by Joan Smith
Cathy’s heart was in her throat as Gordon tapped lightly on the door.
Chapter Three
“Come in,” an authoritative voice called. His voice.
Cathy’s smile told Gordon all was well. He pushed the door open and ushered her in. “I am Sir Gordon Lyman,” he said, stepping forward and performing a ceremonial bow. “Have I the honor of addressing Lord Costain?”
Costain’s eyes flew over his shoulder to Cathy. She read in them a mixture of astonishment, anger, and accusation. Before he could speak, she flew forward.
“The worst thing has happened, Mr. Lovell! Er, Lord Costain.”
“How did you discover my name?”
“The guard downstairs told us there was no Mr. Lovell, but there was a Lord Costain.”
“You must do better than that, Miss Lyman,” he said, closing the door and staring at her in a vaguely threatening way. “It is unlikely the guard would leap from Mr. Lovell to Lord Costain with no additional clues.”
“It was the man with the gun who called you Costain,” she said.
“Gun? What man?” he demanded.
“The man who came to my office and demanded the letter you had brought me for translation. He must have thought it was a longer letter, that would require considerable time. That I still had it, I mean.”
“Good God! Are you all right? He didn’t harm you?”
“I am fine,” she said, pleased at his concern.
“I am most sincerely sorry to have involved you in this, Miss Lyman. The man—can you describe him?”
“Not very well, for he was all muffled up, but he was tall, with close-set eyes.”
“Short, with ordinary eyes, only he was squinting,” Gordon amended, “and he had stubby, spatulate fingers.”
“He looked tall to me,” Cathy insisted.
“That is because you’re a squab,” her brother informed her.
Costain looked from one to the other in forgivable confusion. “You had best have a seat,” he said. His worst fear had come home to roost. The hotheaded young brother was now in on the secret.
It was some quarter of an hour before the matter was fully revealed. “And that is why I had to tell Gordon, for I wanted to let you know at once that you were being followed, and I could not come out alone at night,” Cathy concluded.
Costain paced to and fro, with one hand shading his brow to aid concentration. “Who could this man be?” Their description added nothing but confusion to the matter. He was tall and short, with close-set, squinty, ordinary eyes and short fingers. “He must have followed me from this building. I wonder if Cosgrave is having me followed.”
“Lord Cosgrave?” Gordon asked. His questioning face told his opinion of this.
“Yes, he is my immediate superior.”
Gordon rose at once. “I see. Well, we’d best be running along, then. All set, Cathy?”
Costain knew he had lost the young man’s trust. Common sense told him the youngster’s next move would be to inform Cosgrave of the whole business. He set himself to the task of charming them, and when Lord Costain decided to charm, he could bring the birds from the trees.
“You must allow me a few minutes to enlarge on the situation,” he said. “Now that I have found such willing and able cohorts, I see I must tell you everything—on the understanding that it is strictly classified information. A glass of sherry, perhaps? His Grace sent me a few cases from Northland Abbey. You are perhaps familiar with the Duke of Halford, my father?”
As he spoke, he went to a cupboard and brought out a silver tray holding crystal glasses and sherry. Gordon hesitated. The words willing and able cohorts and classified information reeled in his head. Cathy gave a mental goggle at the casual mention of the duke, and fabled Northland, one of the finest estates in Kent. Even Mama would not object when she learned Mr. Lovell was the son of a duke.
“Perhaps a quick glass,” Gordon said, and resumed his seat. “We missed out on our tea. Not that I am complaining! Though there were hot scones and raspberry jam.”
“I used to like tea, but I gained a taste for sherry when I was in the Peninsula,” Costain said. He meant to throw in everything that might impress the young fellow.
“You were in the Peninsula?” Gordon asked.
Cathy was a little disappointed in her hero. He was beginning to sound like a common, garden-variety braggart.
“The third son of the Halfords traditionally joins the army. I was sent home with a ball in the leg. Badajos,” he said modestly.
“By Jove! What can we do to help you, Lord Costain?”
