Miss Cheney's Charade (7 page)

“You met my sister?” Emma said cautiously.

He nodded in reply while helping himself to a slice of ham and another spoon of buttered eggs. “Dig in, do. Don’t stand on ceremony here. Radley, fetch another pot of coffee. Or do you prefer tea?” he asked Emma.

“Tea, if you please.”

Radley disappeared while Sir Peter studied Emma. “I gather you didn’t sleep any better than I did last night. You look fagged to death.”

Emma took an affronted breath, then firmed her lips, refusing to rise to what might be deemed bait. She merely nodded. “London is dreadfully noisy, even at night. I much prefer the country.”

“Ruins are quiet, true. Tell me, what do you hope to find down in Sussex?” He buttered his toast, heaped a spoon of marmalade on top, then resumed eating.

Here Emma stood on firmer ground. She followed suit, relishing the flavor of the ham and eggs mixed with a nibble of marmalade. Oh, was anything ever as good as an English breakfast? At last, when she had mulled over how to say what she thought George might say, she replied, “Treasure. I’m convinced that there must be a lot of coins and other things like jewelry left behind when the Romans departed. Bound to be. People were killed, and oft times hoards were forgotten in a rush.”

“Not like the deliberate placement of articles in a burial chamber such as the Egyptians did.” Sir Peter said in somewhat of an agreement.

Emma racked her brain for all she could remember of Roman burial practices—which wasn’t much—and shared that with Sir Peter. By the end of the morning meal she felt remarkably at ease with the man she hoaxed.

When they entered the workroom, she discovered the body of the long-dead Egyptian princess had been placed on her worktable. Emma halted just inside the door before taking a hesitant step toward the table and the skeleton.

“Come, have a look. I am debating whether or not to try to restore the wrappings. What do you think?” Sir Peter strolled across to survey the skeleton.

Emma caught sight of the neat stacks of bandages off to one side and shook her head. “I do not see how you could hope to duplicate what was done so long ago with those wrappings. Best leave the princess be, I suspect.” She joined Sir Peter at the table, touching one of the princess’s hands with a tentative finger.

“I suppose you are right. After all, you have a good deal more experience at this than I do,” Sir Peter replied thoughtfully with a glance at Emma.

She nearly laughed at the very notion. Not but what she wouldn’t have liked to join George in his explorations. He wouldn’t have her along for anything.

“Radley and I placed her on a sort of pallet. Give me a hand with it, will you? I intend to put her under glass; the bones will be more protected that way.” Sir Peter gestured to the other end of what Emma now perceived as a padded bit of wood.

Emma willingly took the other end, finding the burden to be slight. It was a novel experience to be treated as a man and not a helpless female. She found she rather liked it.

“What about the necklace you found? Is it safe?” Of all the things found, the beautiful necklace had not been brought forth for Emma to draw. “Did someone not suggest you hire a guard for these treasures?” she asked while helping Sir Peter place a glass lid on the case.

“The only item worth stealing is the necklace, and I keep it quite safe,” he reassured her.

Before Emma could ask if he wanted her to draw it, he added, “I will bring it out the next day you come, but I believe I should like a representation done in either watercolors or oils. Do you use either of those mediums?”

“I can manage watercolors,” Emma replied, remembering in time to use her George voice.

With the body carefully beneath glass, Emma studied the woman’s face again. “She looks peaceful, somehow. I do not think she was murdered.”

“Ah, yes, you would know about the great number of times that murder was a way to secure power, for the Romans were not above using the same method.”

Sir Peter drew companionably close to Emma. His arm brushed against hers as he pointed out the little things she had missed, the holes punched in the ear lobes for earrings, for example.

Emma’s tingling response to that casual touch shocked her a bit. Could he possibly guess that she reacted to him in such a foolish manner? This would never do, she scolded.

It was close to noon when they finished the examination, and Emma gasped when she checked her pocket watch.

“Must you go so soon? We could have a bite of nuncheon if you liked. I intend to see your sister later on, although do not tell her so.”

“My sister?” Emma feared that her voice sounded a trifle squeaky.

“Well, I enjoyed dancing with her last night. Charming girl, Miss Cheney. Will you be at home this afternoon?”

“Me? No. No, I must visit the British Museum, talk with a chap there,” Emma mumbled in a frantic effort to think of an excuse to be away.

