“In very good health, ma’am. I shall tell her you were asking for her.”
They went into the dancing room, where a waltz was in progress. Costain looked uncertainly at Cathy, wondering if he dare tackle a waltz. His leg had been causing him some pain since his adventure in St. James’s Park. He felt he could pass muster in a square set, but one’s faux pas would be more noticeable to his partner in a waltz.
She leveled a slightly annoyed look at him. “No, the patronesses of Almack’s have not given me permission to waltz,” she said, “for there was no such dance when I made my bows.”
His mobile brows rose. “And what dance was in fashion in the medieval ages, when you made your bows, ma’am?” he asked facetiously.
“We hopped around in circles to the beat of a drum, for there were as yet no true musical instruments either.”
“May I compliment you on your remarkable state of preservation, ma’am. You are a little older than I thought—and quite old enough to have polished those primitive manners.”
“My advanced years must save me from reproach. In any case, I
will
waltz, since Mama went to the expense of having a dancing master in to teach Gordon.”
“Not Cathy?” he asked.
It was the first time he had used her Christian name. She looked conscious, but did not rebuke or encourage him. “Naturally Gordon needed a partner,” she said.
“You have a temper,” he said, studying her with a lazy smile. “I wonder you did not show your claws at Lady Martin’s prodigious memory. Pray, what have I done to deserve it?”
“Nothing, but you were going to.”
“No, I wasn’t. Allow me to make my own errors before unsheathing your claws. I shall no doubt give you ample opportunity before the evening is out. My concern was that I would make you a poor partner.” He did not mention a reason, but gave one quick peep at his leg.
Cathy’s hand flew to her lips. “Oh, your leg! I am sorry, Costain. You walk so well that I had forgotten all about it,”
Costain brushed it aside, as he disliked to harp on his wound. “It is not my leg but my two left feet that make me hesitate. Anyhow, I am game if you are.”
She drew her bottom lip between her teeth. “Are you sure?”
He said gruffly, “Come, we are wasting this delightful music.”
He swept her into his arms, and they joined the waltzers. Cathy enjoyed the unusual sensation of being an object of attention. She knew it was her escort who engendered the interest in herself, but she was happy with even second-hand attention.
Costain waltzed well, especially when one remembered he had one stiff leg. The swirling music and the pirouetting crowd induced a sort of euphoria. This was how life should be. This was how she always thought it would be when she was young.
When Costain lowered his head and smiled, she felt for a fleeting moment that he actually liked her. There was some special sparkle in his eyes. “I notice Lady Jersey frowning at you, Miss Lyman. She is not so sure your advanced years permit you the license of waltzing without her permission.”
“Perhaps I should have worn my cap," she replied.
“No, a turban, I think—in five or ten years. You have the countenance for it. You must remember to add three feathers and a brooch. Feathers are like Capability Brown’s trees. They come in threes. Two will not clump.”
“That’s not why they wear three. Three is a lucky number,” she said. Cathy had always found this sort of badinage difficult, but the euphoria seemed to have spread even to her tongue.
“I am shocked at you for believing ignorant superstition, Miss Lyman. Everyone knows seven is the luckiest number. Mind you, the ladies would look like an ostrich’s tail, carrying such a load of feathers. What a charming picture, though, a roomful of ostriches, waltzing about Lady Martin’s saloon.”
“You are too ridiculous!” She laughed.
He noticed the glow in her eyes, and felt culpable for encouraging her. What was merely banter to him seemed to be having the effect of flirtation on her, and he changed his manner accordingly.
“Have you spotted anyone who might be your intruder?” he asked.
Cathy came thumping back to earth. She had been too engrossed in Costain to even look, but she did so then. All around her, gentlemen of roughly the right size and shape moved. But with so few clues to aid her, she could make no useful comparisons. “No,” she said. “Perhaps Gordon is having better luck.”
“We’ll meet with him later. Let us just relax and enjoy the music now.”
The evening lost its magic after that, but Costain behaved very properly. He came to her at the end of each set and introduced her to several eligible partis. She renewed acquaintance with some former friends, too, so the rout was enjoyable. Yet it did not satisfy her. Why did Costain introduce her to such old men? Two of them were widowers, and one had graying hair. Did he consider her too old for his own set? She was at least five years younger than he.