Costain trod a narrow path. It took him another quarter of an hour to convince the youngsters that they must not say a word to anyone, without giving them the notion Cosgrave was a traitor. He could not quite trust Gordon to act with propriety. He stressed the importance of secrecy, and of consulting with himself before doing anything.
“The very walls have ears,” he said, glancing at the closed door. “It will not be safe for us to meet here. I shall call on you to arrange such matters as require your assistance.”
“P’raps I could go with you tonight,” Gordon said.
Costain blinked in confusion. “Go where?”
“Why, to the assignation. The letter Cathy gave the intruder set up a rendezvous at the southwest corner of St. James’s Park at midnight. Since he thinks it is a code or some such thing, it stands to reason he will be there, don’t it?”
“But if it is a code, then St. James’s Park does not mean St. James’s Park, and midnight does not mean midnight.”
“Yes, well, he’ll soon figure out it ain’t exactly a code, and think it is a secret meeting instead. He will be there, depend upon it.”
“You just might be right,” Costain said with a tinge of respect. “But I shall not require your assistance tonight, Sir Gordon.”
“What is my job tonight?” Gordon asked eagerly.
“It would be best if you circulate through the drawing rooms of London as broadly as possible, and see if you can recognize your intruder. One never knows, you might recognize him by the eyes, or the, er—thumbs.”
“But I can do that anytime.”
“The sooner you get a start on it, the better.”
“Yes, but in this howling storm, the attendance at parties will be limited.”
“It takes more than a snowstorm to slow the Frenchies. Are we English to trail them in the pursuit of duty?”
“No, by gad. I shall go out if I have to take a shovel with me to clear my way.”
Miss Lyman, Costain observed, was looking at him askance. She also had to be conciliated. “I trust you have not forgotten I am to call on you this evening, ma’am?”
“No, I have not forgotten.”
“Will nine o’clock be convenient? I promise I shan’t stay long.”
“Stay as long as you like, Lord Costain,” Gordon said. “I shall run along to my club for dinner, and see if I recognize the intruder.”
Gordon was loathe to leave the office, but there were matters to attend to. He had to make some excuse to Mama for going out to dinner on such a night, and he wished to rag his valet into trying that dandy cravat knot Lord Costain was wearing. He set down his glass and rose. “Well, are you all set, Cathy?”
“Yes.” She joined him. “I look forward to seeing you this evening, milord.”
Costain took her hand and smiled into her eyes. “The hours will go on crutches until we meet again.”
They left. Little conversation was exchanged during the walk home. It was not the wind whipping their coats and whistling in their ears that inhibited talk. Each was wrapped up in private reveries.
* * *
Costain sunk into his chair and stared glumly at their empty glasses. What had he done? He had saddled himself with a pair of youngsters who might take into their heads to tell the world of their great spying career if he did not keep a tight rein on them.
Honesty required him to admit, however, that it was entir
ely his own fault. It was he who had catapulted them into danger, and it was he who must ensure their safety as well as their discretion. He allowed they had been helpful thus far. It was kind of Miss Lyman to let him know he had been followed. Who could it be?
Burack, the quiet man who occupied the office next to his own, and made such a parade of performing his job with efficiency? Or was it Cosgrave’s right-hand man, Harold Leonard, hired especially by Cosgrave for the job? Or was it a genuine French spy, as the Lymans thought? The French might have been following Jones, seen him come to the translation service, and kept an eye on anyone leaving immediately after. He would drop around at St. James’s Park at midnight to see if anyone showed up, though he did not think it at all likely.
* * *
On King Charles Street, Lady Lyman was in a decided pelter. Her offsprings’ absence had been discovered, and she was waiting for them in her comfortable chair by the grate when they returned. Her cap of gray lace jiggled with annoyance. The same emotion drew her full face into an expression of petulance.
“Darting out without telling me, with the wind howling and the snow coming down in buckets. You have totally destroyed those good slippers, Cathy, to say nothing of wasting a very good tea. What was so important it could not wait?”
