by Joan Smith
Before long she had caught the attention of a well-known rake, and was carried away.
“Miss Lyman, may I have the honor of the next dance?” Costain asked.
As no squares were forming, Cathy knew the waltzes were about to begin. She felt a nervous shiver when Costain drew her into his arms.
“What did you think of that?” he asked with a meaningful look. “Mrs. Leonard spent the entire afternoon here, if we are to believe her. Did Harold entertain Mam’selle an hour by himself? And how did Gordon miss seeing Helena leave the house?”
“I expect he nipped around the corner for lunch, and that must be when she came here—if she did come here.”
“I don’t see why she would lie about it,” he said.
Cathy just shrugged, and said Mam’selle Dutroit had probably taken tea with the servants. That would account for her lengthy visit. He noticed Cathy’s spirits had been more animated when she was with Burack. “Mr. Burack will be sorry to miss out on waltzing with you,” he said in a rather stiff voice.
“He is very nice. I don’t think he can be the spy after all.”
“You are easily convinced! Mrs. Leonard is also ‘nice,’ whatever that means. Does her niceness exonerate her from any blame?”
“Mr. Burack didn’t even recognize her. He thought the companion was Mrs. Leonard.”
“Is that what he told you? Interesting,” Costain said.
“Why, are you saying he did know her before?”
“I don’t know,” Costain admitted, feeling foolish. “But he might have.”
“Did she say anything of interest?” Cathy asked. She sensed Costain’s animosity and felt an anger rising in herself to meet it.
“No.”
“Perhaps that is not why you were in such a rush to stand up with her? She’s uncommonly pretty.”
“I hope I am not so green as to believe a pretty face is any sign of innocence. Did Burack say anything of interest?”
“He’s been at the Horse Guards only a few months. Just down from Oxford—how could he be involved? It would take time to establish the necessary contacts.”
This was not how Costain wanted to spend his few private moments with Cathy. He had been looking forward to being alone with her, to getting to know her better, and here he was, behaving like an unlicked cub.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he agreed. After a moment’s silence he spoke in a friendlier tone. “Your mama has invited me to a rout next week.”
“Will you come?” she asked with an air of utmost indifference.
“Certainly I shall. I look forward to it. I’ll bring Liz if you like. That is my cousin, Miss Stanfield.”
“I know.”
Cathy’s indifference acted as a goad to Costain. Something had changed her, and he soon fingered Burack as the culprit. It was impossible to hold a meaningful conversation with the music and the commotion all around them.
“Let us go to the refreshment parlor,” he said. Without waiting for her reply, he waltzed her from the floor.
At the doorway into the ballroom they met Gordon, scowling and sulking. “I hope you are discovering some interesting secrets, Costain,” he said. “Otherwise this evening is a dead loss.”
“You have stood up with Miss Stanfield,” Cathy reminded him.
“Yes, for a dashed country dance. A fellow cannot make any headway there. She refused to give me the waltzes.”
“She could not stand up with you twice, Gordon,” Cathy pointed out. “You hardly know her.”
“She didn’t have to accept Edison’s offer, did she? Look at him, grinning and smirking.”
They looked to the dance floor, where Edison was sharing his smirks evenly with Miss Stanfield and Gordon.
“I’ve a good mind to land him a facer,” Gordon declared angrily.
“Come to the refreshment parlor with us and have a glass of wine instead,” Costain suggested.
“We shall discuss the case. There has been a new twist,” he added as further enticement.
“What is there to discuss? I have checked out Cosgrave’s thumbs. He ain’t the intruder, though he is certainly carrying on with Mrs. Leonard. I saw the pair of them whispering behind the potted palms. Women!” he said with a cynical tsk. “I am going out for a breath of air. If Miss Stanfield happens to notice I am missing, you might say I stepped out to blow a cloud. Not that she’ll care.” And not that he smoked cigars, for that matter, but he thought it rather a dashing thing to do.
He turned toward the exit. “Put on your coat, Gordon. You’ll catch your death of cold,” Cathy called.
