by Joan Smith
She mentioned her family’s history. Lyman—what did he know of them? There was a Sir Aubrey Lyman. “Are you Sir Aubrey’s daughter?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said proudly.
“Ah, and where is he posted now?”
“He has been dead these five years.”
“I’m sorry,” he said perfunctorily. His overriding concern was to discover something of the family’s character and reputation, but he had not time to do it then. “My family was acquainted with him some years ago,” he lied smoothly. “Could I do myself the honor of calling one day?”
“We should be happy to receive you.” She smiled.
Her shy smile told him she had taken the gesture as a personal compliment. Was there no end to the mischief he could create? “Will you be at home this evening?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, we seldom go out. In such weather as this, I mean,” she added hastily, as she did not wish to give Mr. Lovell the notion she had no social life.
“It begins to look as though we shall have a white Christmas.” He smiled, putting on his coat. “I don’t know how to thank you, Miss Lyman.” He picked up his hat and cane.
“You will remember to return if you have any other documents to translate.”
“Indeed I shall.”
He tipped his hat, opened the door, said “Au revoir,” then disappeared into the darkness, cursing himself for his incautious behavior. She was certainly eager to get her eyes on more state secrets! Surely the Lymans were not in league with the Frenchies. He seemed to remember Sir Aubrey had been stationed in France some years before. Diplomats had been known to turn their coats. Their having set up shop so close to Whitehall looked suspicious. No very grand shop either; there was no money to spare there. He would make inquiries and see what he could discover.
In the study, Cathy Lyman hugged her excitement to herself, and felt exactly as if she had fallen into one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. All that was lacking was the grove of ancient oaks and a gothic castle, but the hero more than compensated for their lack. She wondered how she would ever keep such a wonderful secret from Gordon. How he would love to be a part of it!
Chapter Two
Lord Costain returned to the Horse Guards with ample time to return the note to its original form. Fortunately, neither Cosgrave’s secretary nor the junior assistant, Mr. Burack, was about. He reheated his thin blade and returned the button of sealing wax in such a way that his practiced eye could see no irregularity in its placement.
He disliked to give such an important message to a man who had spent the past two hours imbibing wine. When Cosgrave had still not returned to his office at five-thirty, Costain took the letter to Lord Castlereagh, as it was too urgent to wait longer. He admitted frankly what he had done.
Lord Castlereagh, the foreign secretary, was a clever, dapper, rather handsome gentleman. He listened intently before speaking. “Rodney Reynolds, you say? He is sound as a rock, lad. No danger there. I have used him myself for personal matters.”
“But it was his niece, Miss Lyman, who translated the note.”
“Miss Lyman? Oh, dear, that was a tad rash. The young ladies are notorious for their flying tongues. But then, Miss Lyman is no longer on the town. One seldom sees her out. And she has experience of sensitive matters—she was abroad for years with her father. Impress upon her that secrecy is of paramount importance.”
“I did that, of course.”
“Just one word of caution—she has a foolish, headstrong young brother. We don’t want him working mischief on our behalf. You might call on her and tell her not to mention it to him. I shan’t presume to tell you how to convince a lady,” he said with a twinkle. “And now I must show this to Liverpool. One trembles to think we might not have seen it till morning if you had not chanced to be there. This is the sort of thing we have to put up with from York’s set.”
“Could Mr. Jones and all the Mr. Joneses not be instructed to deliver their notes directly to you, sir?” Costain suggested.
“It is not feasible to have them dropping into the House of Parliament. The function of the Horse Guards is to handle such matters, and sift the wheat from the chaff, for we get mainly chaff, you must know. Folks with a hankering for excitement and overly active imaginations see a French plot on every street corner. Cosgrave will soon be retiring. When we have the proper man in charge ...” He gave a tsk of dismay. “Well done, Costain. I knew we might count on you. Carry on.” He slid the note into his inner pocket and went off in search of the prime minister.
