The Great Christmas Ball (19 page)

“One can scarcely believe it of Mr. Leonard,” Burack objected. Then he said, “Of course his wife is expensive, and we don’t make money at the Horse Guards.”

“You’d best grab a coat. It’s cold out,” Costain said.

“I’ll be right back.” He bowed and ran off after his coat.

Cathy remained behind in an agony of turmoil. Within a minute Burack was back, pulling on his coat as he ran toward them. “How do you plan to rescue Lyman?” he asked Costain.

“I’ve been conjuring with that problem. We must get him out safely before tackling Leonard. I believe our best bet is for me to walk up to the door and ask to speak to Gordon, say he was seen entering the house. That will tip Leonard the clue we know he is in there. He won’t risk harming Lyman when he knows we know that. If I don’t come out, notify Castlereagh.”

“Very well. Let us hope he hasn’t done the deed already.”

Cathy’s heart tightened in her chest. “Done the deed already.” He meant already murdered Gordon. “I’m going with you,” she said.

Both gentlemen expostulated, but she stood firm. “You cannot stop me. He is
my
brother. I’m going, with you or by myself. You can both go to the door. I shall remain outside to notify Castlereagh if you don’t come out.”

“We cannot both go storming up to the door. It will look odd,” Burack said, “as if it were an important office meeting or some such thing.”

Costain’s mobile brows lifted, and a tight smile appeared at the corner of his lips, but his eyes were hard. “Very well. Get your pelisse,” he said to Cathy. “I shall call my carriage. You won’t want to wait alone on the street.”

Costain ordered his carriage and Cathy ran off for her pelisse, hardly able to believe he had agreed so readily.

“Now’s our chance,” Burack said, and headed for the door as soon as Cathy left.

Costain remained where he stood. “Wait,” he said.

“We cannot take Miss Lyman. It could be dangerous.”

“There is safety in numbers, Burack.”

“Surely this is a matter for secrecy.”

“Great secrecy. A matter of the utmost urgency has arisen, and Lord Cosgrave has called a meeting at Mr. Leonard’s house for convenience, as Mr. Leonard is ill with the gout, and we are all so close at hand, here at Curzon Street.”

“I don’t see what you are getting at, Costain.”

“Privacy, Burack, and security. The servants must all be sent to their rooms to avoid their overhearing the monumental secrets we shall be discussing. You and I, sent in advance, must ensure that the house is safe. That will require a search of the premises.”

“For Lyman,” Burack said with a reluctant grin. “A bold plan, Costain. If you’re wrong, it will cost you your job.”

“Then it will be up to you to carry on at the Horse Guards. Did Castlereagh ask you to snoop on me?”

“Not you in particular. He asked me to keep my eyes open for any suspect dealings in the office. You behaved more suspiciously than anyone else, slipping that letter to Miss Lyman for translation.”

“You followed me?”

“No, but I learned of the letter, and your leaving right after receiving it. As you were back so fast, I figured you had taken it to the closest translator, Mr. Rodney Reynolds. Why did you do it? Cosgrave reads German.”

“And was drinking heavily that day.”

“No unusual occurrence,” Burack said with a sigh. “I mentioned the letter to Harold Leonard, by the bye. He came into the office shortly after you left. When Leonard went storming out, I thought he’d gone to pester Cosgrave. I wonder if he did not slip out of the building and follow you himself.”

“It looks that way. If he’d mentioned it to Cosgrave, I would have heard about it. The only thing Cosgrave said to me was that I ought not to have taken the letter to Castlereagh. He didn’t know I had had it translated.”

“We ought to have been working together all the while,” Burack said. “When you received that mysterious missile from Spain, I was sure I had found my spy.”

“A note from an old army buddy.”

Burack nodded. “About Miss Lyman—must she accompany us?”

“My groom was with me in Spain. She will be perfectly safe outside in the carriage. Ah, here is Miss Lyman now.”

* * *

Mrs. Leonard watched their comings and goings from the corner of the refreshment room, that gave a view of the hall. She had been watching them for the past quarter of an hour, ever since receiving that unsettling note from Harold. So like him to make a muddle. Harold had assured her no one knew of young Lyman’s visit, but obviously Costain had discovered it somehow.

