The Great Christmas Ball

by Joan Smith

  She heard the clatter of a carriage on the street behind her and turned, hoping against hope that it would be Lord Castlereagh. The side panel did not have a noble crest, but the carriage was indeed drawing to a stop in front of Leonard’s house. The footman hopped down and opened the door. Cathy stared to see who got out.

  It was Mrs. Leonard, alone. She darted into her house without waiting for the butler to open the door. Mrs. Leonard had not become bored with the party and left early; she had not come home to change a slipper that pinched, or a gown that had received a stain. Her hasty movements betrayed a sense of the greatest urgency.

  The urgency communicated itself to Cathy as she sat in a fever of indecision. She was about to pull the check string to summon the groom, when a lurch of the carriage told her the groom was descending from his perch. Thirty seconds later his swarthy face appeared at the window.

  He opened the door and said, “I’ll be taking you back to the ball now, miss. His lordship told me if anyone entered the house—anyone—I was to take you to safety and return.”

  Cathy was already half up from the seat. “Don’t be foolish! We must do something, now.”

  “I did hate to leave,” the groom admitted, “but his lordship is a tiger when he’s disobeyed.”

  She ignored his objection. “Can you peek through the window? The curtains have not been drawn.”

  “That I can. But you’re not to leave the carriage, mind.” A dark smile moved his lips as he turned and fled across the street. It had been a long time since he had seen any excitement.

  Cathy, watching, could not be certain, but it looked like a pistol he drew from beneath his coat. He disappeared behind a stand of ornamental yews.

  An instant later, a head was limned against the lighted window. Whatever he had seen, it propelled him into action. He darted back to the carriage.

  “I have to go in there,” he said. “I daren’t leave, but it’s as much as my life is worth to abandon you.”

  She was out of the carriage even as he spoke. “I’m going with you,” she said firmly.

  “No, miss. That you are not.”

  She began running across the street. “Come on,” she urged. With a shake of his head, the groom ran after her.

  * * *

  Lord Costain’s hand froze in position at the sound of the opening door. As the knocker had not been used, it had to be either Mrs. Leonard returning, or his groom had disobeyed orders. He did not think John Groom would be so rash. Even before Mrs. Leonard appeared, the soft click of a lady’s heeled slipper told him who had come. Costain felt little concern at the arrival of a mere lady, except that she added an unnecessary nuisance to the proceedings.

  But when he assessed Helena’s steely gaze, he felt instinctively he had underestimated this particular lady. She smiled politely, but her flickering gaze had not missed the position of his hand. The dog set up a constant yapping from behind its closed door.

  “My dear,” Mrs. Leonard said, turning to her husband, “do tell me what is going on. Why are you out of your bed?”

  Mr. Leonard’s audible sigh of relief was enough to tell Costain who was in charge of matters at Half Moon Street.

  “Lord Costain had just told me the most incredible thing,” he replied. “It seems—”

  “What I told you was in the strictest confidence, Mr. Leonard,” Costain said sharply.

  Leonard frowned. “Yes, well, as Castlereagh chose to use my house, there is no point hoping to keep the meeting secret from my own wife, is there?”

  “Meeting?” Mrs. Leonard asked suspiciously. “What meeting?”

  “Castlereagh, Cosgrave, myself, and I don’t know who else. There has been a great and unexpected occurrence, my dear. Boney is dead! They will all be here in minutes to discuss it.”

  “Rubbish! Castlereagh and Cosgrave were on their way to supper when I left. There is no meeting. What exactly are you up to, Lord Costain?”

  Costain felt the lady’s dark eyes assessing him. They held his gaze as if by some demonic force. The fat was in the fire now. He noticed, too, that Leonard told his wife everything. So much for secrecy. She knew this was a hoax, however. His best bet was to move quickly and get the upper hand. As he reached for his pistol, his eyes flickered to Mr. Leonard, to see that he was not drawing his gun. Leonard was looking uncertainly at his wife.

