde’s. She has known my patronage for an age and will find something proper for Emma or I shall know why.”

Braddon nodded and the two of them set off across town at an ungodly hour of the morning when they were certain to find the mantuamaker in her shop and no others around to possibly eavesdrop. Lady Titheridge had no intention of allowing anyone else to know her business.

* * * *

Emma entered the lovely house on Bruton Street just off Berkeley Square with even more trepidation than before. Would she survive unscathed this morning? Or would he unmask her disguise? In her nervousness she scarcely took notice of the rooms they passed. All she knew was a sort of cold fear in her heart. She enjoyed yesterday morning more than anything ever, and she longed for another like it.

Radley ushered her along the hall with his seeming customary good will. “Sir Peter is busy at the moment, sir. However, your materials are right where you left them. Is there anything you require? A pot of coffee? Tea? Perhaps a glass of wine?”

“A pot of tea would be welcome. That misty rain coming down is rather nasty,” Emma murmured while slipping onto the stool where she had worked the day before. She placed the small blue jar holding the cinnamon-spiced potpourri on the table and undid the lid, allowing the fragrance to permeate the air, thus canceling out the stuffy, acrid smell.

When Radley returned with a small tray bearing a pot of tea and a plate of ginger biscuits, she scarcely looked up.

Sometime later she heard a noise and gave a startled glance at the doorway. Sir Peter stood just inside it with a frazzled look on his face.

“Dash it all, I do not know why my secretary had to break his arm just now when I need him. I cannot write a decent hand—manage to blot my copy every time, y’know—and there is a letter that must go out today. You don’t suppose ... ?” He gave Emma a beseeching look that would have melted a heart of lead.

“I could try, I imagine. It will take me longer to do the drawings, of course.”

“No matter,” Sir Peter said, waving his hand as though to dismiss everything that might get in his way.

Emma found the letter fascinating. Sir Peter was writing to an official of the Egyptian government, such as it was, for permission to explore an area along the Nile River. Oh, how enticing it sounded. She sighed when she finished copying his scribble in her neat hand.

He looked over her shoulder, standing far too close for her comfort. “Excellent! My good fellow, you have a better hand than my secretary.” He held the letter close up, examining it with a pleased look.

Emma smiled, nodded, then returned to her work. Something had assailed her when she was close to Sir Peter. Whatever it was left her oddly breathless. She was most likely better off keeping her distance from him.

She checked her watch often after that and left the house promptly at noon, dashing to Lady Titheridge’s house with the greatest of speed.

Leland again ushered her to the little bedroom where the other conspirators awaited her. While Braddon eased her from George’s garments, Lady Titheridge fidgeted about the room before coming to a halt in front of a redressed Emma.

“I trust you will not take it amiss when I tell you that we decided there was nothing that could be done to your pretty dress. We did not wish to spoil so lovely a thing.”

Emma gave a wry nod. “I quite understand, my lady. I shall wear it and tilt my nose at anyone who dares to snub me for it.”

“That’s my girl,” Lady Titheridge said with approval. “However, I have a suggestion. I have another gown that should fit you. Show it to her, Braddon.”

Whereupon the maid brought forth a positively breathtaking gown. It had an elegant white crepe skirt trimmed with silver and point lace, with a richly embroidered border at the bottom. The top of the bodice duplicated that intricate design in miniature, and delicate wisps of silver looped over the tiny puffed sleeves. It was utterly simple, yet grand.

“You cannot mean this for me,” Emma declared in faltering tones. “Why, it looks as though it has never been worn.”

“To tell the truth it has not. I fear it is too young for me, and I cannot bring myself to return it.” Lady Titheridge exchanged a look with her maid.

The words had the ring of truth; still Emma gave her ladyship a thoughtful look. Then her youthful desire to appear special at her induction to the delights to be found at the esteemed dancing establishment of Almack’s overcame any reluctance.

“I shall take great care of it, to be sure,” Emma said with reverence.

“Oh, it is yours. It is of no use to me in the least”

Emma overcame her shyness with this great lady so far as to place a demure kiss on her cheek and offer blushing thanks.

“The morning went well?” her ladyship said while walking with Emma to the top of the stairs. “I expected it would. Now, be gone with you. You must rest for this evening.”

Emma took both dresses and went home in a daze. She continued more or less in this state until it was time to dress for the evening. Fanny had a hundred questions about the beautiful dress, none of which Emma bothered to answer.