by Joan Smith
“I know, but I seem to remember someone telling me I was a Libra. Mrs. Leonard said I was a Leo.”
“You mean she is shamming it? Why would she boast of expertise in such an idiotic thing as astrology if it is not true?”
“Perhaps because it is an idiotic thing. It half convinced me the lady is a fool. That and her near adoration of a dog.”
Cathy bit her lip. “You mean she wants us to think she is a ninnyhammer—and that suggests she is as sly as a fox. I shall ask Rodney about astrology. He knows everything. Everything perfectly useless, I mean.”
“You were angry with me for flirting with her, but it was all in the way of business, you know,” he said with a teasing smile.
“I was not angry because of that! I just felt ridiculous when you went hounding off to sit with her at dinner and foisted me onto Gordon in front of everyone. A lady has her pride, you must know.”
He lifted a lazy eyebrow. “So has a gentleman, Miss Lyman. You might at least pretend to a proper fit of pique.”
“I think you mean jealousy, milord.”
“If you insist on calling a spade a spade.”
“I do, and I insist on calling embarrassment by its proper name, not jealousy.”
“When a gentleman embarrasses a lady, he must be in error, and I apologize. I shan’t do it again.”
“That is quite all right. I realize business comes before pleasure.”
“Good. Then you do realize it would have given me more pleasure to have been your supper partner. I was never much good at paying insincere compliments. It wearies me.”
“Then why do you bother?” she snipped.
“Because Mrs. Leonard expected them.”
“Oh, Mrs. Leonard!”
“Good Lord! You didn’t think I was merely flattering you. Really, Miss Lyman, I thought we had a better understanding than that.”
As their understanding was that they went out together in the way of business, and he had no romantical interest in her, she hardly knew how to reply.
After a moment she said, “He does have a book on astrology. Uncle Rodney, I mean. I remember noticing it on the shelves. It is a horrid cheap book with a red cover, all painted with little symbols. Rams and goats and things. I shall check it this very instant. Only think, if she is shamming it, Lord Costain, then—”
She came to a frowning pause. “Then what? How could she possibly have access to any state secrets? Mr. Leonard would not be allowed to take documents from the office, surely? He would have to copy them at work, and that means he is working with her.”
“Or someone at the office is. You have not forgotten Mr. Burack, who tried to pump you for news, and so carefully avoided the lady all evening? There are other gentlemen as well. I only mention Mr. Burack, as you know him.”
“It will be best for Gordon to continue watching Mrs. Leonard. If you are not a Leo, I mean,” she added, and laughed that so important a matter should hang by such a slender thread.
“You must let me know my sign tomorrow. I shall drop by in the afternoon, if I may? Say about four, just in time for tea.”
“Mama will like that,” she said unthinkingly.
Costain was a little surprised that Miss Lyman did not show greater pleasure. But then, he had gone out of his way to let her know there was nothing serious between them, so he had to pretend to approve her lack of enthusiasm.
He opened the door and she went in with a casual wave, “I don’t have to bother with the formality of assuring you I had a delightful evening, do I?”
“Certainly not, ma’am. That is one of the few perquisites of our position. We need not pretend to nonexistent pleasure. In the interest of dispassionate truth, however, I should like to say that I enjoyed myself.”
“Tell Mrs. Leonard,” she said, and closed the door with a quizzing smile, while Costain frowned in dissatisfaction.
That was not what he meant! That was not his meaning at all. He enjoyed Miss Lyman’s company. It was unusual to be with a young lady who was not constantly throwing her bonnet at him. She was peeved that he had deserted her for dinner in front of the crowd, and who could blame her? It was a farouche thing for him to have done. Any other lady would have been in the boughs for hours.
Miss Lyman merely told him he had made her feel awkward, and that was an end of it. When he tried to flirt a little to make up for the lapse, she paid not the slightest heed. She was thinking of the case all the while, as he ought to have been doing himself.