  Costain quickly whipped out his pistol, and as quickly, a loud crack rent the stillness of the room. His pistol was shot from his hand. He felt a sharp sting, and glancing down, he saw a trickle of blood on his trigger finger. His pistol was on the floor. Mrs. Leonard’s smoking gun was aimed at his heart. In the split second that he had averted his eyes from her, she had drawn and aimed at him. Mr. Leonard’s gun was also in the open now. And through it all, the dog kept up a constant yapping.

  “My dear! Was that necessary?” Harold exclaimed weakly.

  “Get their guns, Harold,” she ordered in a voice accustomed to command. Harold trotted forward, holding his pistol, and picked Costain’s gun up from the floor. He put it in his pocket. Burack handed his over without a word.

  “What have you told them?” Mrs. Leonard asked her husband.

  “Nothing, my dear. They know nothing.”

  The glance she threw her husband was full of contempt. “They wouldn’t be here if they knew nothing. I told you that boy was watching the house and following me."

  After one quick glance at Harold, her eyes remained fixed on Costain and Burack. Costain figured she realized the danger of facing down two husky young men, if her husband did not. He was in no doubt now as to her resolution. She’d shoot them as quickly as she’d powder her nose. His only hope was to negotiate their lives and Gordon’s release in return for the Leonards being allowed to escape—for the time being.

  “You are quite right,” Costain said. “We know everything. You and your house have been watched for some time now.”

  Her lips curled cynically. “Watch what you say, milord. If I have nothing to lose, then I shan’t hesitate to kill you.”

  “We might yet come to terms,” he tempted her. “We are not eager for a scandal at the House Guards. Mr. Leonard will have to retire, of course.”

  “That might be best, my dear,” Leonard said eagerly.

  “Retire to raise chickens in the country? I’d rather be dead than buried alive.”

  “Go to France, then,” Burack said angrily. “You should be welcome there, traitor.”

  Mrs. Leonard sneered. “On the floor, facedown, both of you. I cannot think with all this chatter.” To her husband she added, “Tie them up, Harold. Costain first. Don’t try anything, Burack, or your friend will pay the price.” Her pistol never wavered; it remained steadfastly aimed at Lord Costain while he and Burack reluctantly sank to the floor.

  “Ropes,” Leonard said.

  “Use the belt of your dressing gown.”

  He put his pistol in his pocket, pulled the sash from his dressing gown, and went nervously toward Costain, who exchanged a frustrated look with Burack. I dare not attack Leonard, or she’ll kill you, Burack’s look said.

  As Leonard leaned over, the hem of his dressing gown trailed the floor. Beneath it, a blue knitted slipper protruded. Costain’s arm reached out surreptitiously; his hand gripped Leonard’s ankle and he gave a fast, hard yank.

  “What the—” Mr. Leonard fell over on top of Burack. Burack quickly rifled the dressing gown pocket, looking in vain for the pistol. Perhaps the gown had two pockets ...

  “Get up, Harold,” Helena ordered sharply.

  “I fear my shoulder—” He struggled to rise, stumbled. “I must have tripped on my belt,” he said in confusion.

  When he was standing, Burack rose behind him.

  “Back on the floor, Burack,” Mrs. Leonard ordered. “Don’t think you can use that old fool for a shield. I’ll kill him, too, and lay the whole mess in his dish. He is the one who brought me the secrets, after all.”

  “Ah, Helena, has it come to th
is?” Mr. Leonard said on a disillusioned sigh. “No longer even the pretense of caring for me, after I have given everything up for you, even my honor?”

  “There is no honor among thieves, Harold.”

  Behind the closed door the dog barked ineffectually as her gun moved slowly from Costain to her husband. Her intention was written on her conniving face. Costain knew she was going to shoot the lot of them. She would claim that Leonard shot Burack and him, then shot himself, as he could not face the shame of his deeds. Her finger began to move on the trigger.

  Costain’s reaction was instinctive. He lurched toward her. Helena pulled the trigger, and the room reverberated with echoes. He watched in confusion as Helena staggered forward, a wet stain blossoming on the bodice of her burgundy gown. In the ensuing confusion, he thought she had shot herself.