She did not frown, for it left wrinkles on her aging skin. When she spoke to her companion, she touched her temples with her two fingers and gently massaged. “I hope you will pardon me. I have a touch of migraine.”

She whisked upstairs for her cape and fled out the door without a word to her hostess.

* * *

Outside, Costain had escorted Cathy to his carriage. He entered with her and removed a pistol from the side pocket. Cathy just watched, fear written large on her face. “You will be careful, Lord Costain,” she said in a hushed voice.

“Why, you are giving me the idea you care. I am flattered, ma’am.” One hand came out and tilted her chin up. His face in the shadowy darkness was a pale blur punctuated by the gleam of his eyes. Costain lowered his face to hers and brushed a light kiss against her lips. It was as insubstantial and brief as the touch of a moth’s wing, but it stirred her to the core.

“I have been wanting to do that for the longest time,” he said, his lips at her ear. Then he lifted his head and said, “We shall discuss this interesting development in more detail after we rescue Gordon. Take care.”

His hand slid slowly down her throat, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. Then it was gone. Costain was gone, disappeared out the door, and the carriage suddenly felt empty and cold.

Costain had a word with his groom, and the carriage lurched forward at a stately pace. From the window Cathy watched him and Burack hastening along the street, their heads close in discussion, their stride long and purposeful. The groom had apparently been ordered to proceed a little beyond Leonard’s house. He drew into the shade of a towering oak, and Cathy lowered the window to look back as Costain and Burack mounted the stairs two at a time and lifted the knocker.

Such an ordinary sight. One might see it any day of the week, two gentlemen calling on a friend, but tonight it filled her with terror. When the door opened and they disappeared inside, she felt as if she would never see them again.

Inside the house, Costain removed his hat and handed it to the aging butler. He retained his cape, as it concealed the bulge of his pistol beneath his jacket. There would be no problem handling the butler. He was scarcely able to walk. “Lord Costain to see Mr. Leonard,” he said in an arrogant tone.

“I’m afraid Mr. Leonard is indisposed this evening, milord. If you would care to leave a message ...”

Costain stared down his aristocratic nose and used a tone Burack had not heard before. “The message, my good man, is that I must see him at once, indisposed or not.” He turned aside to Burack and said in an annoyed way, “I daresay this means we must crowd the whole meeting into his bedchamber.”

The butler bit his lips and said uncertainly, “Is it—official business, then, your lordship?”

“You don’t suppose I am missing the premier ball of the winter for the pleasure of calling on your master?”

The butler was cowed at this show of noble bad manners and said, “If you would care to wait in the saloon, gentlemen, I shall inform Mr. Leonard.”

“Be quick about it,” Costain said, and looked toward the saloon. The tall, paneled door was closed. A scrabbling sound was suddenly heard on its far side.

“That would be the mistress’s dog,” the butler said. He walked across the hall and opened the door. Before he could nab it, a tawny pug dog darted out and began leaping at the callers’ legs.

Burack directed a malign stare at the animal.

The butler gathered it up in his arms and directed the gentlemen into the saloon. Costain’s sharp eyes examined the hallway as he went. There had been water drops on the floor of the entrance hall when they entered, which suggested a recent caller, but there was no sign of Gordon’s cape or hat or gloves.

Burack watched to see where the butler went. He first opened a door at the near end of the hall, but he just set the dog down and closed the door again before proceeding down the hallway. He stopped halfway down, tapped at a door on the left side, and entered.

Costain went on ahead into the saloon. It was a small room, but charmingly gotten up in shades of peach and green. With its embossed plaster panels and a graceful white marble fireplace, it seemed a suitable setting for Helena Leonard. A few new pieces of furniture stood out against the faded elegance of an Oriental carpet and slightly fatigued window curtains. It looked like a room in the process of being refurbished—and that suggested more funds than Mr. Leonard could provide by honest means.

In thirty seconds the butler was back. “Mr. Leonard is not in his study. I cannot imagine ...”

“If he is ill, surely his bedchamber is the place to look,” Costain said in a bored drawl.

“Yes, your lordship.”

The dog set up a racket behind the closed door when the butler passed. As soon as the butler was beyond hearing, Burack said, “I’m going to have a look in that study.”

