by Joan Smith
Her eyes widened in fear as she remembered she was going out with Burack that very evening.
“I did not mean to frighten you, but it is best for you to be aware of possible danger,” he said more gently.
“But—” She stopped, unsure whether she should reveal her outing with Burack. “You must warn Gordon, too,” she said.
“I shall, but they are more likely to abduct a lady. There is some special urgency in knowing a helpless lady is in danger, vulnerable to the violence of men without a conscience.”
“Costain! You are scaring me to death!”
He reached across the sofa and seized her hands in a firm grip. “Good. That is precisely what I want to do. Don’t take any chances—with Burack or anyone else. It would be my fault if anything happened to you.”
As their eyes locked, he felt himself being drawn deeper into her gaze, until he felt he was drowning. Was he mad to have involved an innocent young lady in this dangerous business? If anything happened to her— He swallowed and said, “I am the one who involved you in all this. It was not my intention, you know.”
Cathy gently withdrew from his grip. The warmth of his fingers lingered, making her hands tingle. She felt that Costain was behaving more as a proper spy and an eligible gentleman ought, with his warning and his hand-holding.
“It’s not your fault,” she allowed graciously. “If we had not followed you to St. James’s Park, we would not be so deeply in it as we are.”
“The fault is mine. I should not have come to you in the first place. You need not continue to be involved. In fact, there is no reason I cannot take my spurious letter to someone else for translation. There must be dozens of independent translators in London. I shall find someone else—”
“No!” The word came out loud and clear. “No,” she said more calmly. “It is not often that a lady has the chance to be involved in important affairs. If I can help, then I should like to do so.”
His admiring smile was reward enough. “Pluck to the backbone, Miss Lyman.” His fingers came up and just brushed her cheek. “But you will be careful,” he said softly. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Although acutely aware of the message in his soft stroke, she replied only to his words. “Of course I shall.” Her lips opened to tell him of her date with Burack that evening, then she closed them. “When will you bring the new letter for translation?”
“Not for a few days. I shall need a little time to look into the private lives of Burack and Mrs. Leonard.” He drew a weary sigh before continuing. “It will go hard with Harold if his wife is involved. His sun rises and sets on her.”
Gordon returned, outfitted for the evening in black jacket and pantaloons. “Have you decided what we are to do tonight, Leo?” he asked.
“Actually, my name is Daniel,” Costain said. His eyes turned to Cathy.
He did not ask her to call him Daniel, but she felt there was some personal message there, some warmer look than she was accustomed to.
“Yes,” Gordon said, “but for business, you know, it is best to throw any stray listener off guard, so I refer to you as Leo.”
“I am flattered that you think me the king of the jungle. And what a jungle it is in these perilous times. About this evening, Lady Somerset is having a large charity ball. We might all go there.” He looked hopefully to Cathy. Her heart shriveled in regret. “Lady Cosgrave is one of the hostesses. Cosgrave sold me tickets last week. I shouldn’t be surprised if he also sold them to Burack and Leonard.”
Again Cathy opened her lips, but before she could speak, Gordon said, “Leonard cannot go when he has the gout.”
“That is not to say Mrs. Leonard will not attend,” Costain said. “We shall all go. I have half a dozen tickets. It was for a good cause. I meant to give Liz Stanfield a few of them.”
Gordon looked as if he had been struck by lightning. “Miss Stanfield! She might as well go with our party,” he said when he had recovered the use of his wits. “Mean to say, it is a bit late for her to get up a party of her own.”
“I shall stop by now and see if she is interested.”
“Remind her it is for a good cause,” Gordon said. “Make her come.”
“No one makes Liz do anything, but I expect she will come. She was bemoaning last evening that the winter was a dead bore.” He looked at Cathy and said, “I shall call for you—”
She finally got her speech out. “Actually, I am attending the ball with—with Mr. Burack,” she said, and felt unaccountably foolish.
“What!” Costain stared in disbelief.
“I am attending the ball with Mr. Burack,” she repeated.
“Are you mad? When did this happen? Why did you not tell me?”
“It was arranged this afternoon, when he called.”