  The door from the hallway flew open, and his groom bolted in. Behind him he saw Cathy’s pale face, staring in horror at Helena as she sank to the floor. When he looked back, Mr. Leonard had fallen face-forward at his wife’s feet.

  It was Burack who first grasped the situation. “She shot him! The fiend shot her own husband,” he exclaimed.

  As they looked at the bodies, Costain noticed the pistol in Leonard’s hand. “And he shot her,” he said grimly.

  Leonard’s eyes fluttered open, and Costain rushed to see if he could help him. “Don’t blame Helena,” Leonard whispered disjointedly. “She meant no harm. She—likes pretty things, and I wanted—to give them to her.”

  “Burack, send for a sawbones,” Costain said.

  “No!” Mr. Leonard whispered, clutching Costain’s hand. “Let me die in peace—not on the gallows like the traitor I am.” His strength was fading. “Tell Lord—Cosgrave I am—sorry.”

  Costain inclined his head to Leonard’s. “Who did you pass the information to? You must tell me, Harold.”

  “Helena usually—handled that. A milliner— Dutroit—is the messenger—Bond Street.” He turned his head and saw Helena’s slipper beneath his head. “I die as I lived—at her feet.” His eyes rolled up. He died with an ironic smile on his lips.

  A momentary hush descended on the room. Even the dog had stopped howling. Into the sudden silence Cathy said, “Where is Gordon? They have not shot him!” Then the dog barked again.

  “I wish someone would silence that demmed dog!” Burack said, but no one paid him any heed.

  Costain sent his groom off for Lord Castlereagh. Burack went to the dining room and found a sealed bottle of sherry. He prepared a tray and brought it to the living room. While he poured, Costain went to the two bodies on the floor and moved Mr. Leonard so that he lay side by side with his wife, then he took a seat on the couch beside Cathy.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked.

  He took her fingers and squeezed them very hard. “Now that he’s dead, he is no longer at her feet.”

  “Was she the spy?”

  “She seduced him into doing the spying for her. I wager that is why she married him. I shouldn’t be surprised if she put Fotherington up to the same thing at Amiens. She is the one who trotted the secrets to the Frenchies, as Gordon thought.”

  “About Gordon, Costain—”

  He set down his glass. “Yes, we must find him. We think he is on this floor. Burack—”

  “Let me put that demmed dog out before we do anything else,” Burack said. He went to the room off the hall and opened the door. The dog did not leap at him as he expected. Instead, it trotted behind a sofa and resumed its barking.

  When Burack went to investigate, he found Gordon’s inert body on the floor, a cushion beneath his head. Poor old Harold; he was not cut out for this work. He was too soft by half. Burack leaned over Gordon, felt his heart, and was confident that he would soon sleep off the laudanum.

  He called Cathy, and with Costain’s help got Gordon onto the sofa. “It will be best if we just close this door and say nothing about your being here,” Costain said to Cathy. “I shall return for you later.”

  “Mama will be looking for me.”

  “I’ll send word to her that you were feeling unwell and I took you home.”

  Burack took the dog by the scruff of the neck, carried it down to the kitchen, and closed the door.

  Chapter Nineteen

  There was considerable confusion in the house on Half Moon Street that night. Mysterious unmarked carriages arrived, and gentlemen darted into the house, their hats pulled low over their eyes to conceal their faces. Eventually two large objects were removed from the house under heavy wraps.

  Castlereagh was the first to arrive. When he had been put in possession of the major facts—Costain did not consider it crucial to inform his superior that the Lymans were even then in the room across the hall—he settled down with a bottle of port to devise a story that would minimize speculation and scandal. It was Costain who came up with the idea that the Leonards had engaged in a tragic lovers’ quarrel, ending in a suicide-murder.

  “It might just do,” Castlereagh said with a weary smile. “Helena Leonard was enough to drive a man to murder. Cosgrave had no idea what she was up to, of course, but it is the end of his career. He never could keep his hands off a pretty woman. When I asked him if she was his mistress, he denied it, of course. We cannot have that sort of carry-on in our top lads. I shall suggest a quiet retirement, to save his face. He has rendered good service in the past. No need to publicly humiliate the fellow, but I shall ring a peal over him behind closed doors.” He cast a speculative glance at Costain. “That leaves me with the problem of finding a replacement for Cosgrave.”