“Told you,” Gordon said. “An accident at the corner. A rig overturned. I cannot imagine you did not hear it. You must be deaf as a doornail, Mama. If that team ain’t lamed, it is more than I know.”
“I knew there would be an accident sooner or later,” Lady Lyman said with satisfaction. “It is a shame the way drivers are allowed to careen about the streets. You’d best run up and dress for dinner, the pair of you.”
“I will be eating out tonight, Mama,” Gordon said. “Met a school chum—he was looking at the accident, too. The whole world was there—the ghouls.”
“We also met Lord Costain,” Cathy said. “He asked if he might drop in this evening.”
The word Lord had a benign effect on Lady Lyman’s mood. “Ah! Now, who, exactly, is Lord Costain? The name is not familiar. An earl, or a marquess?” She looked to her son, assuming the acquaintance had been made through him.
“A baron. The Duke of Halford’s third son. He was in the Peninsula.”
“The Duke of Halford’s son?” She nearly jumped from her chair in delight. “Why did you not say so? What time is he coming? Cathy, run up and have Margold do something with your hair. You look for the world as if you had been on a sailing ship. Gordon, I did not know you knew Lord Costain. How did you meet him?”
“Why, you may meet him anywhere.”
“Yes, but where?”
Cathy escaped gratefully upstairs, and left Gordon to invent an answer. She selected her toilette with care. It was not for the family that she chose her most flattering gown of pomona green sarsenet with the ruched skirt and put on her small emerald necklace, usually worn only to balls. She knew perfectly well she had no hope of attaching such a dasher as Lord Costain. Indeed, she had decided not to fall in love with him. He was too boastful to please her, but he was a handsome, eligible parti, and she wished to make a good impression.
Margold, her dresser and her mama’s, dried her curls and arranged them en corbeille, with a green ribbon to set off their chestnut gleam. She took up a fringed paisley shawl and went below.
“Very nice, dear,” her mother said, running a practiced eye over her daughter’s toilette. “Does she not look handsome, Rodney?”
Rodney lifted his white head from the latest journal and harrumphed what might have been agreement. What he was really interested in was his dinner. The aroma of mutton filled the house. Food and drink were the sole sensual pleasures left to him, and even a scholar needed some sensual stimulation. “Did Steinem pick up his letter?” he asked Cathy.
“Yes, Uncle.” It had been removed from the door when she and Gordon returned. As there was a half crown on the doorstep, she assumed Mr. Steinem had left it in payment.
Debrett’s Peerage occupied the place of honor at Lady Lyman’s right hand during dinner. She consulted it to discover what she could of the Halfords. She was flattered that Lord Costain claimed an acquaintance with the family, and concluded that it was his mama who had given him the notion. She was a Lady Mary Spencer before marriage. Lady Lyman had made her bows with a Lady Margaret Spencer, who was likely her sister.
Before Lord Costain arrived at nine-thirty, Lady Lyman was deep into plans for a small rout to celebrate the Christmas season and entrap Lord Costain, and Miss Lyman was on nettles. Cathy’s body tensed like a coil when the door knocker sounded. And when Lord Costain was shown in, she admitted once and for all that she had never seen anyone so handsome. She had not thought it possible he could look better than he had that afternoon in his office, but she realized she was mistaken. The charm of immaculate linen against his swarthy complexion, the flush of rose in his cheeks from the weather, and the excellent tailoring of his black suit raised him a notch higher.
He glided forward, directing one quick smile at her before making a graceful bow to Lady Lyman and her brother, Rodney Reynolds.
“Have a seat, Lord Costain,” the mother said. “What a frightful night for you to come out. Not the weather you were used to in the Peninsula.”
“But a welcome change. In Spain one misses the snow. It is letting up now. In fact, the moon has peeped out, suggesting the storm has passed.”
