by Joan Smith
“It is healing nicely,” she replied, and shot a gimlet look at Burack. She did not care for that remark. Was he suggesting Costain was malingering? “He is most eager to return to Spain,” she added.
“I daresay he misses the excitement. We are a dull lot at the Guards. I wonder he bothered to join us.”
“I expect Lord Costain is the sort of man who likes to be busy, and doing something for his country.”
“Very admirable.”
Yet Mr. Burack did not sound as if he admired Costain. In fact, she caught an intimation of resentment in his manner. Was it just jealousy of the ordinary man for the war hero? Or did he fear Costain would outshine him at the Guards as well?
Burack’s next question put her on the alert. “How did you meet him?” he asked, and looked at her with brightly inquisitive eyes.
The cheek! “Our families are old friends, Mr. Burack,” she said dampingly, and immediately changed the subject. “This is the first Christmas party of the season, I believe. What a lovely scent the fir boughs give to the room.”
Mr. Burack wore the expression of a frustrated man, but his breeding forced him to discontinue his discussion of Costain, since the lady was so obviously opposed.
As the dance drew to a close he said, “May I do myself the honor of calling on you, Miss Lyman?”
“If you wish,” she said with little enthusiasm.
“Where do you live?”
“On King Charles Street, not far from where you work.”
“I see!” he said in a surprised voice.
As soon as the cotillion ended, Costain came forward. “Let us have a glass of wine,” he said, and led Cathy away.
“He was prying, Lord Costain!” she exclaimed. “Is it possible Mr. Burack is the one who is making trouble at the Guards?”
Costain looked interested in her suggestion. “Does he resemble your intruder?”
She had forgotten all about it, but she stopped at the doorway and looked back. She mentally pulled a hat low over Burack’s face and drew a scarf up to nearly meet it. “I had the impression of an older, slighter man. Perhaps, with his shoulders hunched ...”
“How about the voice?” Costain asked, warming to the idea.
“It did not sound similar at all, but the intruder consciously lowered his voice to frighten me.”
“It is odd he made such a point of meeting you.”
Again Cathy felt that shaft of annoyance. “Gentlemen do occasionally wish to be presented to me,” she said.
Costain tilted his head and drew his bottom lip between his teeth. Then he laughed. “There! I told you you would have real cause to be angry with me before long. If it is any consolation, both Lord Duncan and Sir Andrew Longford asked me most particularly to be presented.”
“It seems only age appreciates my charms,” she said, not quite mollified, as the gentlemen mentioned were both nearing forty.
“Burack is no Methuselah,” he said. She tossed her curls. “And Costain, at a mere nine and twenty, is coming to appreciate you, precocious fellow that I am.”
“Let us go and see if Gordon has had any luck,” she said, and they walked out.
Gordon came pacing from the refreshment parlor to meet them. Cathy rushed in with her suspicions of Burack.
“What did he say, exactly, to tip you the clue?” Gordon asked.
“He asked how long I had known Lord Costain, and how we met, and he mentioned it odd he danced so well when he was supposed to have wounded his leg.”
“Upon my word, the fellow is a commoner,” Gordon exclaimed. “He is either jealous as a green cow or he’s our spy.”
“He did sound a little jealous,” Cathy allowed. Then she looked sharply at Costain. “I don’t mean jealous because of me,” she said. “Jealous of your title and your war record is what I meant.”
“Counter jumper! He is nothing but a commoner in gentlemen’s clothing,” Gordon scoffed. “Never mind him. I have something of real interest to report, Costain.”
He looked all around. The crowd was surging toward the refreshment parlor, where a line of servants were placing hot food on the table. The aroma of lobsters simmering in wine sauce floated on the air, mingling with the smell of hot roast beef.
“We’ll find a quiet spot,” Gordon said, and began pacing down the hall. He stopped at the library door and tossed his head to speed the others in joining him.
“What of supper? I am hungry,” Cathy said as Costain hurried her along.