“Good!” he said, and marched out the door.
“It must be something in the air,” Costain said with a bantering smile. “This evening is not conducive to successful romancing.”
“If you would like to join Gordon ...”
“That was not my meaning, Miss Lyman,” he said. With a firm grip on her arm he led her into the refreshment parlor.
Chapter Sixteen
Curzon Street was alive with carriages. “Poor, deluded creatures,” Gordon muttered to himself as he watched the eager faces of the latecomers hastening on to Vanity Fair. They looked forward to an innocent evening’s pleasure at the Great Winter Ball, but e’er cock’s crow, there would be a dozen hearts smashed to bits, like his own. Maidens would be seduced by fortune hunters, wives lured to betray their husbands, homes torn asunder. Love was a cruel mistress.
He was enjoying a mood of dark despair, and disliked to have to interrupt it so often to nod or speak to acquaintances. When a school chum asked him if Miss Stanfield was at the ball, Gordon could take no more.
He said, “I believe you’ll find her waltzing with Edison,” and strode away from the house of doom.
The wind snatched at his coattails as he walked briskly along the darkened street. A small object appeared in his path, and he kicked it. It was a stone, not a frozen apple as he thought, and it inflicted severe damage on his toes. Now he ached at both extremities.
If Miss Stanfield wanted to spend her time with that jackanapes of an Edison, that was her loss. She’d realize her mistake when she read of Sir Gordon Lyman’s death of pneumonia. In his mind it was no less than a state funeral, complete with black-plumed horses and a cortege, that he envisaged. Somehow the world would discover how he, single-handedly, had foiled the French menace and made England safe for women and children.
When he got to the corner, he decided to go back to the ball. Leo had mentioned some new twist to the case. Mean to say, no point catching pneumonia until the case was solved. He realized he was at the crossing with Half Moon Street, just half a block from Leonard’s house. He’d take a stroll past and see if there were any comings or goings. Not very likely, with Mrs. Leonard at the ball, but if he spotted Dutroit slipping in, it would be interesting.
He did his spying from the far side of the street. Not really expecting to see anything, he was surprised when the front door opened. An old man let Mrs. Leonard’s dog out to do its business. Nasty little beast it was, yapping its head off. The dog headed right for him, of course, giving away that he was watching the house. Gordon continued along, as if he were just passing. The curst mutt kept following him, nipping at his ankles, and he didn’t have his boots on either, to protect him.
“Come back, May,” the old man called. Was he Mr. Leonard? He looked like him, but all old men look alike at a glance.
Gordon kept walking. Before he knew what he was about, the old man came dashing down the stairs, calling the dog. A carriage was bowling along, causing some fear that the dog would be run over.
“Stop her, lad!” the man called. Gordon ran forth and rescued the mutt from the approaching wheels.
The fellow in the carriage let down his window and called, “When was you appointed dog catcher, Lyman?” Graham Grant, wouldn’t you know it? The story would be all over town.
“Here you go,” he said, handing the beast to its master.
“It is my wife’s dog
. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to it. Nice, doggie. Come along.”
His wife’s dog. Then this man was Mr. Leonard. The dog made a nip at Leonard’s fingers. Leonard released it with a little howl of pain, and it took off after Grant’s carriage, bent on suicide, with Mr. Leonard in pursuit. He did not move as quickly as a younger man, but he moved with suspicious alacrity for a gentleman who was supposed to be gout-ridden. There was something havey-cavey here.
Leonard looked over his shoulder, breathing heavily. “Can you catch her? She is too quick for me,” he gasped.
Gordon took to his heels after the mutt and lifted it into his arms. This caused such raucous amusement to Graham Grant that he had his carriage stopped to gawk and jeer.
The old man was still panting from the exertion. “Let me carry the dog for you,” Gordon said, and they set out together for the familiar house on Half Moon Street. Mr. Leonard held on to Gordon’s arm, for he was exhausted. But he was not limping. Gordon mulled this over as they walked along through the darkness. He might use this canine rescue as an excuse to get into the house and do some looking around.