* * *
It was five o’clock. Cathy was eager to close the office for the day and have her tea. If Mr. Steinem did not come soon, she would do so. Meanwhile, she had plenty to fill her mind. The Great Winter Ball took a backseat to Mr. Lovell and espionage in her ruminations. Eventually, an image of her mama intruded. How could she explain Mr. Lovell’s pending visit? He said their families were acquainted, but the only Lovell she could remember was a milliner, and Mama did not even like her bonnets.
The door from the hallway opened and a sleek head peered in. “Tea’s on,” Gordon said. “Cook has made hot scones. There’s raspberry jam.”
“I am waiting for a customer to return,” Cathy replied.
A tall, elegant, slender form followed the sleek head into the room. At nineteen, Sir Gordon had acquired the height but not the bulk of manhood. His features were similar to Cathy’s, with the same chestnut hair and hazel eyes, but with a stronger nose and jaw. As the sole son and heir of an illustrious father, handsome, not entirely stupid, and the apple of his mama’s eye, Gordon felt he honored the world by condescending to decorate it with his presence.
He had left for university an unlicked cub, and come home a man of the world, but just what world his mind inhabited was unclear at present. He had arrived wearing the Belcher kerchief and wild hair of a poet, but when he had settled on a diplomatic career, he had switched to a proper cravat, got his hair barbered, and begun speaking in the oracular tones of his late papa when he remembered to. When he was hungry, as he was at that moment, he reverted to his own age and nature.
“Dash it, it’s five o’clock. How long are you going to wait? It is unfitting for a Lyman to be taking in work from commoners.”
“It is an affair of the heart,” she replied with a forgiving smile. Gordon was suffering from his unrequited love for Miss Elizabeth Stanfield, and might accept this excuse.
“A lover should be more eager. To hell with him, say I. The scones will be cold.”
“You go ahead.” She was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Oh, here he is now.”
She hopped up with alacrity to open the door and found herself staring at a curled beaver pulled low and a scarf drawn high over a man’s nose and mouth. All that was visible of his face was a pair of narrowed eyes, but she knew at a glance that the man was not Mr. Steinem. He was the wrong size, the wrong shape. He peered over her shoulder into the study at Gordon.
Before she could speak, the man jostled her rudely aside and stepped in. As she closed the door, a frisson ran up her spine. It was not quite fear; she was too annoyed to be afraid yet. It was not until she turned around and saw the black circle of a pistol barrel pointing at her that fear rose to engulf her. She looked in wordless horror to her brother, who gazed at the pistol as if it were Beelzebub incarnate.
“Give me the letter Costain left with you,” the man said in a gruff voice. Cathy had the feeling he was changing his voice on purpose, making it a growl to frighten her.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in a trembling whisper.
“The man who just left—the message from Austria,” he said impatiently. The gun moved in his hand.
Cathy felt ready to swoon. She had anticipated future excitement, but not of quite this sort, and not so quickly. At no time had a gun figured in it. Then she remembered Mr. Lovell. This was her chance to prove to him—why did this man call him Costain?—that she was fit to assist him. The intrude
r glanced at the letter on her desk, and she suddenly had the solution to her problem.
She picked up Mr. Steinem’s billet-doux and her translation. The man grabbed them from her fingers and glanced at the original, then at the translation. “This is a love letter!” he exclaimed.
“That is what Costain left,” she said with wide-eyed innocence. “You see the original is in German.”
Gordon listened, and as the first terror subsided, his mind began to work. It was clear to the meanest intelligence the man with the gun wasn’t an outraged husband as he had first thought, or he would have been expecting a love letter. The only other possibility was that he was a spy. “It must be in code,” he said without thinking. As soon as the words left his lips, he regretted it.
The intruder looked at him with interest, and seemed to accept the idea. He stuffed the letters into his pocket while still leveling the pistol at them with his other hand. “You two, down on the floor,” he commanded.
“My good man!” Gordon said, bridling up.
“Do it, Gordie,” Cathy said, and sat on the floor.