Mrs. Leonard ... Was that a lead worth following? If she was wangling state secrets from someone, he doubted very much it was her husband. Mr. Burack was more like it. And if she was using an affair with him to discover secrets, might she not be interested in another channel into the Horse Guards as well?
His mind skimmed lightly over various possibilities until Gordon’s carriage was heard approaching, at which time he got out of his rig and went to meet him.
“Oh, you’re still here, Costain. Waiting for me, are you?”
“I want to ask you something. Did Mrs. Leonard stand up with Burack after I left?”
“No, she left shortly after you. Now that you mention it, though, he left soon after her.”
“I see!”
“You think there is something between them?”
“It’s possible.”
“So, who am I to follow tomorrow?”
“Mrs. Leonard, and do it discreetly. She has seen you with Cathy now, and she knows I am Cathy’s friend. We don’t want her getting any ideas of collusion.”
“I shall hire a hansom cab to loiter at the corner of Half Moon Street and follow her if she leaves. Naturally I shall wear a new disguise as well. I’ll get into the attic and dig out a beard and some old clothes. And spectacles. We used to have some dandy plays when Papa was alive. How shall I contact you if I am not to go to your office?”
“I shall be coming for tea tomorrow. Can you be here at four?”
“I shall, if Mrs. Leonard is behaving herself. If I am hot on her trail, I shall try to get a note to you.”
“Excellent. I appreciate your help.”
“It was me who put you on to Mrs. Leonard,” he said modestly, forgetting who had originally suggested watching her. “Daresay you might not have tumbled to her in a dog’s age.”
“I believe Cathy is waiting for you inside. Ask her about Leo,” he said with an air of mystery that he thought would appeal to young Lyman.
“Is that our code word for Mrs. Leonard?”
“No, for Costain.”
“Eh?”
Costain winked, tipped his hat, and got into his carriage.
Gordon was not slow in darting into the house to speak to Cathy.
Chapter Seven
Gordon strode into the study and peered around the room to ensure they were alone. “What have you got to tell me about Leo?” he asked in sepulchral accents.
Cathy looked up from the book she was perusing and said triumphantly, “He is not a Leo at all; he is a Libra. You know what that means!”
Gordon hadn’t the slightest notion what she was talking about, but tried to make sense of it. After a frowning pause he said, “Are you telling me Lord Costain is not Lord Costain? Who the devil is he? Ah-ha! Lovell!”
“Of course he is Lord Costain, Gordon, but he was born in October.”
“October, eh? Er, what of it? I mean to say—”
“It means he is not a Leo.”
“What is his Christian name, then, and what difference does it make anyhow?”
She explained the situation and Gordon soon understood her point. “So Mrs. Leonard is puffing herself off as an astrologer when it is nothing of the sort. I wonder now, is May actually a Taurus?” he asked suspiciously.
“Yes, if the dog was born in May, as she says, it is a Taurus, and so, one must assume, is Mrs. Leonard. Not that it matters. Someone probably told her she was a Taurus. I know I am a Gemini, though I have no interest at all in astrology. One knows these things.
She told that story only to make us think she was a goosecap.”
“One thing she did not lie about was her fondness for the demmed dog. It goes everywhere with her, nipping at pedestrians and squealing its dashed head off. She has made it a fur coat and a toque—a French hat,” he added as this occurred to him.
After more discussion of Mrs. Leonard’s slyness, Cathy asked how matters had gone with Miss Stanfield, and Gordon announced stoically that he had refused an invitation to tea the next afternoon. “Well, as good as an invitation. I was standing right beside Lord Harcourt when she invited him, and she looked at me, too. I feared she would not like it above half when I told her I was busy, but I think my refusal piqued her interest. She invited me to call one day soon. I told her I am pretty busy. I mean to say, I cannot go calling in a wig and rusty old suit. Leo wants me to wear a disguise. It is a good notion to refer to Costain as Leo, just between ourselves.”
“He is not a Leo; he is a Libra.”
“Dash it, you can’t call a fellow Libra. That ain’t a name. Anyone listening would suspect a trick straight off. What is my sign? I was born the end of November.”