“Before you go ... what son of flowers does Emma like?” Sir Peter inquired lazily.

“Um, oh, most anything,” Emma murmured, thinking that in this she knew she sounded just like George, who scarcely knew a daisy from a rose.

With great haste Emma excused herself and dashed out the front door and down the front steps into a waiting hackney. It didn’t even occur to her to wonder about the convenient appearance of the vehicle, figuring the efficient Radley had summoned it. Emma changed as usual at Lady Titheridge’s. Braddon was her customary efficient self, helping Emma to hurry her switch.

Oldham opened the front door with his usual stately grace when Emma hurried up the steps. Inside the front hall she discovered a flattering number of flower tributes.

Fanny appeared from the shadows of the hall and offered her help. “May I carry a few of these to your room, miss?”

“I expect we had best arrange them in the drawing room,” Emma replied with an astute knowledge of her dear mama. “Mama will want to point them out to Mrs. Bascomb when she comes.”

With a pleased flounce, for any attention to her mistress reflected upon her as well. Fanny gathered three bouquets in her arms, then followed Emma up the stairs.

Emma scarcely knew what she did. All she could think was that Sir Peter was coming to call this afternoon. Oh, was there ever such a muddle? Her curls had been restored to their normal arrangement and her face returned to its normal hue. But inwardly she seethed with anxiety.

“Help me, Fanny. I must dress in a very feminine way for this afternoon.” Emma searched the contents of her wardrobe for the most frilly garment she owned. This wasn’t easy, as she tended to simple clothes.

Fanny pulled put a pretty blue jaconet muslin. The long sleeves were finished with a puff at the top drawn up by a narrow tape in a casing. The narrow skirt was trimmed with a great many rows of corded tucks and hemmed in scallops. The neckline dipped rather low, creating a minuscule bodice that fit snugly to Emma’s nicely firm bosom. She quickly slipped the dress on, then fingered the delicate lace that edged the neckline.

“I look quite ladylike in this, do I not, Fanny?”

The maid gave Emma a quizzical look, for Emma seldom seemed overly concerned about her appearance. “Yes, miss. Be there a special gentleman calling today?” the wily maid inquired.

“Perhaps,” was all Emma would allow.

Downstairs in the drawing room Mrs. Cheney sat in pleased conversation with her dearest friend. Mrs. Bascomb had gazed at all the floral tributes Emma received and gasped with amazement.

“Emma took, then?” Mrs. Bascomb cried.

“I would say that she created a favorable impression on quite a few gentlemen. Mr. Brummell came over to chat with her. Lord Worcester asked her to dance. And Sir Peter Dancy asked her to waltz with him
twice.
Lady Sefton herself presented him to Emma as an agreeable partner. He was most attentive,” Mrs. Cheney concluded with justifiable satisfaction.

“I suppose that even her pretty white muslin appeared new at Almack’s, her not having been there before,” Mrs. Bascomb ventured to say.

“As to that. Lady Titheridge presented Emma with a lovely gown from the finest mantuamaker.
My abigail told me that her ladyship always goes to Madame Clotilde.” Mrs. Cheney sat back with an expectant air, awaiting her friend’s reaction to this exceptional news.

Before Mrs. Bascomb could come forth with an answer, Emma entered the room, having listened and decided she had best halt the crowing.

“Well.” Mrs. Bascomb declared, “you look as fine as fivepence this afternoon, my girl. Your mama tells me you were a great triumph last evening.”

Emma bowed her head in what she hoped was a modest response and said, “Mama had best not refine upon it too much. Only time will tell how I get on.”

Oldham entered behind Emma to announce, “Mr. Reginald Swinburne, ma’am.”

Close on his heels the splendid dandy came into the room and made a most elegant leg to Mrs. Cheney and Mrs. Bascomb before turning to Emma. “You look even more charming today than last evening, a feat I had not thought possible.” He waved a handkerchief in the air, the scent of violets drifting across to tease Emma’s nose.

Emma stifled a giggle that longed to escape and meekly curtsied to the astonishing sight before her.

