by Joan Smith
“And you think Burack mistook the letter for a business matter. Was it in your office?”
“No, I put it in my pocket, to take home and write an answer this evening. I didn’t mention the letter to him at all. If he knows of it, it was because he is very much on the qui vive as to what passes in the office. Such devotion to one’s work is uncommon. Especially at the Horse Guards,” he added with a weary look.
“You look fagged, Costain. Perhaps you are overexerting yourself. You need your tea.”
It was so cozy by the grate, and so pleasant being cosseted a little by Cathy, that Costain was reluctant to leave. “I don’t suppose we could have the tray brought in here?” He watched as her eyes widened in dismay. “Was that very indiscreet of me? I meant no harm—your uncle is right next door.”
“It—it is just that Mama has prepared things in the other room,” she said, feeling foolish. Her mama considered this tea party a great occasion, and had taken pains with it. Cathy’s own inclination was to remain exactly where they were, with her uncle’s door closed. “I shall call Uncle, and we’ll all go in together.”
Costain looked at his hat and coat but left them where they were. It occurred to Cathy that he would have to return here before leaving, but it never entered her modest head that he left them where they were on purpose to be alone with her.
She tapped on Rodney’s door and he came out. “Ah, Lord Costain, come calling on our Cathy again, eh?” He said no more, but the roguish shake of his head denoted total understanding and approval. “I hope Cook has made her hot scones,” he said. “There is nothing like a hot scone on such a day as this.”
He looked in vain for his hot scones. To impress Cathy’s beau, Lady Lyman had arranged a formal lunch of cold meat and cheese and bread. It was taken not before the warm grate, but in the drafty dining room, with every spare servant in the house standing ready to pass plates and fill cups.
The dark paneling in the room absorbed the last rays of sunlight at the windows, and the lamps were placed so highly on the wall that they scarcely reached the dining board. It was like eating in a cave. The conversation, consisting mostly of probing questions from Lady Lyman and vague replies by Costain, was stilted.
There were two themes to vary the conversation. Lady Lyman occasionally gave a tsk of annoyance and wondered where Gordon had gone on such a wretched, cold day. At regular intervals Rodney regretted the absence of hot scones.
As the room was so chilly, they took their tea to the saloon to finish up there. As soon as decently possible after tea, Costain rose to take his leave. “Why don’t you see Lord Costain to the door, Cathy?” Lady Lyman suggested with an arch look.
She accompanied him from the saloon and into the study. “I must apologize for Mama’s curiosity,” she said, trying to sound calm.
“I am accustomed to the rampant curiosity of mamas,” he replied. “It is her other concern that also concerns me. Where the devil is Gordon? He was supposed to meet me here at four.”
Before Costain had put on his greatcoat, the door flew open and an elderly gentleman wearing a gray beard and spectacles staggered in. His spectacles were frosted from the weather to further impede vision, and he tripped over the edge of the carpet.
“Is that you, Leo?” he asked, and ripped off the spectacles.
“What kept you?” Costain asked.
“You’d best have a seat, for what I have discovered will knock you over,” Gordon announced.
Casting off his outer garments, he sank gratefully onto the sofa before the fire to regain his breath before opening his budget.
Chapter Eight
As soon as he had recovered his breath, Gordon rose, swelling with triumph. “Mrs. Leonard has a French lover,” he announced, and waited for praise that did not come. Were it not for Cathy’s gasp of surprise, his stunning announcement would have fallen flat. Lord Costain’s eyebrows may have risen marginally, but they were well-arched brows, and the motion was hardly sufficient to reward Gordon for his effort.
“Are you sure he is French?” Costain asked.
“If he is not a Frenchie, it is more than I know, for she met him in rooms above the French milliner’s shop.”
“How do you know? Did you follow her into the shop?” Cathy asked.
“After cooling my heels for twenty minutes after she went inside, I went to the window and peered in—with those curst spectacles off. I could see plain as glass she wasn’t in there, so I went in, pretending I wanted a bonnet for my granddaughter. I had to buy you a bonnet, Cathy.”