  “I suggest you use Cosgrave’s deficiencies as a bat to beat York and his cronies over the head and appoint your own man,” Costain said.

  “My thinking exactly. I should prefer a younger gentleman. There’s no fool like an old fool, when all’s said and done.”

  Costain ignored that speculative look. “As the Leonards’ demise was a master of simple homicide, we ought to call in Bow Street,” he said.

  “Yes, by God. We’ll let Townsend handle the disposal of the bodies in the usual way. I shall tip him the clue that he must handle the nominal investigation personally.” He turned to an aide and asked him to send for the top Bow Street officer.

  They then discussed means of rounding up the other members of the gang until Townsend arrived and had a brief talk with Castlereagh. Townsend arranged the removal of the bodies.

  After he left, Costain said, “A Mademoiselle Dutroit, a Bond Street milliner, is involved, and probably a modiste, Madame Marchand. You might want to watch their shops for the next few days. I expect they are only go-betweens.”

  “I see you have been busy!” Castlereagh said approvingly.

  “I had help. Young Lyman has been doing some legwork for me. An excellent chap, and not so hotheaded as you feared. He is interested in a position at the Horse Guards, by the bye.”

  “I’ll speak to him. As I said, we need younger men.” He set down his glass and rose. “I think that is about it for this evening. A fine job, Costain. Are you returning to the ball?”

  “I shall remain here awhile, to have a look around the house. Burack tells me there are some documents in Leonard’s office.”

  Castlereagh turned to Burack. “Would you mind taking them down to the Horse Guards tonight? Such things should never leave the premises. Cosgrave!” He shook his head.

  Burack went to gather up the documents, and Castlereagh said to Costain, “Drop by my office tomorrow morning and we shall discuss Cosgrave’s replacement. Are you interested in the job yourself? I know you planned to return to Spain. Anyone with good eyesight and a steady hand can aim a gun.”

  “There is a little more to it than that, milord.”

  “Of course there is. I did not mean to disparage our excellent soldiers. My meaning is that you would be of more use here. Think about it, lad.” He patted Costain’s shoulder and left.

  Burack came hurrying out of the study and rushed after Castler
eagh, to enlarge upon his own part in the evening, and hint for an increase in salary.

  As soon as he was gone, Costain darted into the room across the hall. Cathy sat in the light of one flickering candle, Gordon’s head in her lap. She looked tired and frightened. He wanted to take her into his arms. He hurried to her side and just patted her shoulder. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She smiled trustingly. “Thank you for keeping us out of it, Costain. I daresay we would have had to appear in court and all sorts of unpleasant things if Castlereagh had known we were here. Has he left?”

  “For the moment, but Townsend will be returning.”

  “Gordon is coming to now, but he is very confused. I should like to take him home. He ought to be in bed.”

  “I’ll ask my groom to help get him to the carriage.”

  While this was going forth, the dog reappeared, sniffing about the floor and whining piteously. Gordon opened his eyes. “Oh, Lord, not that curst mutt again!” he said, then closed his eyes again.

  “Perhaps May senses that something untoward has happened to her mistress,” Cathy said, gazing sadly at the dog. “Poor little thing. Who will look after her?” The dog came and sat at her ankles, gazing at her with moist brown eyes. Cathy lifted her up and stroked her. “We cannot leave her here alone.”

  “She is not alone,” Costain said. “There are servants in the house.”

  “I wish I could take her home, but Mama would have a fit.”

  “I’ll take her,” Costain said, and put the dog under his arm, where it yelped its gratitude. In the carriage it settled peacefully at Costain’s feet.

  Gordon revived during the drive home and insisted on Costain’s coming in to hear his story, and to relate all that had happened while he was unconscious. John Groom was given the job of watching the dog. Cathy ordered coffee and sandwiches, and they ate ravenously while Costain explained the night’s proceedings.