“Haven’t I just been telling you to stay away from him? Gordon, tell her this is insane.”
“You would have a much better time with us,” Gordon said.
“You can’t go alone with him. It isn’t safe,” Costain said, and began pacing the floor.
“But if I withdraw the invitation—well, it will look so very odd, and rude,” Cathy said, but she was hoping to be overborne.
“That is true,” Costain said over his shoulder. “Gordon, you’ll have to go with her.”
“I’ll do no such a thing. I shall go with Miss Stanfield.”
“I have spare tickets. Ask your mama or uncle to accompany you,” Costain said, turning back to Cathy.
Gordon leapt on this solution. “Mama was planning to go anyhow, was she not, Cathy? When I refused to take you, she said she would use the other ticket and go with you herself.”
Costain’s anger rose a notch higher at this revelation. When he spoke, his voice was thin. “Am I to understand you are standing buff for the evening, Miss Lyman? I can only assume that you also did the inviting. I fear you must have omitted the more interesting bits from your description of Burack’s visit.”
Gordon emitted a loud guffaw. “By Jove, I would give a monkey to have seen Cathy screwing up her courage to ask a fellow out. That will go into your diary, I wager.”
Costain reached into his pocket and handed Cathy two tickets. “Promise me you won’t go alone with Burack.”
She read the anger in his eyes, and, beneath it, something that looked strangely like genuine concern. Perhaps even a tinge of jealousy ...
“Very well,” she said, and took the tickets.
“What time is he calling for you?” Costain asked in a tightly controlled voice.
“At eight-thirty.”
Costain said to Gordon, “I shall be here at eight. We’ll pick up Liz and be back here by eight-thirty.”
“What the devil for?” Gordon asked in confusion.
“To see that your sister is not abducted,” Costain said, choosing the hardest words he could find.
“You are being extremely foolish,” Cathy said mildly. But inside, a warm mist of pleasure swelled. Costain was jealous—of her and Mr. Burack.
Costain rose to begin his leave-taking. “You will be ready at eight sharp, Gordon? I shall drop by the Stanfields now and tell Liz that if she is not punctual, we shall go on without her.”
Gordon stared to hear anyone speak so firmly of Miss Stanfield. “I am ready already,” he replied.
Costain made a curt, angry bow. “Until this evening, then,” he said, and walked quickly to the door to let himself out.
In the study, Gordon shook his head. “Pity you invited that mawworm of a Burack to the party. How did you come to do such a thing? Costain did not like it above half.”
“It is none of Lord Costain’s business,” she replied with an angry tsk, but in truth she bitterly regretted her rashness. She might have gone to the ball on Lord Costain’s arm.
“Whatever you do, don’t ruin my chances with Miss Stanfield, Cathy. You know I have been dangling after her forever. This is my big chance.”
He darted back upstairs to improve his toilet
te without waiting for assurance.
* * *
As Costain leapt into his waiting carriage, he knew his anger was out of all proportion to Miss Lyman’s offence. She had no reason to suspect Burack of anything when she invited him to the ball.
She was free to do as she pleased, but the angry thought would not be kept down. Why had she not invited him, if she had tickets? Other girls were constantly inviting him to parties. Cathy’s mama made no secret that she approved of him, so that was not the problem. No, the simple fact was that she preferred Mr. Burack to himself. He had given her a disgust of him with his overbearing manner.
And as a result she was going out this evening with a man whom he half suspected was a spy. It seemed more than likely Burack was the infamous masked intruder. It was Burack who had followed him to King Charles Street. How else could he have known that the Lymans were involved? He would want close watching tonight.
Chapter Fifteen
"What is that horrid smell?” Lady Lyman demanded as Sir Gordon, reeking of Steak’s Lavender Water and wearing another extravagantly arranged cravat, took his seat at the dinner table. “I trust you have not dowsed yourself in scent, Gordon. A gentleman has no need of scent.”
“Just a dab behind my ears,” Gordon replied. “All the crack, Mama. You are a million years behind the times. Everyone uses it nowadays.”
“In my day, scent was for ladies,” Rodney announced.
