Rendezvous

12

Stunned at his loss of control, Harry gazed in fury at the sparkling shards of broken glass. They glittered in the sunlight like the paste jewels Augusta wore with such pride.

He could not believe he had allowed her to drive him to this.

The woman had bewitched him. One moment he lusted for her with an outrageous passion; the next he was consumed with gratitude as he watched her slowly but surely befriend his daughter. In yet another instant she would make him laugh or drive him to distraction with her unpredictable actions.

And now she had finally brought him to the jagged edge of a seething jealousy that was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

And the worst of it was that Harry knew he was jealous of a dead man. Richard Ballinger. Bold, daring, reckless, very likely traitorous Richard.

Augusta 's brother, a man who, even if he were still alive, would not be a sexual rival. But a man who, entombed and enshrined as the last male issue of the dashing Northumberland Ballingers, occupied a place in Augusta 's heart that Harry knew was forever closed to him.

Locked in the safe, untouchable realm of the beyond, Richard would live forever in Augusta's imagination as the ideal Northumberland Ballinger, the glorious older brother whose honor and reputation she would defend to the last.

"Goddamn you to hell, you damn Northumberland bastard." Harry stalked back to his chair and threw himself down into it. "Were you still alive, you son of a bitch, I believe I would call you out."

And thereby sever whatever fragile bond I do have with my new wife and cause her to hate me forever, Harry reminded himself bitterly. He might as well confront the logic of the matter. There was no doubt but that if the situation were put to the test, Augusta would side with her brother against her husband.

As she had proven only a few minutes ago.

"Bastard," Harry said again, unable to think of any other word to describe his ghostly rival for Augusta's affections.

How does one fight a ghost?

Harry sprawled in the chair behind the desk and forced himself to contemplate the disastrous situation from every angle.

He had to admit that he had handled the thing wrong right from the start. He should never had summoned Augusta to the library with such urgency. Nor should he have ordered her to turn over the poem. If he had kept his wits about him, he would have done it all much differently.

But the truth was he had not been thinking all that clearly. After Meredith had casually dropped a mention of Richard Ballingers poem about webs and spiders, Harry had been swamped with a violent need to get his hands on it.

Harry thought he had convinced both himself and Sheldrake that he had put the war and all its horror behind him. But he acknowledged now that he would never be able to forget the man called the Spider. Too many men had died because of the bastard. Too many risks had been taken by good men such as Peter Sheldrake. Too many battlefield losses had been caused by the traitor.

And the knowledge that the Spider had very likely been English had only made the frustration and anger all the more searing for Harry.

Harry knew he had had a reputation for going about his intelligence work with cold blood and even icier logic. But the truth was that it had been the only way he had been able to perform his grim tasks. If he had allowed his emotions to interfere, he would have been paralyzed. Each move and countermove, each decision, each estimate or analysis would have been skewed by the gut-destroying fear of making a mistake.

Cold, clear logic had been the only way to carry on. But beneath the veneer of ice, the anger and frustration had raged. And for Harry, because of the role he had been obliged to play, most of that dark fury and desire for revenge had been focused on his opposite number in the field, the Spider.

Harry's talent for logic and a desire to get on with his life had enabled him to put aside his desire for revenge in the months since Waterloo. Knowing that there would most likely never be answers to the tormenting questions he had often lain awake asking, Harry had accepted the inevitable. In the haze of war, many facts were forever buried, as he had explained to Augusta on the day of the picnic. The true identity of the Spider had appeared to be one of those lost facts.

But now, because of a chance remark from his daughter, a fresh clue to the Spider's identity might have been unearthed. Richard Ballinger's poem about the spider and its web might mean everything or nothing. Either way, Harry knew he had to examine it. He could not rest until he had seen the damned thing.

But he should have approached the matter more cautiously, he chided himself. The present unpleasant situation was entirely his own fault. He had been so bloody anxious to see the poem, so certain that Augusta would obey him in the matter, that he had not stopped to think about where her true loyalty might lie.

He considered his options.

If he were to go upstairs and force Augusta to turn the poem over to him, Harry knew he would surely lose whatever tender feelings she had for him. She might never forgive him.

On the other hand, the knowledge that her loyalty toward her brother's memory was stronger than her new loyalties as a wife was eating at Harry's insides.