“Lie down, face to the floor, toe to toe,” the man ordered. They did as he said. “You,” he said to Gordon, “take off your cravat and bind your ankles together.”
Gordon sat up, staring fixedly at the gun, undid his cravat, and did as commanded, but he tied the knot loosely. “Now lie back down,” the man said. When they were flat on the floor, he put his gun aside a moment, but within his own reach. “Don’t try anything,” he cautioned in a menacing voice. He removed his gloves and tightened the knot. Gordon hadn’t time, or perhaps courage, to try anything. The man picked up his gun and fled out the door.
As soon as he was gone, they both sat up and began struggling with the knotted cravat. “By Jove, a spy!” Gordon croaked, delighted now that the immediate danger was past. “I shouldn’t have let out about the code. Fancy the mawworm not knowing it.” When the knot proved incalcitrant, he took out his hasp knife and sacrificed his cravat.
As soon as he was free, he darted to the door, but of course the man was long gone. “His footprints are in the snow. I'll follow him,” he said, and darted out into the evening shadows while Cathy sat gasping, wondering what she should do. She soon knew her first duty was to inform Mr. Lovell.
Within minutes Gordon was back, his head and shoulders lightly dusted in snow. “I lost him at the corner. There were a million fresh footprints. You would think an army had passed by. There wasn’t a sniff of him.”
“He probably had a carriage waiting,” Cathy said.
“Damme! My first chance for a little excitement, and I not only let the bleater get away, I told him about the code.”
Cathy did battle with her conscience, and decided that sharing Mr. Lovell’s secret with her brother was the lesser of two evils, because Lovell must be informed at once, and she could not quite see herself going alone to Whitehall in search of him. She would tell Gordon the very minimum, just enough to ensure his help.
“That wasn’t the letter he was after, Gordie,” she said.
“Eh? What the deuce are you talking about? It was in German.”
“That was Mr. Steinem’s billet-doux. The man with the gun was after a different letter.”
“The devil you say! What letter?”
“He took it away with him, the man who asked me to translate it. That intruder must have followed Mr. Lovell here, for Lovell was not gone above five minutes when he landed in.”
“And who, pray, is Mr. Lovell?”
Gordon listened, entranced, while Cathy briefly outlined the visit.
“Wouldn’t you know I would miss it!” he said when she was finished. “While I was wasting my time on irregular verbs, we had a spy calling. Thank God for that billet-doux! At least I need not feel like a traitor. But do you mean to sit there and tell me you have been translating state secrets? I don’t believe a word of it. You’ve been reading Mrs. Radcliffe again.” His eyes traveled to the sofa by the grate, where the novel lay, facedown.
“You must help me, Gordie,” she said with such a sober mien that Gordon believed her. Besides, she hadn’t enough imagination to come up with a story like this. “I must inform Mr. Lovell of that man’s visit. Lovell does not realize he is being followed. He might be killed.”
“Where can I get hold of this Lovell?” Gordon asked.
“At Whitehall. He works for the Horse Guards.”
“He is a spy, then! Why, that’s just around the corner. I can be there in two seconds.”
“Yes, we must go. I wish I had gotten a better look at the man. His shoulders were hunched up, but he was tall, I think. He was so muffled up, I saw nothing of his face except his eyes. They were close-set, and squinty.”
“Nothing of the sort. He was a short fellow. His eyes were not really close-set. It was only his squinting that made them look that way. I noticed particularly. I caught a glance at his hands when he was tightening my cravat as well. I’d recognize those ugly digits anywhere.”
“Was he wearing a ring?”
“No, but he had those short, flat fingers like Cousin Marion—as if he had ten thumbs.”
“Oh.” That, did not sound like much of a clue to identification. “Perhaps Mr. Lovell will know who he is. We must go at once.”
“You cannot think I will allow a lady to accompany me on such an errand!” he exclaimed, reverting to his father’s manner.
Allow her! She was the one who translated the letter. But emotion was not her way, and she said calmly, “You would not recognize Mr. Lovell.”
“They will steer me to him fast enough at Whitehall.”