The dandy had dressed like most of his group—pale buff pantaloons with black silk hose discreetly revealed above black patent shoes. His cravat was a miracle of starched linen, rising high enough to choke him, she thought. His shirt points were in danger of putting out his eyes, dare he turn too quickly. And his dark blue coat, well, that excessively padded and boned creation hugged his waist and helped to puff out his chest. A pigeon, she thought again, a huge, blue-and-buff pigeon. More than anything, she wanted to laugh and knew she must not.

Only the sight of his waistcoat prevented her, for it was a hideously gorgeous creation made from puce satin embroidered with gold and silver threads. It took her breath away just thinking of what if must have cost. Of course, most of the dandies neglected to pay their bills—or so she had heard—so he probably didn’t worry about such mundane matters.

He brought forth a dainty bouquet of violets to present to Emma, and after thanking him politely, she sniffed the charming arrangement nestled in white paper lace.

“I am pleased you like them. Violets are my signature, you see.” He tilted his head in an attitude that revealed its noble shape and gestured with one arm. Why, Emma couldn’t imagine.

It brought another wave of French violet scent to her nose, stronger than the flowers in her hand. Emma couldn’t hold back the smile that burst forth. “How clever,” she managed.

Mr. Swinburne preened, sneaking a glance in the looking glass above the fireplace to assure himself that all was in place, no doubt.

“You have very fine looking glasses, Mrs. Cheney,” he pronounced to his hostess. “Excellent quality. I have one tinted a delicate pink, for it makes me cheerful, not to mention look my very best.”

“What a splendid notion,” Mrs. Cheney said with a quick look at Mrs. Bascomb. “I shall have to avail myself of such an item, for there are days when one feels quite blue, you know.”

Mr. Swinburne laughed appreciatively at this little sally, then turned to face the door when Oldham again entered.

“Sir Peter Dancy, ma’am,” he intoned in his best manner. Emma thought Oldham looked like more of a stuffed cod than usual, if possible.

Sir Peter greeted the ladies with unaffected good manners, then scowled at Mr. Swinburne.

Emma nervously licked her lips, then held her breath a moment. Would he recognize her as the George he had seen but this morning? She advanced to where he stood near the fireplace.

“Thank you so much for the lovely flowers. I am fond of roses, especially pink ones,” she said quietly so not to offend Mr. Swinburne and his modest offering of violets.

“I thought they suited you, for you have such a comely pink in your cheeks,” he replied gallantly.

Emma couldn’t help but contrast his compliment to her with the self-serving words from Mr. Swinburne. That gentleman had presented his violets because they reflected him. Sir Peter offered roses because they reminded him of Emma, or so he claimed.

“Tea or coffee, gentlemen?” Mrs. Cheney inquired, quite as though she were accustomed to such lofty visitors every day. “Perhaps a glass of canary?”

Oldham had caught the significant glance from his employer and shortly brought in a heavily laden tray to place before her.

Tea,” Sir Peter declared at the same time that Mr. Swinburne requested coffee.

Emma poured at her dear mama’s request and watched Sir Peter with uneasy vigilance when not so occupied. What went on in his mind? Had he detected her disguise and only waited to expose her charade? She was in agony of suspense, scarcely aware of what she did or said. Since she did not pour tea or coffee on her gown or the floor, and the dainty slices of buttered bread remained unspilled, she gathered she didn’t give herself away.

Why, oh why, had she attended Almack’s last evening? She had been so happy with sketching at Sir Peter’s house. Now it all might be ruined, for no unmarried lady could possibly enter the house of a bachelor gentleman. Not even to sketch antiquities could she cross the threshold, unless accompanied by her mother... or his aunt, she reflected. If worse came to worst and she dare not continue with the disguise, she might prevail upon Lady Titheridge to chaperon her a few mornings.

This settled in her mind, she relaxed just a shade, then stiffened as Oldham again entered the drawing room. He looked impossibly starched up as he announced, “Lord Worcester, ma’am.”

“Ma’am, I should have guessed the others would be before me.” He bowed correctly to Mrs. Cheney, then turned to Emma. “I enjoyed our dance of last evening and thought to see you again. These fellows”—he gestured to Sir Peter and Mr. Swinburne—”are a plague.”

“Really, sir.” Emma gurgled a delighted laugh. Lord Worcester did not seem half so intimidating this afternoon as he had in the hallowed halls of Almack’s. The memory of Amelia’s unhappy face came to her, and she wondered what there might be about Lord Worcester that brought such a reaction.