At the doorway, Leonard said, “Thank you very kindly, Mr. –”
“Gordon. Mr. Gordon.” That would throw him off the trail if he recognized the name Lyman.
Mr. Leonard smiled his thanks. “Can I offer you a glass of wine, Mr. Gordon? I fear you may have taken a chill. I see you are not dressed for the outdoors.”
Gordon said, “Why, thankee, sir. I just stepped out for a moment from the Great Ball, around the corner, you know. I could do with a wet. It is thirsty work, chasing a dog.”
He carried the dog into the house and Mr. Leonard took it. Gordon examined the entrance hall suspiciously. Neither the parquet floor nor the ornate mirror suggested nefarious doings.
“I’ll just lock May up,” Mr. Leonard said. “She is a bit noisy tonight. Let us go to my study.”
Leonard seemed mighty shy of offering his name. Should have introduced himself. It would be interesting if he claimed to be someone else.
Mr. Leonard disappeared with the dog, and Gordon went into the study. After checking over his shoulder, he darted straight to Leonard’s desk. There were letters sprawled all over its surface--letters to and from the Horse Guards. This would be the work Cosgrave had brought him to do at home. Gordon picked up one letter and glanced at it. He found himself staring at Beau Douro’s signature. The man who was trouncing Boney’s army in Spain, by God! He felt a tingling in his fingers, as if the force of the signer were running into his own body.
He glanced at the date, and could hardly believe it had arrived so quickly. Surely ships took longer than this? He turned it over, and saw a note that it had arrived by carrier pigeon. The letter did not convey much to Gordon. Something to do with moving troops over the Pyrenees. No doubt crucial, and here it was, not only let out of the Horse Guards, but actually hand-delivered to the house of a spy--by the head of intelligence.
Gordon heard a sound at the door and jumped into the closest chair. He was just trying to look relaxed when Mr. Leonard came in, carrying a tray of wine. “Here we are,” he said, setting it down on his desk and pouring two glasses.
“You got the dog settled down all right, did you?” Gordon said, adopting a conversational manner as he accepted the wine.
Mr. Leonard put his glass to his lips. “She’s always restless when my wife is away. She is really my wife’s dog.”
Gordon happened to look at the glass, and noticed the stubby, spatulate fingers wrapped around it. His heart leapt into his throat. The last time he had seen those fingers, they had been pointing a pistol at him. He heard a sharp gasp, and realized through his confusion that it had come from himself. He swallowed, and struggled to control his excitement.
“I had a spaniel when I was a lad,” he said in a high-pitched voice that bounced off the walls and echoed foolishly in the room. He cleared his throat and added, “Excellent sherry” before he had even taken a sip.
“Do try it,” Mr. Leonard said, taking a sip of his own.
Gordon gulped down a mouthful. “The dog is giving you trouble, is she?” he asked, hoping to con Leonard into thinking he was harmless, but his brain was scuttling over plans to capture the enemy. Should he dart back to the ball and enlist Leo’s help? He measured Leonard’s shoulders, his age and infirmity, against his own youthful strength, and decided he could do the job alone.
“Dogs are a nuisance in the city.”
Gordon tried to keep his eyes from returning so often to those stubby fingers, but as if his eyes had a mind of their own, they kept returning. He must look away, or Leonard would realize he’d been recognized in spite of having his face all muffled up the day he broke into the study. Something nagged at the back of Gordon’s brain. What was it?
The stubby fingers began to blur from such strained viewing. Gordon shook his head to clear his vision. The thing to do, he’d pick up that brass paperweight and crack Leonard over the head with it as soon as the man turned around.
Old Leonard was prattling on with some pranks of May’s, something to do with getting into this office and eating a letter. An important message from the Peninsula, no doubt. Gordon sipped his sherry and nodded. He felt a mellowing ease wash through him. Miss Stanfield’s face appeared in his head, smiling adoringly at his heroism in single-handedly capturing this vicious criminal. And still that something nagged vaguely. It suddenly came to him. Leonard’s face had been covered that day he broke into the house, but his own had not. Why did Mr. Leonard not recognize him?
