by Joan Smith
It was this homey sight that greeted Lady Lyman’s eyes when she returned from the ball. The three of them looked as guilty as sinners when she entered. What was going on here? “I made sure you would be in bed, Cathy,” she exclaimed. “Did you not have a fit of megrims at the ball?”
“I am feeling better now, Mama.”
“We all decided that what ailed us was hunger, so we had some sandwiches and coffee made,” Gordon said. “Don’t let us keep you, Mama. You look burnt to the socket.”
“I am not used to these late nights. You look peaked yourself, Gordon. Don’t stay up too late.”
Gordon wondered why Costain accompanied Lady Lyman to the staircase and stayed a full five minutes talking to her. For her part, Lady Lyman could scarcely believe her luck. An invitation to Northland Abbey for the whole family for Christmas! It could be no less than a formal betrothal Costain had in mind. Rag-mannered of him to have stayed so late—it was two-thirty! Odd, too, that Cathy was still up and about when she had retired from the ball with a headache.
Lady Lyman was pretty sure Gordon had been drunk. He looked exceedingly pale. The bandage Costain was wearing on his hand suggested he had been in some sort of brawl. Perhaps Costain had beaten up Burack for having taken Cathy out. Such a hotheaded husband would be a handful for Cathy to manage, but he would soon be rushing back to Spain, so that would be all right.
In the saloon, Gordon said to his sister, “Costain is bamming Mama with some story to turn her up sweet.”
When Costain returned to the saloon, Gordon said, “Did you tell Castlereagh about my part in all this?”
“I could not think you wanted him to know you had been overpowered by Leonard,” Costain explained. “As to the rest, he is aware of your involvement. It was you who put us on to Dutroit and Marchand. It will take a few days to round up all their cohorts.”
“What about Cosgrave? He was certainly making up to Mrs. Leonard.”
“Indeed he was, but that is all he was doing. He’ll be dismissed, of course, but no charges will be laid. Helena used her liaison with Cosgrave to gain her husband a position at the Horse Guards—for what purpose you may imagine. We will never know for certain now, but I imagine she convinced Harold that she would leave him if he could not provide more of the niceties of life. He could not do it honestly; no doubt she suggested how he could do it dishonestly.”
Gordon nodded. “If I had caught a glimpse of his stubby fingers sooner, I could have solved the case in a minute. I think you were wrong to keep me away from the office, Costain. I knew as soon as he handed me the sherry that he was our man. What I did not think was that he would recognize me in a shot, from breaking into our office here.”
“Mrs. Leonard had spotted you lurking about the house, too,” Costain said. “You must be more careful another time.”
“It won’t happen again. I wonder what brought her rushing home before the ball was half over.”
“There was a note in her purse from Harold, telling her that he had you under sedation at the house, asking what he should do. I daresay she saw Burack and Cathy and myself rushing away from the ball, and decided she’d best get home to take charge.”
“How does it come you never suspected Mr. Leonard, Costain?” Cathy asked.
“I thought he was too timid to tackle such a daring thing. I am certain he hated every minute of it. He was a pattern-card of conscientiousness at work, always hounding everyone to follow the rules. And to discover at the end that his wife despised him.” He shook his head and gave a quiet tsk. “At least he never learned she was carrying on with Cosgrave.”
“About my joining the staff at the Horse Guards, Costain,” Gordon said. “You mentioned something about another time. With Leonard gone, they’ll need a replacement. Who do you think will take Cosgrave’s spot? I’ll see if Mama knows him, and can put in a word for me.”
Costain cleared his throat modestly. “Actually, Castlereagh has suggested that I take over from Cosgrave.”
Gordon’s exclamations of delight went unheard by Cathy. She was looking at Costain with a smile trembling on her lips. “Then you would not be returning to Spain?” she asked.
“He has half convinced me I could be of more use here.”
“Only half?” Gordon asked in astonishment, “Why, it would be great fun, Costain. You and me and Burack—what a team!”
“I am giving the matter my serious consideration. There are a few points to clarify first.”
“What does it hinge on?” Gordon asked at once.
Costain’s dark eyes turned to Cathy. “On a lady,” he said.
Gordon’s youthful visage assumed a sneer. “You are ill-advised to chart your course on the whim of a lady. I daresay Miss Stanfield never even noticed I was missing.”
“On the contrary, she was very much put out by your cavalier treatment at the ball. You must apologize nicely when you meet her at Northland at Christmas.”
“Eh? What the devil are you talking about? I shall not be—I say, are you inviting me to Northland?”
“Your mama was kind enough to accept an invitation on behalf of the family.” He gazed at Cathy, watching the light flush that bloomed in her cheeks and the shy smile that lit her eyes.
