The Great Christmas Ball (2 page)

“Is he about?”

“This is his hour for a nap. If you are not in a hurry, I shall call him.”

Lord Costain was in very much of a hurry. The lady was Reynolds’s niece; she must be all right. He took his decision in a split second.

“It is German, actually,” he said, and removed the letter from his pocket. “Your sign says discreet translations. I trust I may rely on that? Actually the letter is not mine. A friend of mine has been abroad, and received this note. He did not know anyone who could translate it for him, and I had seen your sign outside.”

“Do you live nearby, Mr. Lovell?” she asked, taking the note.

“No! No, I live on Upper Grosvenor Square,” he said, hastily choosing an address far removed from his own Berkeley Square.

“Perhaps you work at Whitehall, as you have spotted my uncle’s little sign?”

He read the intelligent interest in her look, and felt a qualm. “No, I happened to be strolling through St. James’s Park one day, and wandered by your house in passing. My friend, the one who received the note, cannot imagine who could be writing to him in German. All a mistake, I daresay. Brown is a common name, after all.” Now, why had he said that? Perhaps the letter used a different name.

A soppy love letter,
Cathy said to herself,
and he is ashamed to admit it.
She was disappointed in him. Aloud she said, “It is not necessary to explain the note’s history, Mr. Lovell. I merely translate. Will you wait? I see the letter is brief.”

“Yes, certainly.”

“If you would like to have a seat by the fire, I shan’t be long.”

“Thank you.” He sat for a moment, but was soon up, pacing the room in obvious agitation.

Cathy drew out a sheet of paper for her translation and read the letter. A frown drew her brows together. This was no love letter! It spoke of
the gentleman’s
defeat at Moscow, and plans by the German states to rise up against
the gentleman
while he was in disarray.
The gentleman
was obviously Napoleon Bonaparte, who had invaded Russia, and if Mr. Lovell was not a spy, she would be much surprised.

Her excitement rose higher as she realized what she was reading. The only question was, what sort of spy was Mr. Lovell? He had a Latin look about him, yet his accent was English. His tailoring did not suggest that he lived on Upper Grosvenor Square, and the fact that he knew of her uncle’s small translating service suggested that he did indeed work at Whitehall.

She peered over her shoulder, and saw him gazing at her in fixed concentration. She damped down her excitement and wild imaginings and translated the note. When she was finished, she said, “It is ready, Mr. Lovell” in a remarkably calm voice, but her hand was trembling.

He came pouncing forward at once. “How much—”

She leveled a penetrating look at him. “It was an honor to translate this one. You may tell Mr. Brown there will be no charge.”

Their eyes met and held. He read the knowledge in hers, and his heart shriveled. “You know!” he said in a hollow voice.

“Yes, I know,” she replied calmly.

His lips clenched in indecision, then he hastily read the note. When he was done, he lowered it and stared at Cathy. What must this prim little spinster make of all this? He was on thorns to dash to Castlereagh with the news. Castlereagh would be eager to abet Metternich and the Prussians to break the alliance with Boney. But he must get the letter back before Cosgrave discovered its absence. Most of all, he must secure this girl’s promise to hold the secret.

“You realize this is strictly confidential, Miss Lyman.”

“Of course,” she said.

“I cannot overemphasize the importance of secrecy.”

“My family have a long history in the diplomatic service, Mr. Lovell. Our word is our bond.”

“You must not tell anyone, even your family.”

“I understand. There is only one thing that bothers me. Why did you not use the translation service of the government? Why bring such a sensitive document to me?”

“Because there are people at work who are not to be trusted. We do not know who is responsible, but secret information is leaving the Horse Guards.”

She considered this a moment and found it reasonable. “I will be happy to perform any such work in future, without charge, naturally.”

“And you won’t tell anyone I was here. I have bent the rules a little. It would not be well for me if it were discovered.”

“Yes, it was rather rash of you, Mr. Lovell,” she said, but in no condemning way. “But you may place complete faith in my discretion.”