“What is it like?” she asked with considerable interest.
“An ugly old black round bonnet, the cheapest thing Mademoiselle had in her shop, which don’t mean it was cheap. Decked out with a black veil, it will do for a funeral. I had to buy something for an excuse to linger. I can say for a certainty Mrs. Leonard was not there.”
“Are you quite certain she didn’t suspect you were following her, Gordon?” Costain asked. “If she was aware of it, she may have gone in by the milliner’s front door and out the back to evade you.”
“I am dashed certain of it. I followed her only a few blocks. She did not leave her house until two o’clock, and she went straight to Dutroit’s. She did not spot my hansom cab in the morning, for I used a hundred ruses to fool her. Parked it at the corner where she could not see it, and drove around from time to time. Around noon I even changed carriages. Why would she feel it necessary to evade me if she were not up to something suspicious?”
“She was obviously evading you,” Costain conceded, “but that does not necessarily mean she is a spy. An adulterous wife usually takes some pains to keep her secret. If this is her regular way of carrying on, she might fear that her husband is having her followed. Not that Mr. Leonard seems a suspicious sort,” he added pensively.
“Perhaps the wife of her lover is having her followed,” Cathy suggested.
Costain smiled his approval. “Trust a lady to think of that. You didn’t get a look at the man she met?” he asked, turning to Gordon.
“No, but when it got to be four o’clock and they had still not come out, and I had this appointment with you, I left the carriage and went to the rear of the shop, looking for a back door. A hired hansom cab was just leaving. I could not like to run after it and show them I was not an old man, so I just watched it fly away, but Mrs. Leonard was in it with a man. I know it was her even if I didn’t see her face, for she was wearing the red bonnet with the black ribbon. Daresay she was planning to meet up with her own carriage somewhere else and drive home nice as a nun with another new bonnet. I dashed straight home to report to you, Leo. Oh, and the man was fattish.”
“You have done excellent work, Lyman,” Costain said. But common sense told him that if Mrs. Leonard had a lover, it probably had nothing to do with the business at the Horse Guards. She was a youngish, attractive lady married to an older man. Adultery, in such cases, was not uncommon. No doubt they would eventually discover her marriage had been arranged by her family against her wishes.
“I shall keep on her trail and see if I can get a closer look at the man next time,” Gordon said. “Pity he drove a hired hack, or I might have recognized his prads. I recognize most of the teams around town.”
“Best change your disguise, in case she saw you behind the shop when they were leaving,” Costain mentioned.
“That’ll be a relief,” Gordon said with great feeling. “I shan’t be an old man next time. I might be a footman. One sees them everywhere. They are as common as belly buttons.”
Cathy said, “What you should be is a woman, then you could loiter about such places as milliner’s shops without exciting curiosity.”
“If you think I am going to be seen in public in a dress, let me tell you, you have another think coming! How would you like it?”
“I would like it fine.” Cathy laughed. “What you probably mean is how would I like to be seen in public in trousers. I shouldn’t mind that, either. If you did pos
e as a lady, you could wear that round bonnet you bought. I don’t want it. Where is it, by the bye?”
“Why it’s--” He looked all around. “Demme, I must have left it in the hansom cab. Pity.” He turned to Costain. “Have you discovered anything of interest, Costain?”
Costain mentioned Burack’s search of his desk.
“I shouldn’t be in the least surprised if it was Burack that Mrs. Leonard was meeting, with his coat stuffed to look fat.”
“I would be very much surprised,” Costain said. “He did not leave the office. Cosgrave was out at a meeting or some such thing, and Burack was in his office, working on his correspondence from two to four, when I left.”
“And besides, Burack is not French,” Cathy pointed out.
“He don’t admit to being French,” Gordon said. When this received a jaundiced look, he thought it best to drop the matter. “What are we doing tonight, Costain?” he inquired.
Society was thin in winter. Costain could not think of anyplace they might all go. Bearing in mind Lady Lyman’s pressing questions, it seemed wise not to dance attendance on Cathy too assiduously.