She was elated when a younger, handsome gentleman accosted them at the end of the cotillion. “Costain,” he said with a smile. “May I have a dance with your charming partner?”
Seeing no reluctance in his partner, Costain said, “Certainly. Miss Lyman, this is my colleague, Mr. Burack. Mr. Burack, Miss Lyman.”
While she made her curtsy, Cathy regarded Mr. Burack and did not dislike what she saw. He was a well-set-up young gentleman with hair the same chestnut color as her own. His eyes were a deep brown, and his smile was ready. His jacket was not so impeccably tailored as Costain’s, but his physique did it more than justice.
They went off to join a set. “Have you known Costain long?” Mr. Burack asked.
“No, we are new acquaintances, sir. Is he an old friend of yours?”
“I never met him until last week, when he came to work for Cosgrave. Quite a war hero, I understand.”
“Yes, he took a ball in the leg at Badajos.”
“Odd, he dances so well,” Burack said.
“It is healing nicely,” she replied, and shot a gimlet look at Burack. She did not care for that remark. Was he suggesting Costain was malingering? “He is most eager to return to Spain,” she added.
“I daresay he misses the excitement. We are a dull lot at the Guards. I wonder he bothered to join us.”
“I expect Lord Costain is the sort of man who likes to be busy, and doing something for his country.”
“Very admirable.”
Yet Mr. Burack did not sound as if he admired Costain. In fact, she caught an intimation of resentment in his manner. Was it just jealousy of the ordinary man for the war hero? Or did he fear Costain would outshine him at the Guards as well?
Burack’s next question put her on the alert. “How did you meet him?” he asked, and looked at her with brightly inquisitive eyes.
The cheek! “Our families are old friends, Mr. Burack,” she said dampingly, and immediately changed the subject. “This is the first Christmas party of the season, I believe. What a lovely scent the fir boughs give to the room.”
Mr. Burack wore the expression of a frustrated man, but his breeding forced him to discontinue his discussion of Costain, since the lady was so obviously opposed.
As the dance drew to a close he said, “May I do myself the honor of calling on you, Miss Lyman?”
“If you wish,” she said with little enthusiasm.
“Where do you live?”
“On King Charles Street, not far from where you work.”
“I see!” he said in a surprised voice.
As soon as the cotillion ended, Costain came forward. “Let us have a glass of wine,” he said, and led Cathy away.
“He was
prying,
Lord Costain!” she exclaimed. “Is it possible Mr. Burack is the one who is making trouble at the Guards?”
Costain looked interested in her suggestion. “Does he resemble your intruder?”
She had forgotten all about it, but she stopped at the doorway and looked back. She mentally pulled a hat low over Burack’s face and drew a scarf up to nearly meet it. “I had the impression of an older, slighter man. Perhaps, with his shoulders hunched ...”
“How about the voice?” Costain asked, warming to the idea.
“It did not sound similar at all, but the intruder consciously lowered his voice to frighten me.”
“It is odd he made such a point of meeting you.”
Again Cathy felt that shaft of annoyance. “Gentlemen do occasionally wish to be presented to me,” she said.
Costain tilted his head and drew his bottom lip between his teeth. Then he laughed. “There! I told you you would have real cause to be angry with me before long. If it is any consolation, both Lord Duncan and Sir Andrew Longford asked me most particularly to be presented.”
“It seems only age appreciates my charms,” she said, not quite mollified, as the gentlemen mentioned were both nearing forty.
“Burack is no Methuselah,” he said. She tossed her curls. “And Costain, at a mere nine and twenty, is coming to appreciate you, precocious fellow that I am.”
“Let us go and see if Gordon has had any luck,” she said, and they walked out.
Gordon came pacing from the refreshment parlor to meet them. Cathy rushed in with her suspicions of Burack.
“What did he say, exactly, to tip you the clue?” Gordon asked.
“He asked how long I had known Lord Costain, and how we met, and he mentioned it odd he danced so well when he was supposed to have wounded his leg.”
“Upon my word, the fellow is a commoner,” Gordon exclaimed. “He is either jealous as a green cow or he’s our spy.”
“He did sound a little jealous,” Cathy allowed. Then she looked sharply at Costain. “I don’t mean jealous because of me,” she said. “Jealous of your title and your war record is what I meant.”
