Free Miss Cheney's Charade by Emily Hendrickson

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.
    Although the allotted time for Mr. Swinburne’s call had passed, he improperly remained, contrary to most dandies’ behavior. It seemed he did not wish to yield the field to his friends, although Emma suspected that the friendship was of the most distant sort.
    She had begun to relax when Sir Peter spoke into one of those momentary silences that occur. “I fancy you are quite proud of your son. George has been such a help ...” he began.
    Emma hastily broke into his flow of words—something she normally would never do—and said, “Sir Peter believes dear George to be an authority on Roman antiquities, Mama. Imagine my brother advising anyone on anything.” Her tinkling laugh sounded false to her ears. Her mother glared at her before smoothing that expression from her face.
    “George is rarely at home anymore. He insists he will find a treasure, but I declare, I doubt it.” She sipped at her tea and gave Emma a questioning look regarding her daughter’s unseemly behavior.
    Mrs. Bascomb came to an unknowing rescue when she turned the conversation to Sir Peter. “And your antiquities are to be rated superior, we understand. It is so rare that a gentleman shows interest in such elevating matters,” Mrs. Bascomb concluded with a nod of condescension.
    Sir Peter bowed in her direction, acknowledging the tribute with a gracious smile.
    Emma thought his smile held a gleam of amusement, but that might have been forMrs. Bascomb’s tribute, pretentious as it was.
    The conversation turned to more general topics like the weather—dreadfully cloudy yet not too chilly for this time of year—and the various entertainments abounding in London during the high Season.
    The gentlemen were about to take their leave when Sir Peter paused after rising from his chair and bowed to Mrs. Cheney. “I wonder, kind madam, if I might persuade you to join me this evening, with Miss Cheney, of course, and perhaps your husband. There is to be a grand opening of Vauxhall for the Season. I understand the Prince Regent himself is to attend. The owners have promised all manner of innovations.”
    “I had heard a rumor they were to close, for they did not do at all well last year,” Mrs. Bascomb murmured.
    “Well, it appears that Vauxhall will be even greater and grander this season,” Sir Peter said persuasively.
    Emma was torn. She had read the account of the grand reopening at Vauxhall. It promised to be wonderful entertainment, and she wanted more than anything in the world to attend this festive occasion. On the other hand, it would mean a close proximity to Sir Peter Dancy for several hours, and that she dare not risk.
    Then she glanced at him again. Unless he was for some peculiar reason of his own pretending to go along with her disguise, he had