“Dash it, do you think being a spy is all waltzing and eating?” Gordon exclaimed. “I have been loitering about freezing corners with the wind rushing up my back all day long, following Mrs. Leonard. I have to impart my findings to Lord Costain.”
“We’ll eat later,” Costain said with an apologetic look, and led Cathy into the library.
Chapter Six
Their thoughtful hostess had provided a decanter of sherry and glasses in the study in anticipation of wandering guests. Gordon went to the table near the blazing grate, poured, and handed the glasses around.
“Cheers and all that,” he said, and crouched on the very edge of his chair, leaning toward Costain, who rested more comfortably on the sofa beside Cathy. Gordon’s eyes gleamed with eagerness.
Costain was tired after a hard day’s work and an evening of dancing. He settled in to enjoy the blazing hearth and the wine. The Lymans were obviously delighted with the vicarious excitement of it all. He could not see that they were in any real danger, and went along with it as if it were a game.
“What have you discovered, Gordon?” he asked.
“By the living jingo, Costain, you hit it on the head when you fingered Mrs. Leonard. She is in it up to her pretty neck. She is thick as thieves with every Frenchie in town.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, sir, a French modiste makes her gowns. That is Madame Marchand. A French milliner does her bonnets—Mademoiselle Dutroit, whose shop is right next door to Madame Marchand’s. There is a regular clique of them. And she—Mrs. Leonard, I mean—also went to a toy store right across the street. They call themselves Whitfields, letting on they are English, but every second thing in the store is made in France. How do they get hold of it when we are at war with France? They have hand mirrors and perfume bottles and all those gaudy trifles you see on a lady’s dressing table.”
Indignation turned him into a parody of his late father, and when he continued, his speech assumed an oracular quality. “It is infamous, letting the Frenchies infiltrate Bond Street to such an extent. You ought to look into it.”
“Most ladies of fashion favor a French modiste, Gordie,” his sister mentioned, peering to see Costain’s opinion.
“And a French milliner? I ask you!”
“Mama bought her latest bonnet from Mademoiselle Dutroit. I wish I could afford the pretty red one in her show window. It has a huge black bow in front.”
“You would look a quiz in that thing, Cathy. You need a face to carry off a bonnet like that. Besides, Mrs. Leonard bought it this very day. It suited her right down to the heels.”
“It cost a fortune!” Cathy said. “She must be rich.”
“If she is, she has money in her own right,” Costain said, pensively rubbing his chin. “Harold Leonard has only a competence. He often complains of the cost of living in London. What sort of a lady is Mrs. Leonard?”
“A dasher of the first jet, Costain—good carriage, shiny black fur cape, shiny black hair, smooth white skin, dark eyes, and a stunning figure.”
“She either has a patron, or she has money of her own,” Costain decided. “Odd a young beauty would settle for Mr. Leonard, who has neither fame nor fortune to recommend him.”
“We’ll ask Mama,” Gordon said. “She knows everyone, or she knows someone who knows everyone. Never guess it to see her now, but she and the Duchess of Devonshire was bosom bows. To this very day she receives a card from Prinny on her birthday.”
As Gordon betrayed no particular infatuation
with Mrs. Leonard, and as she appeared to be active enough to keep him fully occupied, Costain was much of a mind to let him continue following her.
“It is a pity Mr. Leonard came down with that flu, or we would have gotten a look at this Incomparable wife tonight,” Cathy said.
Gordon looked at her in astonishment. “What the deuce are you talking about? She’s here! Why do you think I have been lurking about the card room, when Miss Stanfield is here? I have been keeping an eye on Mrs. Leonard.”
“She’s here?” Cathy said, setting down her glass.
“Didn’t I just say so?”
“Let us go and have a look at her,” Cathy said, rising.
“There can be no harm in looking,” Costain said, and rose reluctantly. “But don’t call attention to yourself, Gordon. The spying business demands discretion.”
Gordon laid his finger aside his nose. “Mum’s the word,” he said. “Sorry I can’t introduce you to her. I have not managed to scrape an acquaintance, though I have spoken to her. She dropped a card—the ace of spades—and I picked it up for her. She said, 'Thank you.' She did forget herself and let out a few words of French to her partner. N’est-ce pas, I think it was.”