“There is some little doubt that Lovell is his real name. The man with the gun called him Costain. I must go to identify him, for the letter was of strategic importance.”
“Really!” Gordon exclaimed. “What did it say?”
“I promised Mr. Lovell I would not tell a single soul.”
“Damme, you may tell me. I am no one—I mean, I am your brother.”
“I cannot tell even you, but it is of such vital importance that it may alter the course of the war, Gordon.”
Gordon gave a frowning “Hmmm,” but he was actually less interested in the details of the war than in having a bit of excitement. “Let us go, then, if you insist on tagging along,” he said.
“Yes—but what shall we tell Mama?”
“Why, we shall tell her we are working for king and country. She can hardly say no.”
“She will say no to me,” Cathy replied with irrefutable logic. “And besides, I was not supposed to tell anyone about the letter. I told you only because I need your help. You tell Mama I am waiting for Mr. Steinem, and will take my tea here in the office. You will have to sneak my bonnet and pelisse down to me.”
“I shall tell her I am bearing you company. She has Rodney with her to prose her ear off, so she shan’t mind. Best lock that door,” he said, and left.
Cathy hopped up and locked the door, then drew the blue velvet curtains to ensure privacy from prying eyes. She felt a thrill, to think that someone might be peeking in the windows. She hoped Mr. Steinem would not come, for she had lost both his original letter and her translation. She wrote out a rough translation as well as she could remember, to stick on the door when she left. Mr. Steinem could pick it up, free of charge.
The tea tray arrived, followed a moment later by Gordon, bearing her bonnet and pelisse. She dressed, and they went out, leaving Mr. Steinem’s note stuck to the door with a pin.
“I might very well be made a lord for this,” Gordon said as they pelted through the snow. They did not wait for a carriage, as the distance was short. “I daresay Miss Stanfield would not wipe her feet on a mere baronet.”
Gordon had his boots to keep his feet dry, but before they had gone a hundred yards, water was seeping through Cathy’s slippers and freezing her toes. The wind blew her hair and bonnet to pieces, and found its way under her pelisse. She was hardly aware of the discomfort.
In minutes she would see Mr. Lovell again, and she would gladly walk through fire or ice for his approval.
The yellow brick of Whitehall looked dingy in the fading light, but the many lighted windows gave them hope that Mr. Lovell was still there. The clock tower of the Horse Guards soon loomed ahead of them. They entered unchallenged, although a few eyebrows rose to see a young lady breach this masculine preserve.
“I am looking for a Mr. Lovell,” Gordon said in a businesslike way to the guard.
The guard scanned his list. “No Mr. Lovell here, sir. Would it be the Admiralty you want?”
“Is there a Mr. Costain?” Cathy asked.
“Lord Costain, you mean, Lord Cosgrave’s new boy? He’s here. Went dashing out a short while ago, but he was soon back. Second floor, third door on your left.”
“That’d be him,” Gordon said. “Thank you, my good man.”
As soon as they had gone beyond earshot, he said, “Dashed out and back again—bound to be our man.”
Cathy had harkened to a different matter. “He called him Lord Costain!”
“No matter. It must be him.”
“Oh, yes, I am sure it is.”
They mounted the stairs, turned left, and counted three doors. The third door was ajar; a line of light issued from beneath it. Their pace increased as they drew nearer. Cathy felt nervous but excited.
Then Gordon turned to her and said, “What if it ain’t him?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if the fellow who brought you the letter was a foreign agent posing as Costain, and you handed him over a translation of sensitive information? Are you willing to confess it, and be landed in the Tower?”
“It’s got to be him,” she said with more hope than certainty.
“Let me handle it. If it ain’t him, we’ll say it’s a case of mistaken identity, we’re looking for Mr. Costain. We’ll dart home and ask Uncle Rodney’s opinion. He’ll know what to do. Put us on to someone important who won’t throw us in the Tower when we confess what you’ve done. A bit rash of you, m’dear. You ought to have called me in sooner.”