“Sagittarius,” Cathy told him after glancing at the book.
“That’s out. I’ll be demmed if I’ll have anyone calling me Sagittarius.”
They soon went upstairs. Lady Lyman was an early retirer. She did not receive an account of the rout until the next morning at breakfast. She was satisfied with the outing, and more than satisfied to learn that Lord Costain would come to tea that afternoon. When she began to speak of a June wedding, Cathy informed her that Costain planned to return to the Peninsula as soon as possible, and turned the conversation to Mrs. Leonard.
“Do you know anything about her, Mama?” she asked.
“What was her maiden name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must remember, dear, my memories are some years old. Very likely she was still a Miss when I knew her. I do not recall a Mrs. Leonard.”
“She is about thirty-five, so she would perhaps have been making her bows when you were in London.” She described the lady, but Lady Lyman declared that she had known a dozen young brunette beauties.
“If you can discover her maiden name, no doubt I shall be able to help you. Meanwhile I shall inquire for a Mrs. Leonard of my friends. If she is anyone, someone will know her. Now, about you and Costain, my dear. As he plans to return to Spain, we must think in terms of a winter wedding. He will want to ensure having a child on the way before leaving. You must come home for your accouchement, Cathy. That explains his interest in you. I thought it rather odd, but he is in a rush, poor lad. I do hope he returns safely from Spain. And in case he does not, you must have a son. A daughter is no good to you. She will not inherit Pargeter. You do not want to be stuck in a Dower House.”
“I don’t believe he plans to marry before leaving, Mama,” Cathy said.
“Very properly said, my dear. A lady never thinks she is being courted until she has received her proposal. Do you think—a small wedding, or a large one?”
“Let us not make any plans at all, Mama.”
Lady Lyman nodded her agreement. “A quiet wedding, then. Perhaps that is best, considering the season. One cannot like to ask guests to travel over icy roads. I do hope the duke and duchess will come!”
“No plans, Mama. I have promised Uncle Rodney to make a fair copy of chapter five,” Cathy said, and escaped to the study.
Uncle Rodney was not yet out of bed, which allowed Gordon to use his office to transform himself into an elderly man with a gray beard, spectacles, a rusty old black coat, and his uncle Rodney’s blackthorn walking stick.
“I would not recognize you in a million years,” Cathy said when he doddered out, tapping the floor with his cane, as if checking his path for impediments. “Can you see with those spectacles? They make your eyes look huge.”
“I have to lift ‘em up to see,” he said. “I tried on that old pinch-nez of Papa’s, but it kept falling off, and with the walking stick in one hand, it was too much bother. Wouldn’t I love to call on Charlie Edison in this getup!”
“Will you be home at four to meet Lord Costain?”
“Of course I shall. It’s me he’s coming to see. He most particularly asked me to be here.”
Cathy accepted this with apparent good humor. What did she think, that Costain was coming to pay court to her? She set about the tedious chore of writing a fair copy of her uncle’s translation of Schiller. It was heavy going, and virtually meaningless to her. The only sound in the study was the scratching of her pen, and the low, steady wind howling through the streets. Occasionally the wind would find a handful of leaves uncovered by the snow, and hurl them against the window, causing a momentary panic.
She wrote all morning without other interruption, and was happy when a caller stopped by in the afternoon. Mr. Holmes was a regular customer. He was translating a book of poetry, Les Jardins by Jacques Delille, from French into English. His own French was spotty. He wanted the exact literal translation, which he would put into poetical language.
At a quarter to four she was interrupted by another tap on the door. When she opened it, Lord Costain was blown in on a gust of wind. His nose was red, his cheeks were rosy, and his dark eyes gleamed with youthful spirit and health.
“What a day! One would think we were in Canada. I pity poor Gordon his vigil.” He wiped his feet on the mat and came into the warmly inviting study. A cozy fire blazed in the grate. A welter of books lay open on tables and shelves. “I hoped you might be here. We can have a private word before joining your mama. How cozy you look, Miss Lyman, with the signs of your profession scattered about you.”