“Counter jumper! He is nothing but a commoner in gentlemen’s clothing,” Gordon scoffed. “Never mind him. I have something of
real
interest to report, Costain.”
He looked all around. The crowd was surging toward the refreshment parlor, where a line of servants were placing hot food on the table. The aroma of lobsters simmering in wine sauce floated on the air, mingling with the smell of hot roast beef.
“We’ll find a quiet spot,” Gordon said, and began pacing down the hall. He stopped at the library door and tossed his head to speed the others in joining him.
“What of supper? I am hungry,” Cathy said as Costain hurried her along.
“Dash it, do you think being a spy is all waltzing and eating?” Gordon exclaimed. “I have been loitering about freezing corners with the wind rushing up my back all day long, following Mrs. Leonard. I have to impart my findings to Lord Costain.”
“We’ll eat later,” Costain said with an apologetic look, and led Cathy into the library.
Their thoughtful hostess had provided a decanter of sherry and glasses in the study in anticipation of wandering guests. Gordon went to the table near the blazing grate, poured, and handed the glasses around.
“Cheers and all that,” he said, and crouched on the very edge of his chair, leaning toward Costain, who rested more comfortably on the sofa beside Cathy. Gordon’s eyes gleamed with eagerness.
Costain was tired after a hard day’s work and an evening of dancing. He settled in to enjoy the blazing hearth and the wine. The Lymans were obviously delighted with the vicarious excitement of it all. He could not see that they were in any real danger, and went along with it as if it were a game.
“What have you discovered, Gordon?” he asked.
“By the living jingo, Costain, you hit it on the head when you fingered Mrs. Leonard. She is in it up to her pretty neck. She is thick as thieves with every Frenchie in town.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, sir, a French modiste makes her gowns. That is Madame Marchand. A French milliner does her bonnets—Mademoiselle Dutroit, whose shop is right next door to Madame Marchand’s. There is a regular clique of them. And she—Mrs. Leonard, I mean—also went to a toy store right across the street. They call themselves Whitfields, letting on they are English, but every second thing in the store is made in France. How do they get hold of it when we are at war with France? They have hand mirrors and perfume bottles and all those gaudy trifles you see on a lady’s dressing table.”
Indignation turned him into a parody of his late father, and when he continued, his speech assumed an oracular quality. “It is infamous, letting the Frenchies infiltrate Bond Street to such an extent. You ought to look into it.”
“Most ladies of fashion favor a French modiste, Gordie,” his sister mentioned, peering to see Costain’s opinion.
“And
a French milliner? I ask you!”
“Mama bought her latest bonnet from Mademoiselle Dutroit. I wish I could afford the pretty red one in her show window. It has a huge black bow in front.”
“You would look a quiz in that thing, Cathy. You need a face to carry off a bonnet like that. Besides, Mrs. Leonard bought it this very day. It suited her right down to the heels.”
“It cost a fortune!” Cathy said. “She must be rich.”
“If she is, she has money in her own right,” Costain said, pensively rubbing his chin. “Harold Leonard has only a competence. He often complains of the cost of living in London. What sort of a lady is Mrs. Leonard?”
“A dasher of the first jet, Costain—good carriage, shiny black fur cape, shiny black hair, smooth white skin, dark eyes, and a stunning figure.”
“She either has a patron, or she has money of her own,” Costain decided. “Odd a young beauty would settle for Mr. Leonard, who has neither fame nor fortune to recommend him.”
“We’ll ask Mama,” Gordon said. “She knows everyone, or she knows someone who knows everyone. Never guess it to see her now, but she and the Duchess of Devonshire was bosom bows. To this very day she receives a card from Prinny on her birthday.”
As Gordon betrayed no particular infatuation with Mrs. Leonard, and as she appeared to be active enough to keep him fully occupied, Costain was much of a mind to let him continue following her.
“It is a pity Mr. Leonard came down with that flu, or we would have gotten a look at this Incomparable wife tonight,” Cathy said.
Gordon looked at her in astonishment. “What the deuce are you talking about? She’s here! Why do you think I have been lurking about the card room, when Miss Stanfield is here? I have been keeping an eye on Mrs. Leonard.”