Lord! He had placed state secrets in the hands of a mere lady. Even Castlereagh would not countenance this folly. He studied her a moment. Excitement lent a sparkle to a pair of hazel eyes heavily fringed in lashes. For the rest, she was rather pretty in a conventional way, with a tumble of brown curls and regular features. It was her prim manner that had suggested the word
spinster,
for she was certainly not old. None of this gave any indication of her character, however.

She mentioned her family’s history. Lyman—what did he know of them? There was a Sir Aubrey Lyman. “Are you Sir Aubrey’s daughter?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said proudly.

“Ah, and where is he posted now?”

“He has been dead these five years.”

“I’m sorry,” he said perfunctorily. His overriding concern was to discover something of the family’s character and reputation, but he had not time to do it then. “My family was acquainted with him some years ago,” he lied smoothly. “Could I do myself the honor of calling one day?”

“We should be happy to receive you.” She smiled.

Her shy smile told him she had taken the gesture as a personal compliment. Was there no end to the mischief he could create? “Will you be at home this evening?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, we seldom go out. In such weather as this, I mean,” she added hastily, as she did not wish to give Mr. Lovell the notion she had no social life.

“It begins to look as though we shall have a white Christmas.” He smiled, putting on his coat. “I don’t know how to thank you, Miss Lyman.” He picked up his hat and cane.

“You will remember to return if you have any other documents to translate.”

“Indeed I shall.”

He tipped his hat, opened the door, said
“Au revoir,”
then disappeared into the darkness, cursing himself for his incautious behavior. She was certainly eager to get her eyes on more state secrets! Surely the Lymans were not in league with the Frenchies. He seemed to remember Sir Aubrey had been stationed in France some years before. Diplomats had been known to turn their coats. Their having set up shop so close to Whitehall looked suspicious. No very grand shop either; there was no money to spare there. He would make inquiries and see what he could discover.

In the study, Cathy Lyman hugged her excitement to herself, and felt exactly as if she had fallen into one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. All that was lacking was the grove of ancient oaks and a gothic castle, but the hero more than compensated for their lack. She wondered how she would ever keep such a wonderful secret from Gordon. How he would love to be a part of it!

Lord Costain returned to the Horse Guards with ample time to return the note to its original form. Fortunately, neither Cosgrave’s secretary nor the junior assistant, Mr. Burack, was about. He reheated his thin blade and returned the button of sealing wax in such a way that his practiced eye could see no irregularity in its placement.

He disliked to give such an important message to a man who had spent the past two hours imbibing wine. When Cosgrave had still not returned to his office at five-thirty, Costain took the letter to Lord Castlereagh, as it was too urgent to wait longer. He admitted frankly what he had done.

Lord Castlereagh, the foreign secretary, was a clever, dapper, rather handsome gentleman. He listened intently before speaking. “Rodney Reynolds, you say? He is sound as a rock, lad. No danger there. I have used him myself for personal matters.”

“But it was his niece, Miss Lyman, who translated the note.”

“Miss Lyman? Oh, dear, that was a tad rash. The young ladies are notorious for their flying tongues. But then, Miss Lyman is no longer on the town. One seldom sees her out. And she has experience of sensitive matters—she was abroad for years with her father. Impress upon her that secrecy is of paramount importance.”

“I did that, of course.”

“Just one word of caution—she has a foolish, headstrong young brother. We don’t want him working mischief on our behalf. You might call on her and tell her not to mention it to him. I shan’t presume to tell you how to convince a lady,” he said with a twinkle. “And now I must show this to Liverpool. One trembles to think we might not have seen it till morning if you had not chanced to be there. This is the sort of thing we have to put up with from York’s set.”

“Could Mr. Jones and all the Mr. Joneses not be instructed to deliver their notes directly to you, sir?” Costain suggested.

“It is not feasible to have them dropping into the House of Parliament. The function of the Horse Guards is to handle such matters, and sift the wheat from the chaff, for we get mainly chaff, you must know. Folks with a hankering for excitement and overly active imaginations see a French plot on every street corner. Cosgrave will soon be retiring. When we have the proper man in charge ...” He gave a
tsk
of dismay. “Well done, Costain. I knew we might count on you. Carry on.” He slid the note into his inner pocket and went off in search of the prime minister.