His glass was suddenly empty. The stubby fingers were proferring the bottle. “Why, thankee. P’raps another drop.”
He watched the amber liquid enter his glass, and leave again as the glass tilted in his fingers. Damme, he’d smell like a tavern when he returned to the ball. He tried to straighten the glass, but it weighed a ton. Try as he might, he could not straighten it. The last thing he saw before keeling over was the crystal glass falling to the floor and bouncing. Within seconds his own inert body joined it on the floor.
* * *
There was a sudden influx of guests into the refreshment parlor when the waltzes ended.
“I am sorry Gordon’s evening is such a disappointment to him,” Costain said. “Let us have a word with Liz, to see the chit remembers she is to join our table for supper.”
Cathy looked worried. “I wonder if Gordon has come in yet. He’ll catch his death out in the cold without a proper coat.”
“I’ll have a word with the servants at the door.”
They went into the lofty paneled entranceway together. Costain spoke to the man at the door.
“He never came back, sir. I’d begun to wonder about it. Still, he should be safe in this part of town.”
Costain took the message to Cathy. “The idiot has gone home to teach Miss Stanfield a lesson,” she said.
“He asked us to remind her he would be back shortly.”
“He wasn’t wearing a coat, and he came in your carriage, so—ask if your carriage has been called for, Costain.”
A different servant was in charge of guests’ carriages. Costain made the inquiry, and returned to tell Cathy that the carriage hadn’t been requested.
Cathy blinked in astonishment. “Where on earth could he be? He’s been gone half an hour.”
"I’d best scoot out and have a look for him.”
“Don’t forget your coat,” Cathy said.
“Yes, Mama,” Costain replied, not in a jeering way, but with a rather satisfied smile.
The doorman indicated the direction Gordon had taken. Costain hurried along, peering into shadows. He was more annoyed than concerned at Gordon’s childish behavior.
As Cathy waited in the entrance hall, Mr. Edison came prancing up to her. “I say, I hope Gordon ain’t sore with me. I’ve been looking all over for him.”
“You haven’t seen him?” Cathy asked.
“Not since the waltzes. Graham Grant mentioned h
e saw him chasing a dog on Half Moon Street.” Cathy frowned. Gordon had spent a deal of time there recently, watching Leonard’s house. No doubt he had decided to walk past and see what was afoot. “He was helping some old gaffer catch the mutt, I believe,” Edison said. “Should have been back by now.”
“I cannot imagine what happened to him.”
“I’ll send Grant along to have a word with you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Edison.”
Mr. Grant, another of Gordon’s lanky young friends, appeared at Cathy’s side five minutes later. “I hear you was asking for me, Miss Lyman?”
“You saw Gordon, Mr. Grant? Pray, tell me all about it.”
“Not much to tell. I was just on my way to this do when I spotted Gordon chasing a yapping pug on Half Moon Street.”
Mrs. Leonard had a pug, and an elderly husband who might be the old gaffer referred to. “A pug dog, you say?” she asked.
“It looked like it. I can tell you what house it came from, for the door was open, you know, and the light shining. It was the second house from the corner of Curzon Street. Gordon went to the house with the old fellow.”
“Thank you,” she said. “That’s where he is, then. We have—friends living there.” Whatever Gordon was up to, she had no desire to cause unnecessary commotion.
“Very happy to be of help, ma’am,” Mr. Grant said, and dashed off to the refreshment parlor to quiz the ladies.
Cathy took a seat in the shelter of a potted palm and waited for Costain’s return. She felt fairly sure now that Gordon had inveigled his way into Leonard’s house to spy. But what was taking him so long? When Costain returned, she would ask his help. But could she trust him?
Costain remained away for a troublesome length of time. Long enough to rouse a fear that he, too, was going to remain away, spying, while the best ball of the whole winter went forth without him. It was more than a quarter of an hour before Costain returned, alone and wearing a worried frown. Cathy hurried forward to meet him.