“Everyone says that!” Cathy laughed.
“Yes, but she said it with an accent,” he pointed out.
“Perhaps my working with her husband will hasten the acquaintance along,” Costain said. “Leave it to me.”
When they reached the refreshment parlor, Gordon pointed out the Incomparable. Mrs. Leonard was as he had described: a dashing brunette of a certain age, rouged, and highly adorned in jewelry. At her throat she wore a large rope of pearls, while a clutch of diamond brooches held a trio of feathers decorating her coiffure.
Costain stared, and could hardly believe that dull old Harold Leonard was married to this dasher. If he was not quite old enough to be her father, he was not far from it. There was one seat vacant at her left side.
“I shall ask Lady Martin to seat me beside her,” he said. “There are a couple of empty seats across the table. Why don’t you take your sister there, Gordon?”
“Yes, by Jove. It is time for fork work. That roast beef is making my mouth water. Come along, Cathy.”
Cathy gave her deserting escort a rebukeful look. “I hope you enjoy your supper, Lord Costain,” she said, and left with a toss of her curls.
Conversation was not always audible across the table, for there was a loud buzz of talk and laughter, but Cathy overheard snatches of talk. She heard Costain introduce himself, and exclaim in well-simulated surprise that Mrs. Leonard was the wife of his colleague. “You are so young!” he said in admiring accents, then laughed that laugh of engaging diffidence with which she was familiar. “That was gauche of me,” he continued. “One would think Mr. Leonard were Methuselah.”
Mrs. Leonard flapped her long lashes at him. “You are forgiven, Lord Costain. I hear that sort of thing constantly. It is true there is a discrepancy in our ages, but I try to play the matron. Hence the feathers in my coiffure,” she added coquettishly.
“But they are charming, Madame. Très soignés.”
How well he simulated compliments. Just so had he smiled at her while they waltzed. A Mr. Hargrave on Cathy’s left side engaged her in conversation. When she could harken to her eavesdropping again, she observed that Costain was sliding the occasional French phrase into his conversation.
“No, but it is early days yet. Entre nous, I am not eager to spend the holiday en famille. What will you be doing for Christmas, Mrs. Leonard?”
She must have asked him what he would do for Christmas. Her reply was in English only. “I should like to get Leonard away to the country for a week. Alas, no invitation has been forthcoming thus far. It is fourpence to a groat he would not go in any case. He is a demon for work, and I could not leave town without him.”
“We at the Horse Guards are well aware of his work habits. He puts us all to the blush. But even God, you know, rested on the seventh day of his labors.”
Cathy felt a poke at her elbow and turned to Gordon. “Is he trying to pump her for news or to seduce her?” Gordon hissed.
“Probably both,” Cathy replied with an air of amused indifference.
Gordon’s interest perked up at this lenient speech. “Daresay a spy has to resort to such methods. By Jove, I shall bear this lesson in mind.”
“Don’t you dare try anything with her, Gordie. She is much too old and too wicked for you.”
After the supper, Gordon disappeared and Costain brought Mrs. Leonard to introduce to Cathy.
“Miss Lyman is an old friend of my family’s,” he said to Mrs. Leonard. “Cathy, I would like you to meet Mrs. Leonard. Her husband and I are colleagues.”
The ladies exchanged a smiling curtsy. “Was that darling boy beside you your brother, Miss Lyman?” Mrs. Leonard asked.
“Yes. Do you have any family, ma’am?” Cathy inquired, to remind Costain of the lady’s married status.
“Alas, I am not so fortunate, but I have a darling little pug who is all in all to me. I call her May, for she came to me on May Day. She is a Taurus, like myself. An earth sign. So kind and gentle, unless attacked, of course. Then she becomes quite vicious. She dotes on the arts, especially music. We have that in common. Are you interested in the horoscope?” She looked with bright interest to her listeners. Both disclaimed any knowledge of this art.