* * *

It was five o’clock. Cathy was eager to close the office for the day and have her tea. If Mr. Steinem did not come soon, she would do so. Meanwhile, she had plenty to fill her mind. The Great Winter Ball took a backseat to Mr. Lovell and espionage in her ruminations. Eventually, an image of her mama intruded. How could she explain Mr. Lovell’s pending visit? He said their families were acquainted, but the only Lovell she could remember was a milliner, and Mama did not even like her bonnets.

The door from the hallway opened and a sleek head peered in. “Tea’s on,” Gordon said. “Cook has made hot scones. There’s raspberry jam.”

“I am waiting for a customer to return,” Cathy replied.

A tall, elegant, slender form followed the sleek head into the room. At nineteen, Sir Gordon had acquired the height but not the bulk of manhood. His features were similar to Cathy’s, with the same chestnut hair and hazel eyes, but with a stronger nose and jaw. As the sole son and heir of an illustrious father, handsome, not entirely stupid, and the apple of his mama’s eye, Gordon felt he honored the world by condescending to decorate it with his presence.

He had left for university an unlicked cub, and come home a man of the world, but just what world his mind inhabited was unclear at present. He had arrived wearing the Belcher kerchief and wild hair of a poet, but when he had settled on a diplomatic career, he had switched to a proper cravat, got his hair barbered, and begun speaking in the oracular tones of his late papa when he remembered to. When he was hungry, as he was at that moment, he reverted to his own age and nature.

“Dash it, it’s five o’clock. How long are you going to wait? It is unfitting for a Lyman to be taking in work from commoners.”

“It is an affair of the heart,” she replied with a forgiving smile. Gordon was suffering from his unrequited love for Miss Elizabeth Stanfield, and might accept this excuse.

“A lover should be more eager. To hell with him, say I. The scones will be cold.”

“You go ahead.” She was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Oh, here he is now.”

She hopped up with alacrity to open the door and found herself staring at a curled beaver pulled low and a scarf drawn high over a man’s nose and mouth. All that was visible of his face was a pair of narrowed eyes, but she knew at a glance that the man was not Mr. Steinem. He was the wrong size, the wrong shape. He peered over her shoulder into the study at Gordon.

Before she could speak, the man jostled her rudely aside and stepped in. As she closed the door, a frisson ran up her spine. It was not quite fear; she was too annoyed to be afraid yet. It was not until she turned around and saw the black circle of a pistol barrel pointing at her that fear rose to engulf her. She looked in wordless horror to her brother, who gazed at the pistol as if it were Beelzebub incarnate.

“Give me the letter Costain left with you,” the man said in a gruff voice. Cathy had the feeling he was changing his voice on purpose, making it a growl to frighten her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in a trembling whisper.

“The man who just left—the message from Austria,” he said impatiently. The gun moved in his hand.

Cathy felt ready to swoon. She had anticipated future excitement, but not of quite this sort, and not so quickly. At no time had a gun figured in it. Then she remembered Mr. Lovell. This was her chance to prove to him—why did this man call him Costain?—that she was fit to assist him. The intruder glanced at the letter on her desk, and she suddenly had the solution to her problem.

She picked up Mr. Steinem’s billet-doux and her translation. The man grabbed them from her fingers and glanced at the original, then at the translation. “This is a love letter!” he exclaimed.

“That is what Costain left,” she said with wide-eyed innocence. “You see the original is in German.”

Gordon listened, and as the first terror subsided,  his mind began to work. It was clear to the meanest intelligence the man with the gun wasn’t an outraged husband as he had first thought, or he would have been
expecting
a love letter. The only other possibility was that he was a spy. “It must be in code,” he said without thinking. As soon as the words left his lips, he regretted it.

The intruder looked at him with interest, and seemed to accept the idea. He stuffed the letters into his pocket while still leveling the pistol at them with his other hand. “You two, down on the floor,” he commanded.