“This is the nineteenth century, Uncle,” Gordon replied.
“I did not notice Lord Costain wearing scent,” Lady Lyman said with a smile in her daughter’s direction. “So kind of him to give Cathy his extra tickets, even when she refused to accompany him to the ball. Very clever of you, my dear, inviting Mr. Burack. That made Lord Costain open up his eyes and look sharp. There is nothing like a little competition to hasten a match along.”
A dish of turbot in white sauce was passed to the dame, and she helped herself to a fillet. For once, a pleasant meal was enjoyed at King Charles Street. Lady Lyman was pleased with her offspring. Cathy looked pretty in that deep blue moire gown. The dark color and severe cut added a touch of sophistication. Nothing was so aging as mutton dressed as lamb.
She was aware that she looked elegant herself in a gown of gentle mauve that was kind to her fading complexion. It would be pleasant to have an evening out with old friends. This do would refresh her memories of how a proper evening party was held. The Christmas rout was back on track.
It was the main subject of conversation over dinner. Gordon was assigned the task of hiring musicians. Lady Lyman expressed no interest whatsoever in Mr. Burack. He was but a means to an end. When he arrived at eight, she saw that he looked like a gentleman. That was enough to win him a smile.
Lady Lyman and Mr. Reynolds accompanied Burack and Cathy, which inhibited any private conversation between the young couple. Cathy was minutely aware that the carriage dogging their tail held Lord Costain’s party. When the two carriages unloaded in front of the stately mansion on Curzon Street, Lady Lyman spotted Costain and latched onto his arm for the trip up the stairs, thanking him effusively for the tickets.
She had mentally settled on the twentieth for her rout. That would give Costain time to be in touch with his mama about inviting Cathy to Northland with him for Christmas. “I have a little rout party planned for the week before Christmas. I hope you can join us, Lord Costain,” she said.
“I would be charmed, ma’am,” he replied without even asking the date. His attention and his eyes closely followed Cathy and Burack’s progress to the front door. Lady Lyman considered him as good as won.
A fluttering excitement invaded Cathy as she was announced at the ball. She was here! She had made it to the Great Ball. Behind her shoulder Lord Costain hovered, quite taking the shine out of the gentleman at her elbow. She gazed below at the elegant guests, the ladies all sparkling with diamonds and the gentlemen hovering attendance like a swarm of uxorious penguins. The hall was decorated with fir boughs and red and gold ribbons encircling the pillars. An enormous fir tree stood in one corner. Cotton wool arranged amid the branches gave the appearance of snow, and small gilt boxes dangled from the boughs. Perhaps they contained trinkets for the ladies.
Cathy’s eyes followed Costain as they all descended to the ballroom. Gilt letters a foot high were strung across the doorway, spelling out HAPPY CHRISTMAS.
“Who is the chit he is standing up with?" Lady Lyman said.
“Miss Stanfield, Mama, the girl Gordon likes.”
Miss Stanfield, unaware that her duty was to fall in love with Sir Gordon, chose her cousin as her first partner.
“A common-looking chit,” Lady Lyman decreed, her gimlet eyes assessing the Incomparable. “When one sees an excess of garniture on the gown, one knows one is looking at a commoner. She does not require sequins and lace and bows.” A veteran now of her first Season, Miss Stanfield wore a powder-blue gown festooned with a plethora of all three. “And a flirt into the bargain. See how she is rolling her eyes at the bachelors.”
“She is Lord Costain’s first cousin,” Cathy said.
This close kinship removed Miss Stanfield as possible competition, and added greatly to her charms. “Uncommonly pretty,” Lady Lyman decided. “I notice a greater use of decoration in the gowns these days. You might want to tack a few bows onto your skirt, Cathy.”
Cathy went to the floor on Mr. Burack’s arm. As they performed the intricate steps of the opening minuet, she found it hard to transmogrify her partner into a dangerous spy. He was shy and admiring. She sensed that his stiffer demeanor that afternoon was the result of duty overcoming shyness.
“It was kind of you to invite me, Miss Lyman,” he said two or three times. “Your mama, too, was very nice. Not so toplofty as I feared.”