He slammed his fist against the arm of his chair and got to his feet. He had told Augusta on the journey down from London that he did not particularly care about love. Loyalty was the thing he demanded from a wife. She had agreed to give it to him. She had agreed to fulfill her duties as a wife.

She could bloody well do precisely that.

Harry made his decision. Augusta had issued enough challenges of her own. It was time he issued one to her.

He strode across the Oriental carpet, opened the library door, and went out into the tiled hall. He stalked up the red-carpeted staircase to the next floor and went down the corridor to the door of Augusta's bedchamber.

He opened the door without bothering to knock and walked into the room.

Augusta, seated at her small gilt escritoire, was busy sniffling into a lacy handkerchief. She started when the door opened and looked up immediately. Her eyes flashed with fear and fury and unshed tears.

The Northumberland Ballingers are a bloody damn emotional lot, Harry thought with an inner sigh.

"What are you doing here, Graystone? If you have come to wrest Richard's poem from me by force, you can forget it. I have hidden it very carefully."

"I assure you, madam, it is highly unlikely you could think of a hiding place that I would not find, were I to try." Harry closed the bedchamber door very softly and stood feeing her. His booted feet were braced slightly apart as he prepared to do battle with his wife.

"Are you threatening me, my lord?"

"Not at all." She looked so thoroughly miserable, so tremulously proud, so very hurt, that Harry momentarily felt himself weaken. "It need not be like this between us, my love."

"Do not call me your love," she spat. "You do not believe in love, if you will recall."

Harry exhaled heavily and walked across the bedchamber to Augusta's dressing table. He stood gazing meditatively at the array of crystal containers, silver-backed brushes, and other delightfully frivolous, delightfully feminine items arranged on it.

He thought briefly of how much he enjoyed walking into this bedchamber unannounced through the connecting door and catching Augusta seated in front of the looking glass. He liked finding her dressed in one of her frilly wrappers with a nonsensical little lace cap perched on her chestnut curls. He took pleasure in the intimacy of the situation and in the blush his arrival always brought to her cheeks.

Now she had gone from thinking of him as a lover to believing him to be her enemy.

Harry turned away from the dressing table and looked at Augusta, who watched him with a deep wariness.

"I do not believe this is a good time to discuss your notion of love," Harry said.

"Really, my lord? What shall we discuss, then?"

"Your notion of loyalty will do."

She blinked uncertainly and looked even more wary. "What are you talking about, Graystone?"

"You vowed your loyalty to me on our wedding day, Augusta. Or have you forgotten so soon?"

"No, my lord, but—"

"And on our first night together in this very bedchamber, you stood over there by the window and swore that you would fulfill your duty as a wife."

"Harry, that is not fair."

"What is not fair? To remind you of your vows? I will admit, I did not think it would be necessary to do so. I believed you would honor them, you see."

"But this is a different matter entirely," she protested. "This involves my brother. Surely you can understand that."

Harry nodded sympathetically. "I understand that you are torn between your loyalty to your brother's memory and your loyalty to your husband. It is a difficult situation for you and I am more sorry than I can say that I have caused your dilemma. Life is rarely simple or evenhanded in a moment of crisis."

"Damn you, Harry." She clenched her fists in her lap and looked at him with eyes that glistened.

"I know how you must feel. And you have every right. For my part, I apologize for having sprung my demand upon you with so little consideration. I ask your forgiveness for the summary fashion in which I ordered you to produce the poem. I can only say on my own behalf that the matter is of some import to me."

"It is a matter of some import to me, also," she tossed back furiously.

"Obviously. And you have apparently made your decision. You have made it very plain that protecting your brother's memory is more important than doing your duty as a wife. Your loyalty goes first to the last of the Northumberland Ballingers. Your lawful husband will only get what is left over."

"My God, Gray stone, you are cruel." Augusta got to her feet clutching the handkerchief. She turned her back to him and dabbed at her eyes.

"Because I ask that you obey me in this matter? Because as your husband I ask for your full loyalty, not just some small portion of it?"

"Are duty and loyalty all you can think about, Graystone?"

"Not entirely, but right now they appear to be paramount."

"And what about your duty and loyalty to your wife?"

"I have given you my word not to discuss your brother's wartime activities, whatever they may have been, with anyone. That is all I can promise, Augusta."