“Do it quickly, then.”

Burack darted down the hall to the study. There was a fire in the grate, and, of more interest, a glass half full of sherry on the corner of the desk. He looked around the room, and noticed the other glass on the carpet, with a dark spot beside it. So two men had been there. Gordon had either been fed doctored sherry, or caught unawares and knocked on the head.

He fled back to the saloon and reported his findings, finishing with the question, “What has he done with the body?”

“Let us hope it is a living, breathing body, and not a corpse. Gordon’s been spying on the house. Leonard must have spotted him. It was still a demmed rash thing to abduct the boy. I fear Leonard is way out of his depth. No telling what he might do if we rattle him. I wish we could look around without exciting his suspicions.”

“There don’t seem to be anyone but the old butler around.”

“And a servant or two belowstairs, no doubt. He can’t have taken Gordon far. He’s in this house somewhere, probably on this floor. He wouldn’t want the maids to see him. I assume the whole house is not in on his doings. Why take him upstairs, only to have to bring him down again to—dispose of him.”

Death was no new thing to a veteran of the Peninsular War, but this was different. Soldiers took their chances when they enlisted. Gordon was an innocent young civilian. Costain knew he was partly responsible for Gordon’s predicament. He had egged the boy on, never imagining such danger awaited him. On top of his guilt, there was the knowledge that he was Cathy’s brother. She would despise him if anything happened to Gordon.

He felt fairly sure that the boy had only been drugged. The spilt sherry suggested it. Leonard had panicked. He would want time to assess the situation. Surely murder was not his first option. But it might well be his last. How could he release Gordon after this? They had to find him before Leonard was catapulted by fear into murder.

Costain turned to Burack and spoke in a low, urgent voice. “When the butler comes, you go upstairs and explain the sudden meeting to Leonard. I’ll stay here and ask the butler for tea, to be rid of him, and allow me to search the rooms.”

“Very well.”

“And Burack—tell Leonard that Cosgrave is awaiting our return, to discover whether Leonard is well enough to take part in this meeting. Just to be sure we do return. You understand?”

“An excellent ploy.”

“Only if he believes you. Make the story outrageous enough and he’ll be too shocked to consider whether it is true.”

Burack grinned. “I’ll tell him Boney’s been killed and we are going to discuss our options vis-a-vis the war.”

“Excellent!”

They heard the echo of approaching feet, and looked up to see not the butler, but Mr. Leonard approaching. They exchanged a defeated look. All their plans were for naught. Again Costain had no one to blame but himself. He had been certain Leonard would stay in bed to bolster his claim of illness. He never thought he would come limping downstairs to meet them.

Leonard wore a dressing gown and leaned on a cane. But Costain knew he had been running down the street, presumably without the aid of his cane, a short while before.

Mr. Leonard said, “What has happened, Lord Costain? Why have you gotten me out of bed at this hour of the night? My butler tells me it is urgent.”

Before Costain could reply, Burack blurted out, “Boney is dead. We are all meeting here to discuss it.”

Mr. Leonard swallowed it holus-bolus. “Good God, Bonaparte dead! How did it happen?”

Burack looked to Costain. “Fell off his horse and broke his neck,” Costain said tersely. “That is all we know yet. Perhaps Castlereagh will have more details when he arrives. We are to search the house—just a precaution—and see that the servants are locked in their rooms. This is too important to risk eavesdroppers. Who is here besides your butler?”

“Just cook and a maid, belowstairs. They will not bother us. I’ve sent my butler to bed. You have seen how ancient he is.” He paused and asked suspiciously, “But why are they meeting here?”

“Because you were not well enough to go to Whitehall, and naturally such discussions would not proceed without you,” Costain replied.

“Rubbish! This will be a matter for Liverpool and the Cabinet to thrash out. I cannot believe my presence is that vital,” Leonard said. “Meeting in a private house—I never heard of such a thing.”

Costain noticed Leonard’s hand sliding to the pocket of his dressing gown. His own hand automatically moved under his cape to grip the handle of his pistol, to be ready when Leonard brought out his weapon.

A dead silence fell as the men stared at each other. Without another word being spoken, their own private war was declared, and Costain knew it would be a fight to the death.