“We have all earned a respite,” he said, looking at Cathy.
She made the effort to accept it in good spirits. “That will give me an opportunity to catch up on my correspondence,” she said.
“I daresay Mrs. Leonard is not brass-faced enough to be meeting her lover when her husband is at home,” Gordon said. “I shall go to my club this evening, and keep a sharp eye out for those flat thumbs and squinty eyes while I am about it. Will you call at the same time tomorrow to receive my report, Costain?”
Costain knew the ineligibility of popping up each day for tea. “I shall be in touch, perhaps by letter,” he said.
“But what if something urgent arises?” Gordon asked. “I mean to say, you don’t want me running to you, and since that weasel of a Burack is reading your correspondence, I daresay you don’t want me to write, either.”
“Why don’t I stop in for a moment after tea tomorrow on my way home?” he suggested. “I shall come here, to the office, to avoid disturbing the family.”
His expression was politely bland, but Cathy easily read his thinking. “He is afraid of falling into parson’s mousetrap,” she said to herself. “You can meet Lord Costain here, Gordon,” she said, to show him she had no intention of hounding him.
No one objected, and Costain soon took his leave. Gordon was peeved at Leo’s lack of enthusiasm for his hard day’s work and magnificent discovery.
“I don’t think Leo appreciates what I have stumbled into,” he grumbled. “A fellow like Costain—all he has on his mind is adultery. He never batted an eye at that woman’s carrying on. You don’t want to have too much to do with the likes of him, Cathy. Very wise, the way you arranged for me to meet him here tomorrow afternoon.”
Cathy sighed and gazed into the grate. “You are right, Gordon. He doesn’t care for me in the least.”
“Damme, don’t wheeze and mope like that. We will nab you a husband when I go to Italy. If I go to Italy,” he added. “I have been thinking, this sort of work suits me down to the heels. After I’ve gotten Mrs. Leonard and her friends behind bars, I may speak to Cosgrave about a regular position.”
“And then how shall I find a husband?” she asked. “I wish—oh, I wish we went out more. It was so pleasant at Lady Martin’s assembly last night. It reminded me of the old days, when Papa was alive.”
Gordon was feeling derelict at canceling the Italian plan. It was demmed hard on Cathy, sitting home with Mama and Rodney and their old cronies, when she was not quite over the hill yet. He really ought to make a bit of a push to land her a fellow, or she’d end up battening herself on him and Miss Stanfield when they got married.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I shan’t go to the club tonight after all. You and I shall go out on the town.”
“Are you invited to any dos?” she asked hopefully, for Gordon had a more active social life than she.
“There are no dos worth going to in the dead of winter, but the theaters are open. I shall take you to a play. We can look about for our intruder there as well as at my club. We’ll take the opera glasses and examine every eye and thumb in the place.”
“Lovely! Let us see what is playing at the theaters.”
As it was so close to dinnertime, Gordon changed into evening clothes, and Cathy went to her room to choose her gown. With that chill wind howling, she chose a long-sleeved gown of sarsenet, and a stylish but warm shawl of mohair. A pleasant flutter of excitement beat in her breast. It was sweet of Gordon to oblige her like this. She had no real fears that his enthusiasm for the Horse Guards would hold sway for long. He would soon tire of standing about in the cold, and come to appreciate Italy’s more beneficent clime.
The greater disappointment was Costain’s very obvious eagerness not to become entangled with her. Oh, he was polite about it, but he did not really care for her. If she occasionally caught a light of interest in his eyes, or if he said things that sounded flatteringly personal, it was just his way. As Gordon pointed out, he was accustomed to the somewhat loose morals of his class. Ladies, unless they were ancient, were for flirting with. He knew no other way to deal with them, but he was careful not to let his flirting get out of hand.
If her social life had not been cut short by Papa’s death, she would be able to handle his sort. She would smile and return his sallies with a careless insouciance, but such skills were not learned in a day. She would go on in her own stolid manner. She knew no other way to deal with him.