"But if there is something about that poem that seems to indicate my brother was a… a traitor, then you will very likely interpret it that way."

"It will not matter, Augusta. The man is dead. One does not pursue the dead. He is beyond the reach of the law or my own personal revenge."

"But his honor and reputation are not dead."

"Be honest with yourself, Augusta. It is you who are afraid of what may be concealed in that poem. You are fearful of having the brother you have placed on a pedestal knocked down to the ground."

"Why is the poem so important now that the war is over?" She glanced back over her shoulder, searching his face.

Harry met her gaze. "For the last three or four years of the war there was a mysterious man called the Spider who worked for the French doing very much what I did for the Crown. We believed him to be an Englishman partly because his information was so accurate and partly because of the way he operated. He cost the lives of many good men and if he is still alive I would have him pay for his treason."

"You want revenge on this man?"

"Yes."

"And you will ruin our relationship as husband and wife to get it."

Harry went still. "I do not see that our relationship should be affected by this business. If it is, 'tis only because you allow it to happen."

"Aye, my lord," she muttered. "That is the way to go about it. How very clever of you. Blame me for whatever ill feelings arise because of your cruelty."

Harry's anger flared once more. "What about your cruelty to me? How do you think it makes me feel to know that you have chosen to defend your brother's memory rather than give your loyalty to your husband?"

"It seems a great chasm has opened up between us, my lord." She turned around to confront him fully. "Whatever happens, nothing can be the same between us again."

"There is a bridge across that abyss, madam. You may stand forever on your side, the side of the brave, dashing Northumberland Ballingers, or you may cross over to my side, where your future lies. I leave the decision entirely up to you. Rest assured I will not take the poem from you by force."

Without waiting for a response, Harry turned and let himself out of the bedchamber.

A polite, frozen calm settled over the household during the next two days. The grim atmosphere was all the more noticeable to Harry because it contrasted so sharply with the weeks of flowering warmth that had preceded it.

It was the marked change in the mood of everyone at Graystone that brought home to Harry just how much of a transformation the household had undergone during the time Augusta had been its mistress.

The servants, always a punctilious, well-trained lot, had, since Augusta's arrival, begun to go about their duties with a cheerfulness that Harry had never before noticed. It had brought to mind Sheldrake's comment on Augusta's habit of being kind to staff.

Meredith, that miniature scholar of serious mien and obedient temperament, was suddenly painting pictures and going on picnics. Her simple muslin dresses all seemed to have grown flounces and ribbons lately. And she had begun to wax enthusiastic on the subject of the characters in the novels Augusta was reading to her.

Even Clarissa, that dour, sober-minded female of irreproachable character who had once devoted herself to her duties as a governess, had altered. Harry was not precisely certain what had happened during the few weeks of his marriage, but there was no doubt that Clarissa had definitely thawed toward Augusta. Not only had she thawed, she had been showing definite signs of having developed some passionate enthusiasm that, in another woman, might have signaled a romance.

Lately Clarissa frequently excused herself from some planned outing or from joining the family in the drawing room after dinner to rush upstairs to her own bedchamber. Harry got the impression she was working on a project of some sort, but he hesitated to inquire. Clarissa had always been an intensely self-contained, unapproachable female and he had always respected her privacy. It was, after all, something of a Fleming trait.

Harry was quite certain there was no romance in Clarissa's narrow, constrained world of the schoolroom, but the unfamiliar sparkle in her eyes had made him exceedingly curious. He had attributed that change, along with all the others, to Augusta.

But during the two days following the outbreak of hostilities with Augusta, the household visibly altered once more. A frigid, correct atmosphere reigned. Everyone was painstakingly polite and formal, but it was obvious to Harry that the inhabitants of Graystone were collectively blaming him for the chill.

That knowledge was vastly annoying. He contemplated it as he went up the staircase to the schoolroom on the third day. If the various members of the household were inclined to take sides in the silent battle of wills going on between himself and Augusta, it was patently obvious they should have taken his side.

He was in command here at Graystone and everyone's livelihood on the estate depended on him. One would have thought the servants and Clarissa, at least, would have been acutely aware of that feet.

One would have thought Augusta would have been aware of it.

But it was becoming increasingly clear that Augusta gave her loyalty where she gave her heart and her heart had been given to the memories of the past.