“Most fascinating,” she said. “I live by the stars. They told me of May’s fondness for music. When my little doggie is out of sorts, I play the pianoforte for her. She especially enjoys the new waltz.”
Cathy hardly knew how to reply to such a foolish outburst. “I have a kitten,” she said.
“I had one, but May was jealous. I had to give her away.” Mrs. Leonard then turned to Costain to inquire for his sign. Upon learning that he was born in October, she smiled in satisfaction. “I thought as much! A Leo. A natural leader,” she said, and continued with various compliments.
She did not inquire for Miss Lyman’s birth sign. When the music resumed, Mrs. Leonard sighed forlornly and said, “I daresay it is back to the card parlor for me. You youngsters run along and enjoy the dance.”
Costain took the hint and asked her if she would stand up with him. “I really should not dance when poor Leonard is ill, but perhaps just once,” she said. “I hope it is true what I have read, that people admire us for our virtues, but like us for our faults. I am deep dyed in faults.”
Naturally Lord Costain took objection to this wholesale self-condemnation. “I find that hard—no, impossible—to believe. Your husband speaks most highly of your forbearance.”
By some invisible sign Costain summoned a friend to take Cathy off his hands, and he disappeared with Mrs. Leonard. At the dance’s end he returned to Cathy without his partner. Cathy was unaccountably furious with his satisfied smile and asked in a stiff voice if he would mind taking her home now, as she had a slight headache.
“You can always return if you dislike leaving early,” she added with a glance across the room at the lady he would be returning to.
“I’ve gone as far as decency allows on first acquaintance,” he replied, not pretending to misunderstand her.
“I wager you have.”
He made his adieu to the hostess and called for the carriage at once. Gordon decided to remain at the assembly to try for a dance with Miss Stanfield.
“Do you really have a headache, or only a fit of pique?” Costain asked as they drove home.
“Am I not entitled to a headache after being slighted in public?” she asked. “Do you think no one noticed my escort deserted me at dinner, and made me look a fool?”
“We went to the assembly to see what we could discover. Mrs. Leonard was the best lead we came across.”
“I wonder if Mr. Burack was not a better lead,” she replied.
“I see him every day. If we had remained behind, we could have seen whether he stood up with Mrs. Leonard. That would hav
e been interesting. It is odd he did not approach her all evening. He has been at the Guards longer than I. He must have met her before now. Their not exchanging so much as a glance looks suspicious.”
“You must ask her about Burack when you call on her,” Cathy said, wearing a face of determined disinterest.
“It will be better to let Gordon continue his watch. I wonder—perhaps we should sic him on to Burack instead. It is pretty clear Mrs. Leonard is no spy.”
What was clear to Cathy was that Lord Costain was easily duped by a pretty flirt.
“I suggest you take a bone for May when you call on Mrs. Leonard, Lord Costain,” she said with a knowing look. “I fear the way to that lady’s heart is through her pug.”
“You read me like a book, ma’am. I shall ask Cook to save me a steak bone.”
They proceeded in silence for a few blocks. The only sound in the carriage was the echo of the hooves and wheels coming through the windows.
As they turned in at King Charles Street, Cathy said, “Did you discover where Mrs. Leonard gets her money? That was an expensive-looking cluster of diamonds she was wearing.”
“One can hardly ask such an intimate question on first acquaintance.”
“Perhaps when you get to know her better ...”
The carriage drew up in front of the house and stopped. “I shall take you in,” he said. “Don’t be concerned if you see my carriage waiting outside. I want a word with Gordon. He said he would not be long.”
“Very well.”
He escorted her to the door. Before opening it, he said, “I don’t know what tomorrow may bring. Can you leave the evening open in case something comes up?”
Leaving an evening open was never any problem for Cathy, but she did not precisely say so. “We often have an evening at home during the dull winter months. I believe tomorrow evening is free.”
She thought Costain would smile and at least pretend to be pleased, but he was frowning at the door knocker. “You wouldn’t happen to have a book on astrology in that study?”
“I shouldn’t think so. It is all foolishness, you know.”
