The Great Christmas Ball (17 page)

She was aware that she looked elegant herself in a gown of gentle mauve that was kind to her fading complexion. It would be pleasant to have an evening out with old friends. This do would refresh her memories of how a proper evening party was held. The Christmas rout was back on track.

It was the main subject of conversation over dinner. Gordon was assigned the task of hiring musicians. Lady Lyman expressed no interest whatsoever in Mr. Burack. He was but a means to an end. When he arrived at eight, she saw that he looked like a gentleman. That was enough to win him a smile.

Lady Lyman and Mr. Reynolds accompanied Burack and Cathy, which inhibited any private conversation between the young couple. Cathy was minutely aware that the carriage dogging their tail held Lord Costain’s party. When the two carriages unloaded in front of the stately mansion on Curzon Street, Lady Lyman spotted Costain and latched onto his arm for the trip up the stairs, thanking him effusively for the tickets.

She had mentally settled on the twentieth for her rout. That would give Costain time to be in touch with his mama about inviting Cathy to Northland with him for Christmas. “I have a little rout party planned for the week before Christmas. I hope you can join us, Lord Costain,” she said.

“I would be charmed, ma’am,” he replied without even asking the date. His attention and his eyes closely followed Cathy and Burack’s progress to the front door. Lady Lyman considered him as good as won.

A fluttering excitement invaded Cathy as she was  announced at the ball. She was here! She had made it to the Great Ball. Behind her shoulder Lord Costain hovered, quite taking the shine out of the gentleman at her elbow. She gazed below at the elegant guests, the ladies all sparkling with diamonds and the gentlemen hovering attendance like a swarm of uxorious penguins. The hall was decorated with fir boughs and red and gold ribbons encircling the pillars. An enormous fir tree stood in one corner. Cotton wool arranged amid the branches gave the appearance of snow, and small gilt boxes dangled from the boughs. Perhaps they contained trinkets for the ladies.

Cathy’s eyes followed Costain as they all descended to the ballroom. Gilt letters a foot high were strung across the doorway, spelling out
HAPPY
CHRISTMAS
.

“Who is the chit he is standing up with?" Lady Lyman said.

“Miss Stanfield, Mama, the girl Gordon likes.”

Miss Stanfield, unaware that her duty was to fall in love with Sir Gordon, chose her cousin as her first partner.

“A common-looking chit,” Lady Lyman decreed, her gimlet eyes assessing the Incomparable. “When one sees an excess of garniture on the gown, one knows one is looking at a commoner. She does not require sequins and lace
and
bows.” A veteran now of her first Season, Miss Stanfield wore a powder-blue gown festooned with a plethora of all three. “And a flirt into the bargain. See how she is rolling her eyes at the bachelors.”

“She is Lord Costain’s first cousin,” Cathy said.

This close kinship removed Miss Stanfield as possible competition, and added greatly to her charms. “Uncommonly pretty,” Lady Lyman decided. “I notice a greater use of decoration in the gowns these days. You might want to tack a few bows onto your skirt, Cathy.”

Cathy went to the floor on Mr. Burack’s arm. As they performed the intricate steps of the opening minuet, she found it hard to transmogrify her partner into a dangerous spy. He was shy and admiring. She sensed that his stiffer demeanor that afternoon was the result of duty overcoming shyness.

“It was kind of you to invite me, Miss Lyman,” he said two or three times. “Your mama, too, was very nice. Not so toplofty as I feared.”

She was suddenly struck with the fact that Mr. Burack was quite a young gentleman. “Have you been at the Horse Guards long, Mr. Burack?” she asked.

“Only a few months, since graduating from Oxford.”

Good gracious! He was not much older than Gordon. It was ludicrous to think him a hardened villain. “You haven’t made any more discoveries at your office?” she asked, to remind him why they were at this ball together, since he seemed to have forgotten.

“Nothing of any significance occurred this afternoon. I notice Mrs. Leonard has just arrived,” he said, glancing to the doorway, where she had entered with her elderly companion. “Her husband is at home with the gout.”

Cathy turned to examine Mrs. Leonard. The lady had gone to a deal of trouble to enhance her natural beauty. She looked striking and dramatic in a gown of shot silk, with diamonds at her ivory throat. The gown looked black at first glance, but as she moved, flashes of deep burgundy appeared. Before she had gone two paces into the room, a gentleman accosted her.

“She is very attractive,” Cathy said.

“Do you think so? For an elderly woman, perhaps. The lady with her is handsome. I wonder who she can be?”

“The younger lady is Mrs. Leonard, Mr. Burack,” Cathy said, surprised that he didn’t know it.

 “You mean to tell me that dasher is married to old Leonard? Good Lord! No wonder he is always boasting of her. I thought the old pelter must be his wife. She sat with him at the theater the other evening. Now I see why you thought Lord Costain mighty be her lover.”

This pretty well convinced Cathy that Burack was too uninformed to be the spy. “Who is that man with her?” she asked.

“That is Mr. Fortescue, from the Horse Guards.”

“Could he be her cohort?” Cathy asked. She was not happy to assign the role to either Costain or Burack. There must be someone else. “If she is a spy, I mean.”

Burack said, “Fortescue is only a sort of financial liaison man with the government. His job is to try to get more money out of them, but he doesn’t have the spending of it.”

At the minuet’s end, Lord Costain wished to dash up and snatch Cathy from Burack’s arm. They were both smiling too much to suit him. He knew his duty was to deliver Liz Stanfield to Gordon, however. Before he could do it, Gordon appeared at his elbow in the company of someone called Miss Swanson.

“Our dance, I think, Miss Stanfield?” Gordon said, and took her arm. Costain, perforce, had to smile and ask Miss Swanson for the next set.

Neither Lady Lyman nor her daughter was pleased with it, but as an extremely eligible earl asked to be presented to Cathy, they overcame their chagrin. At the end of the second set, Costain directed one scowl on Cathy before crossing the room and asking Mrs. Leonard to stand up with him.

At the termination of that set, Cathy returned to her mother, who had deprived herself of the pleasures of the card parlor to oversee her daughter’s progress and offer such hints as her vast experience of a world long past suggested to her.

“I could swear that is Helena Fotherington with Costain!” Lady Lyman said. “You recall you were asking about her just the other day, Cathy. She has not changed one iota. How on earth does she do it? I must say good evening to her. That will give Costain the chance to stand up with you. Come along, Cathy.”

Cathy suffered the exquisite embarrassment of hounding off after Costain and hearing herself described to the beautiful Mrs. Leonard as “my little girl, Cathy. All grown up now.”

Mrs. Leonard smiled dutifully. “I have already met your daughter, Lady Lyman,” she said, but her questioning gaze did not suggest the slightest memory of the mother.

“We met in France, at Amiens,” Lady Lyman said, to jog her memory. “You may recall my late husband, Sir Aubrey Lyman?”

“Certainly. I was sorry to hear he had passed away. And do you have any other children, Lady Lyman?”

“One son, Gordon. He is here somewhere.”

“Ah, you are fortunate. I have no children, just my little pug dog. He is keeping my husband company this evening. Harold is a martyr to gout. He would insist I come, as Lady Cosgrave is one of the hostesses. We spent the entire afternoon here, Lady Cosgrave and I, overseeing preparations. I scarcely had time to run home and have a bite of dinner and change.” As she spoke, Mrs. Leonard’s infamous eyes toured the room, seeking her next escort.

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.

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.