She put a finger to her lips. “Uncle Rodney is in his office. I’ll close the door.” She did this as Costain removed his outer garment.
“Who is there? Is it for me?” Rodney asked.
“No, Uncle. It is a friend of mine. I shall close your door so we don’t disturb you.”
“Is it not time for tea yet?”
“Very soon,” she said, drawing the door shut.
When she returned, Costain had taken up the book of French verses left by the poet. “French verse,” he said, lifting his delicate brows in surprise. “Somehow that surprises me. I did not take you for a romantical lady.”
“We cannot all be romantics. I am translating it for a client,” she said, damping down a sting of resentment.
“Is there a bluestocking hiding beneath that charming gown, Miss Lyman?” he asked lightly.
“Certainly not. One wears woolen hosiery in such dreadful weather as this, and it does not come in the lively colors of silken hosiery.”
“You take me too literally.”
“I know what you meant. I am no Bluestocking. I give only a rough literal translation. It will be for my client to polish it into a gem worthy of study.”
“May I?” he asked, taking up her translation and glancing at it. He read it slowly, with an occasional nod of appreciation. “I should take a close look at the translation when it comes out if I were you. You have used some elegant similes here.”
“No, Monsieur Delille used them. I have only translated,” she insisted, but she felt a glow of pleasure at his praise. She picked up the book on astrology and opened it to show Costain.
“Shall we sit by the fire and be comfortable?” he suggested. Taking the book, he led her to the sofa.
“When is your birthday, milord?” she asked.
“The thirteenth of October. You are too late, to buy me a present this year. But next year, if we are still—friends—you might send me a trinket to the Peninsula. A block of ice, perhaps. That would be appreciated there. But I see you becoming impatient with my nonsense. It serves me right for trying to cadge a gift from you. Am I a Leo?”
“Certainly not. You are a Libra, sir. And Mrs. Leonard is a sly minx,” she declared.
“Let us temper our ire with common sense. Perhaps she is just a lady with tha
t dangerous thing Pope warns us of—a little learning. Was your mama able to tell you anything about her?”
“Not yet. She will make inquiries among her friends. Is there anything new at the Horse Guards?”
“Mr. Leonard is back at work. I discovered his wife’s name is Helena. I mentioned having met her last night, you know. After a little discreet hinting, I discovered they have been married only a few years. Both have been married before. He is as proud of her as if she were a queen. He just shakes his poor grizzled head and says he doesn’t know what she saw in him. No more do I, nor anyone else with an eye in his head.”
“Mama asked me to discover her maiden name if possible.”
“I shall try and see if I can discover it.”
“Is your acquaintance with Mr. Leonard intimate enough that you could hint about the source of her jewelry?”
“No, but he implied that her first husband had deeper pockets than he has himself. Perhaps he was the supplier of diamond brooches and pearl necklaces.”
“No name was given for this first husband, either?”
“I am feeling my way into the territory carefully. One cannot crop out into an interrogation too quickly without sounding suspiciously curious.”
She nodded. After a short pause she asked, “Is Mr. Burack behaving himself?”
He cast a knowing glance at her. “I wondered how long it would take you to inquire for him. I caught him in my office, ostensibly looking for a copy of a letter to Cosgrave from the Admiralty. He surely knows how unlikely it is that I would have been given such a thing. As a translator, you will realize that is French for telling you he was looking for something else.”
She sat a moment, thinking, then said, “As he realizes you are not given access to sensitive information, perhaps he was searching for a billet-doux to—or from—Mrs. Leonard,” she suggested with an innocent look. “If he is her beau, and the source of her income, he might be jealous of you.”
“We are calling this spade by its proper name, I see. It could be that. I have a different idea. I received a personal letter from Spain today, from a military friend, asking after my health. Burack might have seen the frank, or he might have learned from the mail boy that I had received it. I don’t usually receive personal mail at work, but I had written to my friend some time ago of Castlereagh’s offer, and that I planned to accept.”