“And Miss Stanfield is going, you say?” Gordon said.
Costain cast an impatient glance at this nuisance of a boy. “How else can I hope to gain a few moments privacy with your sister?” he replied with a meaningful look.
“Good Lord! You don’t mean Cathy is the lady you were talking about?”
“Perhaps if you wrote Miss Stanfield a nice note of apology, Gordon—now,” Costain suggested.
“By Jove, I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”
“Never leave till tomorrow what can be done today,” Costain urged.
“It is tomorrow. I mean to say, it’s after two. I can hardly deliver a note at three o’clock in the morning.”
“You could write it.”
“Yes, but—”
Costain rose and took Gordon by the elbow to usher him from the room. “Good night, Gordon. Remember who is now in charge of hiring at the Horse Guards.”
“She hasn’t said yes, Costain.” On that parting shot, Gordon finally strode from the room.
Costain returned and took up the seat beside Cathy on the sofa. “Between dogs and brothers and mamas, it is hard to find a moment’s privacy.”
“Will you keep the dog?” Cathy asked, though she did not really care much at that point.
“That, too, depends on a lady’s answer,” he said, taking her hand and stroking it. “I am not above bribery, you see. A thoroughly bad article.”
“I think you are very nice.”
“Nice? Nice! Good God, what have I done to deserve such lukewarm praise?”
“And brave,” she added.
His arm moved around her shoulder and tugged her closer. “That is better. Pray, continue.”
“Well, you are a baron.”
“Run dry so soon, have we? To praise a man’s title suggests he is no better than a turnip. The best part of him is buried. I am also trustworthy.”
“You should not have brought that letter to me for translation.”
“Let us call it independent. Also honest.” He flicked a curl that hung loose at her temple.
“You lied about that letter, and the suicide-murder.”
He gave a little yank at her curl. “We call that inventive. My poaching on Burack’s date is harder to whitewash.”
“Seizing an opportunity?” she suggested helpfully.
“Wide awake on all suits. My practicing nepotism on Gordon’s behalf I shall call family loyalty. And speaking of family—” He drew her into his arms.
Her eyes were wide and bright with anticipation. “Yes, Costain?” she asked in a breathless voice.
“I am flattered at your eagerness, but I haven’t asked you yet!”
“We cannot ascribe undue haste to you, in any case.”
Hi
s smile firmed to sincerity. When he spoke, the bantering tone had changed to something akin to shyness. “Nor even much courage, in such delicate matters as this, but whatever my faults, I love you very much. I shall make you a good husband, Cathy, if you’ll have me. Will you?”
She gazed a moment at this handsome, dashing lord, hardly able to believe that he could love her, but his glowing eyes assured her that he did. “Yes, I will,” she said simply, and was pulled ruthlessly into his arms for a kiss that left her giddy. His hands stroked her back, and moved down to span her waist, crushing her against his chest while his lips firmed to passion.
She knew her life had changed irrevocably. No more sitting in the study, waiting for the occasional tap at the door. No more vicarious romance from gothic novels and translating other people’s billets-doux. No dull Christmas, listening to Mama’s memories of the good times long past. Now it was her turn to live. The Great Winter Ball had performed its magic after all, even if she had not attended with Costain.
She reluctantly drew back and gazed at him, smiling fatuously. “Just think, if you had not come to me with that letter, or if Uncle Rodney had been there, or if Mr. Leonard had not come, forcing me to run after you ...”
“But I did, and Uncle Rodney wasn’t, and Mr. Leonard did. It must be fate.” There was a sound of footsteps in the hallway. “That doesn’t sound like fate, however. More like Gordon.”
Gordon peered in. “I say, Costain, would you mind having a look at this note for Miss Stanfield? P’raps we’d best go into the study. You go and tell Mama your news, Cathy. She won’t be able to believe it. Oh, congratulations and all that, Costain. I see by her witless grin that she accepted. Now, about this letter, do you think My Dear Miss Stanfield or just Dear Miss Stanfield or—”
Costain’s mobile brows rose in impatience, then settled down again. “I shall call on you tomorrow, Cathy. My family loyalty has other duties for me now. Á demain."
He escorted her to the foot of the stairs, placed a light kiss on her cheek, and watched as she ascended, with many stops to look behind her.
Gordon took his elbow and ushered him into the study. “You know Miss Stanfield better than I. Do you think I should apologize, or give her a bit of a ragging for standing up with Edison?”
With a last look over his shoulder at his beloved, Costain sighed and turned his attention to the matter at hand.
Copyright © 1993 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Crest (ISBN 978-0449221461)
Electronically published in 2015 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