Harry had spent the past two nights alone in his bed contemplating the closed door of Augusta's bedchamber. He had told himself it was his wife who must open that door and he had been certain she would eventually. Now, as he faced the prospect of a third night alone, however, he was beginning to question his assumption.

At the top of the stairs Harry turned and walked down the hall to the schoolroom door. He opened it quietly.

Clarissa glanced up, frowning. "Good afternoon, my lord. I did not realize you would be visiting today."

Harry heard the distinct lack of welcome in her tone and decided to ignore it. He knew he was not particularly welcome anywhere in the house lately. "I had a spare moment and decided to see how the painting lessons are going."

"I see. Meredith has started early today. Her ladyship will be along in a moment to take over instruction, as usual."

Meredith looked up from her watercolors. Her eyes brightened for an instant and then she looked away. "Hello, Papa."

"Continue with your work, Meredith. I only want to observe for a while."

"Yes, Papa."

Harry watched her select a new color for her brush. Meredith moistened the bristles carefully and put down a great wash of black paint on the pristine white paper.

Harry realized it was the first time he had ever seen his daughter select such a dark backdrop for her work. The paintings that showed up regularly now in the picture gallery were generally bright, energetic creations that glowed with sunny colors.

"Is that going to be a picture of Graystone at night, Meredith?" Harry went forward to examine the painting in more detail.

"Yes, Papa."

"I see. It will be rather dark, will it not?"

"Yes, Papa. Augusta says I must paint whatever I feel like painting."

"And you feel like painting a dark picture today, even though it is sunny outside?"

"Yes, Papa."

Harry's jaw tightened. Even Meredith was being affected by the silent warfare in the household. And it was all Augusta 's fault. "Perhaps we should take advantage of the beautiful day outside. I shall send around to the stables to have your pony saddled. We shall ride to the stream this afternoon. Would you like that?"

Meredith glanced up quickly, her eyes uncertain. "Can Augusta come with us?"

"We can ask her," Harry said, wincing inwardly. He had no doubt about Augusta's response. She would politely decline, of course. She had somehow managed to ensure that she spent no time in Harry's company during the past two days except at the dining table. "She may have other plans for the afternoon, Meredith."

"As it happens," Augusta said calmly from the doorway, "I have no other plans. I should very much enjoy riding to the stream."

Meredith brightened at once. "That will be fun. I shall go and change into my new riding habit." She glanced quickly at Clarissa. "May I be excused, Aunt Clarissa?"

Clarissa nodded with regal approval. "Yes, of course, Meredith."

Harry turned slowly to meet Augusta's eyes. She inclined her head politely.

"If you will excuse me, my lord, I, too, must change. Meredith and I shall join you downstairs shortly."

Now, what the devil is this all about? Harry wondered as he watched her disappear after Meredith. On the other hand, perhaps he should not inquire too closely.

"I do hope you enjoy your ride with her ladyship and Miss Meredith, sir," Clarissa said very primly.

"Thank you, Clarissa. I am sure I shall."

Just as soon as I find out what Augusta is up to now, Harry added silently as he left the schoolroom.

Half an hour later Harry was still waiting for an answer to his silent questions. Meredith's mood, at least, had lightened into one of childish enthusiasm. She looked adorable in her small hunter-green riding habit, which was identical to the one Augusta was wearing, right down to the jaunty little plumed hat perched atop her gleaming curls.

Harry watched his daughter urge her dappled gray pony ahead down the lane and then he gave Augusta a considering glance.

"I am pleased you were able to accompany us this afternoon, madam," he said, determined to break the silence.

Augusta sat gracefully in the sidesaddle, her gloved hands elegant on the reins. "I thought it would be good for your daughter to get some fresh air. The house has become rather stifling of late, has it not?"

Harry cocked a brow. "Yes, it has."

Augusta bit her lip and flicked him a quick, questioning glance. "Oh, devil take it, my lord, you must know why I agreed to come along today."

"No, madam, I do not. Do not mistake me, I am pleased you chose to accompany us, but I certainly do not pretend to understand why you did so."

She sighed. "I have decided to turn Richard's poem over to you."

A surging sense of relief swept over Harry. He very nearly reached out and pulled Augusta off her horse and onto his lap. But he managed to resist the urge. He really was becoming far too prone to act on impulse lately. He must watch the tendency.