“I daresay Lord Costain has some urgent business at work,” Lady Lyman decided when she learned of his defection. “I have set on the twentieth of December for our little rout, Cathy. We shall write up the cards this evening.”
“Gordon has asked me to go to the theater with him tonight, Mama,” Cathy said.
“What is playing, Gordon? Shakespeare?”
“Shakespeare?” Gordon scoffed. “Nothing of the sort. Who wants to listen to that antique chatter? It is all prithees and by-your-leaves. I had sufficient enough of that in the schoolroom, thankee.”
“Sufficient is sufficient,” Rodney informed him.
“Eh?”
“Sufficient is enough; you need not add enough.” Gordon just shook his head. The old fellow had gone off the deep end at last. “What does sufficient mean?” Rodney asked.
“It means sufficient.”
“It means enough, so you need not say sufficient enough. That is pointless tautology. If you have any hope of being a diplomat, you must learn to speak English.”
“Then why am I studying Italian?” He turned to his mother. “There is a dandy farce at the Royal Coburg. That is where we are going.”
“My dear, do you think it proper to take Cathy to the Surrey side of the Thames?”
“Dash it, we ain’t going to live there. The whole town is talking about the new farce at the Coburg. No wonder she hasn’t a beau to her name, when you keep her wrapped in cotton wool.”
“Your sister has made an eminently suitable connection, Gordon. It is Lord Costain I am thinking of. He might dislike to think she is running about town like a hurly-burly girl.”
“If Cathy is a hurly-burly girl, I am a monkey. Costain ain’t such a toplofty article as you seem to think, Mama. He knows a thing or two.”
“Article?” she said, her color rising. “You call the Duke of Halford’s son an article?”
Rodney scowled and said, “Learn to speak English, my lad. It is what distinguishes man from the animals. In the Foreign Office—”
“I ain’t so sure I will be a diplomat after all.”
“You might do your country a greater service by refraining,” Rodney said with awful sarcasm.
The meal continued in this somewhat fractious manner. Before leaving for the theater, Cathy said, “By the bye, Mama, I have learned a little more of Mrs. Leonard. Her first name is Helena, and she was married once bef
ore.”
“How long ago? What was the first husband’s name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Helena,” Lady Lyman said, furrowing her brow. “The name rings a bell. I might remember, given time. Remind me in the morning, dear. I don’t know how it is, but my memory is leaking away on me day by day. It is better for the past than the recent present, however, so there is hope.”
“Ask Rodney,” Gordon suggested. “He hasn’t lost his mind yet.”
“Memory, dear,” Lady Lyman pointed out. “The young are really very poorly spoken these days.”
She closed the door on her youngsters and went to the saloon to prepare for an evening of cards with her close circle of friends, mostly diplomatic widows like herself. It was a Mrs. Leadbeater who remembered Helena Johnson.
“She made her bows the same year as my daughter, Anne. She had no fortune to speak of—two thousand, I think it was. Less than ten thousand ought not to be presented, unless it is a noble family. And she was certainly not noble, but very pretty and forthcoming. She nabbed an aging M.P. Fotherington was well enough off, but an unreliable sort. I seem to recall there was some scandal attached to his death. In fact, he committed suicide, if memory serves.”
“What sort of scandal?” Lady Lyman inquired.
“I believe it happened abroad, so I am not familiar with the details, but I think it had to do with gambling debts. It was around 1802. He was sent to France—what could it have been?”
Lady Lyman ransacked her fading memory and came up with something. “The signing of the Peace of Amiens, perhaps?” she suggested. “We were the only country at war with France then. Boney had been trying to persuade the Russian emperor to form a League of Armed Neutrality with Prussia and some other countries. But then, the emperor, Paul the First I think it was, was assassinated before it came to anything. Nelson had a good success at Copenhagen, and we all thought the war would continue, but Britain was tired of it, and the peace was signed at Amiens.” She looked hopefully to Mrs. Leadbeater.