Lady Lyman cared no more for the weather than she cared for geometry. “How is your dear mama?” she asked. As she spoke, her hand yanked the bell-pull to summon her butler, who was asked to bring tea at once, for Lord Costain was perishing with the cold.
The leaping flames in the grate were more likely to melt than freeze him, but he was happy to be accepted with no hard questions. He knew, of course, that it was his eligibility and Miss Lyman’s single state that paved his way. Another fine line to be trod.
When Lady Lyman said she would just remove a little from the grate and have a word with Rodney, Costain read her like a book. She wished to allow him privacy with Miss Lyman. As this was necessary, however, he smiled and rose to assist her with her shawl.
When he sat down again, he sat in the chair next to Miss Lyman, She leaned forward and said conspiratorially, “Gordon is out on the town, as you suggested. Have you learned anything of the mysterious intruder?”
“Not yet, but I shall keep the midnight rendezvous. You haven’t mentioned all this to anyone?”
“No indeed! You may count on my complete confidence.”
“I knew I might,” he said, feigning a glow of admiration. He had no wish to discuss his business with a lay person, and subtly switched to other matters.
“What do you do when you are not engaged in espionage, Miss Lyman?” he asked with a bantering smile.
“I help Uncle with some of the simpler translations, and make a fair copy of a book he is translating. I am studying Italian, for when Gordon is sent to Italy—after he joins the diplomatic service, I mean—I shall be his hostess.”
“Ah, Sir Gordon plans a diplomatic career, does he?” God help England, he said to himself.
“Yes, like Papa.”
“Surely the study of Italian does not occupy all your time? What I was actually inquiring for was your amusements.”
“The usual things,” she said vaguely. “Parties, you know, and the theater, novels, and poetry.”
He recalled Castlereagh’s comment that she lived in a retired way, and felt that a further query on her reading would be the better tack to take. “A devotee of Byron, I expect?” he asked.
“No, he is too full of alarums and excursions for my taste. I prefer Mrs. Radcliffe.”
“I had not thought she took a backseat to anyone in the area of alarums and excursions!” he said, and laughed.
“Yes, but her incredible tales are at least—” She came to a frowning pause.
“Credible?” he suggested.
“Not precisely, but I can put myself in the her
oine’s place, for she is a girl, whereas Byron’s heroes are too grandiose for me. They are more like you,” she said, much struck with this comparison.
“Grandiose! There is a facer for me! Upon my word, you are hard on me, ma’am.”
“Indeed, I did not mean to offend you, milord,” Cathy said, blushing prettily. “I was referring to your having been to Spain, and your title.”
Costain studied her a moment. “Surely that does not earn me the opprobrium of being grandiose. I think you are referring to my boasting of them this afternoon, Miss Lyman. It was ill done, but I was concerned about your brother. I wanted only to ensure his going along with me.”
Cathy considered it a moment, and said, “Yes, he is young and foolish enough to be impressed by such things.”
“Whereas you are much too ancient to be impressed by my grandiosity,” he said with a teasing look. “I have not observed any silver threads in your Titian curls. At what age does a young lady rise above such folly?”
“I expect that depends on the lady.”
“And on her background. I understand you have traveled abroad?”
“I was taken abroad when I was too young to appreciate it. Now that I am old enough, I—” She came to a halt, wondering how she had been drawn into this personal sort of conversation. “But we were speaking of more important matters. I want to assure you I will always be available for any job you have for me. Gordon and I have been talking— in private, of course. We think the likeliest place to see our intruder is at the Horse Guards, so we shall walk past it several times tomorrow. We shall not go in, as you do not think it wise, but as we live nearby, it will be unexceptional to walk past early in the morning, when the workers are arriving, and at noon hour, when they are leaving, and again at the day’s end.”
Costain saw the subject was not to be avoided so easily as he had hoped. He also saw that his helpers planned to pester the life out of him. “Perhaps it would be best if you went in the carriage. The intruder would certainly recognize you, even if you did not recognize him. He would be suspicious to see you loitering about. Just a quick dash past at the hours you mentioned will suffice.”