"Thank you, Augusta. May I ask what changed your mind?" He waited tensely for the response.

"I have done a great deal of thinking about the matter and I realize I have very little choice. As you have pointed out on numerous occasions, it is my duty as your wife to obey you."

"I see." Harry was silent for a long moment, much of his relief turning sour. "I am sorry you are guided only by duty, madam."

She frowned. "What else would you have me guided by, if not duty?"

"A sense of trust, perhaps?"

She inclined her head politely. "There is that. I have concluded that you will keep your word. You said you would not expose my brother's secrets to the world and I believe you."

Harry, who was not accustomed to having his word questioned in the first place, not even for a moment, could not quite squelch his irritation. "It took you nearly three full days to conclude you could trust my oath, madam?"

She sighed. "No, Harry. I trusted your word from the start. If you must have the truth, that was never really the problem. You are a very honorable man. Everyone knows that."

"Then what was the problem?" he demanded roughly.

Augusta kept her eyes focused between her mare's ears. "I was afraid, my lord."

"Afraid of what, for God's sake? Of what you might learn about your brother?" It took all his willpower to keep his voice low so that Meredith would not overhear.

"Not precisely. I do not doubt my brother's innocence for a moment. But I was anxious about what you would think of me if, after reading that poem, you somehow conclude that Richard was guilty of treason."

Harry stared at her. "Damnation, Augusta. You believed I would think less of you because of something I concluded your brother might have done?"

"I am a Northumberland Ballinger, too, my lord," she pointed out in a strained voice. "If you believed one of us was capable of treason, you might very well question the integrity of others in my family."

"You thought I might question your integrity?" He was appalled at the workings of her mind.

She sat very straight in the saddle. "I am aware that you already believe me to be sadly frivolous and inclined toward mischief as it is. I did not want you to question my honor, as well. We are bound together for life, my lord. It will be a very long and difficult road ahead for both of us if you think all Northumberland Ballingers lacking in honor."

"Devil take it, madam, 'tis not honor you lack, but intellect." Harry halted his horse and reached out to sweep Augusta off the sidesaddle.

"Harry."

"Were all the members of the Northumberland side of the family so singularly obtuse? I can only hope it does not run in the blood."

He pulled her across his thighs and kissed her soundly. The heavy skirts of her riding habit swung against his stallion's sides, causing the animal to prance. Harry tightened his hand on the reins without lifting his mouth from Augusta's.

"Harry, my horse," Augusta gasped when she could. She clutched at her outrageous little green hat. "She will wander off."

"Papa? Papa, what are you doing to Augusta?" Meredith's voice was thin with anxiety as she jogged back toward her father.

"I am kissing your mother, Meredith. See to her mare, will you? We do not want her to run off."

"Kissing her?" Meredith's eyes widened. "Oh, I see. Do not worry about Augusta's mare, Papa. I will catch her."

Harry was not in the least concerned about the mare, which had only wandered as far as the nearest clump of grass. All he really cared about at the moment was getting Augusta into bed. The battle had only lasted two nights and three days, but that was definitely two nights and three days too long.

"Harry, really. You must put me down at once. Whatever will Meredith think?" Augusta glowered up at him as she lay cradled in his arms.

"Since when did you become so concerned with the proprieties, madam wife?"

"They have been increasingly on my mind since I became the mother of a daughter," Augusta grumbled.

Harry roared with laughter.

Harry opened the door to Augusta's bedchamber later that night and found her sitting at her dressing table. Her maid had just finished preparing her mistress for bed.

"That will be all, Betsy," Augusta said, her eyes riveted to Harry's in the mirror.

"Yes, ma'am. Good night, sir." Betsy's eyes held a pleased, knowing expression as she made her curtsy and let herself out the door.

Augusta got to her feet with a tentative smile. Her wrapper fell open and Harry saw that her nightdress was made of sheerest muslin. He could see her soft breasts swelling against the gossamer fabric. When he allowed his gaze to wander lower, he saw the dark, triangular shadow that crowned her thighs. Suddenly he was achingly aware of his arousal.

"I suppose you have come for the poem?" Augusta said.

Harry shook his head and smiled slowly. "The poem can wait, madam. I have come for you."