She was suddenly struck with the fact that Mr. Burack was quite a young gentleman. “Have you been at the Horse Guards long, Mr. Burack?” she asked.
“Only a few months, since graduating from Oxford.”
Good gracious! He was not much older than Gordon. It was ludicrous to think him a hardened villain. “You haven’t made any more discoveries at your office?” she asked, to remind him why they were at this ball together, since he seemed to have forgotten.
“Nothing of any significance occurred this afternoon. I notice Mrs. Leonard has just arrived,” he said, glancing to the doorway, where she had entered with her elderly companion. “Her husband is at home with the gout.”
Cathy turned to examine Mrs. Leonard. The lady had gone to a deal of trouble to enhance her natural beauty. She looked striking and dramatic in a gown of shot silk, with diamonds at her ivory throat. The gown looked black at first glance, but as she moved, flashes of deep burgundy appeared. Before she had gone two paces into the room, a gentleman accosted her.
“She is very attractive,” Cathy said.
“Do you think so? For an elderly woman, perhaps. The lady with her is handsome. I wonder who she can be?”
“The younger lady is Mrs. Leonard, Mr. Burack,” Cathy said, surprised that he didn’t know it.
“You mean to tell me that dasher is married to old Leonard? Good Lord! No wonder he is always boasting of her. I thought the old pelter must be his wife. She sat with him at the theater the other evening. Now I see why you thought Lord Costain mighty be her lover.”
This pretty well convinced Cathy that Burack was too uninformed to be the spy. “Who is that man with her?” she asked.
“That is Mr. Fortescue, from the Horse Guards.”
“Could he be her cohort?” Cathy asked. She was not happy to assign the role to either Costain or Burack. There must be someone else. “If she is a spy, I mean.”
Burack said, “Fortescue is only a sort of financial liaison man with the government. His job is to try to get more money out of them, but he doesn’t have the spending of it.”
At the minuet’s end, Lord Costain wished to dash up and snatch Cathy from Burack’s arm. They were both smiling too m
uch to suit him. He knew his duty was to deliver Liz Stanfield to Gordon, however. Before he could do it, Gordon appeared at his elbow in the company of someone called Miss Swanson.
“Our dance, I think, Miss Stanfield?” Gordon said, and took her arm. Costain, perforce, had to smile and ask Miss Swanson for the next set.
Neither Lady Lyman nor her daughter was pleased with it, but as an extremely eligible earl asked to be presented to Cathy, they overcame their chagrin. At the end of the second set, Costain directed one scowl on Cathy before crossing the room and asking Mrs. Leonard to stand up with him.
At the termination of that set, Cathy returned to her mother, who had deprived herself of the pleasures of the card parlor to oversee her daughter’s progress and offer such hints as her vast experience of a world long past suggested to her.
“I could swear that is Helena Fotherington with Costain!” Lady Lyman said. “You recall you were asking about her just the other day, Cathy. She has not changed one iota. How on earth does she do it? I must say good evening to her. That will give Costain the chance to stand up with you. Come along, Cathy.”
Cathy suffered the exquisite embarrassment of hounding off after Costain and hearing herself described to the beautiful Mrs. Leonard as “my little girl, Cathy. All grown up now.”
Mrs. Leonard smiled dutifully. “I have already met your daughter, Lady Lyman,” she said, but her questioning gaze did not suggest the slightest memory of the mother.
“We met in France, at Amiens,” Lady Lyman said, to jog her memory. “You may recall my late husband, Sir Aubrey Lyman?”
“Certainly. I was sorry to hear he had passed away. And do you have any other children, Lady Lyman?”
“One son, Gordon. He is here somewhere.”
“Ah, you are fortunate. I have no children, just my little pug dog. He is keeping my husband company this evening. Harold is a martyr to gout. He would insist I come, as Lady Cosgrave is one of the hostesses. We spent the entire afternoon here, Lady Cosgrave and I, overseeing preparations. I scarcely had time to run home and have a bite of dinner and change.” As she spoke, Mrs. Leonard’s infamous eyes toured the room, seeking her next escort.
