Rendezvous

2

Augusta arrived at the door of Lady Arbuthnott's imposing town house shortly after three on the day following her return to London. She had Rosalind Morrissey's journal safely tucked into her reticule and she could hardly wait to tell her father that ail was well.

"I shall not be staying long today, Betsy," she said to her young maid as they went up the steps. "We must hurry home to help Claudia prepare for the Burnett soiree. This is a very important evening for her. The most eligible males in Town will no doubt be there and we want her to look her best."

"Yes, ma'am. Miss Claudia always looks like an angel when she goes out, though. I don't expect tonight will be any different."

Augusta grinned. "How very true."

The door was opened just as Betsy was preparing to knock. Scruggs, Lady Arbuthnott's elderly, stoop-shouldered butler, glared at the newcomers as he saw two other young women out the door.

Augusta recognized Belinda Renfrew and Felicity Oatley as they came down the steps. They were both regular visitors to Lady Arbuthnott's home, as were several other well-bred ladies, all of whom came and went on a regular basis. The ailing Lady Arbuthnott, the neighbors frequently noted, was never short of visitors.

"Good afternoon, Augusta," Felicity said cheerfully. "You are looking well this afternoon."

"Yes, indeed," Belinda murmured, her eyes speculative as she took in the sight of Augusta dressed in a fashionable dark blue pelisse over a sky blue gown. "I am delighted you are here. Lady Arbuthnott has been most anxiously awaiting your arrival."

"I would not dream of disappointing her," Augusta said as she went past with a laughing smile. "Or Miss Norgrove, either." Belinda Renfrew, Augusta knew, had wagered Daphne Norgrove ten pounds that the journal would not be returned to its owner.

Belinda gave her another sharp glance. "All went well at the Enfield house party?"

"Of course. I do hope I shall see you later this evening, Belinda."

Belinda's answering smile was wry. "You most certainly shall, Augusta. And so will Miss Norgrove. Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon. Oh, hello, Scruggs." Augusta turned her smile on the glowering, bewhiskered butler as the door was closed behind her.

"Miss Ballinger. Lady Arbuthnott is expecting you, of course."

"Of course." Augusta refused to be intimidated by the irascible old man who guarded the Arbuthnott front door.

Scruggs was the only male member of the Arbuthnott household and held the high honor of being the only man Lady Arbuthnott had hired in ten years. He was new to her staff this season and in the beginning no one had understood quite why Sally had taken him on. It was obviously a gesture of kindness on her part because the aging butler was clearly unable to cope physically with many of his duties. There were entire days and evenings when he did not appear at the door at all due to his rheumatism and other assorted complaints.

Complaining was one of the few things Scruggs apparently enjoyed. He complained of everything: his painful joints, the weather, his duties in the household, the lack of assistance he received in carrying out those duties, and the low wages he claimed Lady Arbuthnott paid.

But somewhere along the line the ladies who visited here so regularly had concluded that Scruggs was the finishing touch they had been needing all along. He was eccentric, original, and vastly entertaining. They had adopted him wholeheartedly and now counted him as a valuable addition to the premises.

"How is your rheumatism today, Scruggs?" Augusta asked as she untied her new feather-trimmed bonnet.

"What was that?" Scruggs glared at her. "Speak up if you want to ask a question. Don't understand why ladies are always mumbling. Think they could learn to speak up."

"I said, how is your rheumatism today, Scruggs?"

"Extremely painful, thank you, Miss Ballinger. Rarely been worse." Scruggs always spoke in a deep, raspy voice that sounded like gravel being ground under a carriage wheel. "And it don't help none having to answer the door fifteen times in one hour, I'll tell you that much. All the comings and goings around here are enough to drive a sane man straight into Bedlam, if you ask me. Don't understand why you females can't stay put for more than five minutes."

Augusta clucked sympathetically as she reached into her reticule and drew out a small bottle. "I have brought along a remedy you might wish to try. It was my mother's recipe. She used to make it up for my grandfather, who found it very effective."

"Is that right? What happened to your grandfather, Miss Ballinger?" Scruggs took the bottle with a wary expression and examined it closely.

"He died some years ago."

"From the effects of this medicine, I daresay."

"He was eighty-five, Scruggs. Legend has it that he was found dead in bed with one of the housemaids."

"Is that a fact?" Scruggs eyed the bottle with renewed interest. "I shall try it straightaway, in that case."

"Do that. I only wish I had something equally useful to give to Lady Arbuthnott. How is she today, Scruggs?"

Scruggs's bushy white brows rose and fell. There was a gleam of sadness in his blue eyes. Augusta was always fascinated by those beautiful aqua-colored eyes. They struck her as surprisingly sharp and disconcertingly youthful in his heavily lined and whiskered face.

"This is turning out to be one of her good days, Miss. I believe you will find she is anticipating your arrival with great enthusiasm."

"Then I shall not keep her waiting." Augusta glanced at her maid. "Go and have a cup of tea with your friends in the kitchen, Betsy. I shall have Scruggs summon you when I am ready to leave."

"Yes, ma'am."

Betsy bobbed a curtsy and hurried off to join the other maids and footmen who had accompanied their mistresses on the afternoon visits. There was never a lack of companionship in the Arbuthnott kitchens.

Scruggs moved toward the entrance of the drawing room with a painfully slow, crablike gait. He opened the door, wincing broadly at the discomfort the action gave him. Augusta went through the doorway and stepped into another world.

It was a world where she could experience, at least for a few hours each day, a sense of belonging. She had longed for that feeling since her brother had been killed.

Augusta knew Sir Thomas and Claudia had tried very hard to make her feel at home and she, in turn, had tried equally hard to make them believe she did feel a part of their family. But the truth was she felt like an outsider. With their serious, intellectual ways and their sober, thoughtful airs, so typical of the Hampshire branch of the family, Sir Thomas and Claudia would never be able to fully understand Augusta.

But here on the other side of Lady Arbuthnott's drawing room door, Augusta felt that, if she had not quite found a true home, she was at least among her own kind.

She was inside Pompeia's, one of the newest, most unusual, most exclusive clubs in all of London. Membership was, of course, by invitation only and nonmembers had no real notion of just what went on in Lady Arbuthnott's drawing room.

Outsiders assumed Lady Arbuthnott amused herself by conducting one of the many fashionable salons that appealed to the ladies of London society. But Pompeia's was much more than that. It was a club, patterned along the lines of a gentlemen's clubV that catered to modern-thinking females of the ton who shared a certain unconventional outlook.

At Augusta's suggestion the club had been named Pompeia's after Caesar's wife, the one he had divorced because she had not been completely above suspicion. The name suited its membership. The ladies of Pompeia's were all well bred and quite socially acceptable, but they were generally considered to be Originals, to say the least.

Pompeia's had been carefully designed to emulate the fashionable gentlemen's clubs in several respects. But the furnishings and decor had been given a decidedly feminine twist.

The warm yellow walls were covered with paintings of famous classical women. There was a nicely done portrait of Panthia, the healer, at one end of the room. Beside it was a beautifully rendered picture of Eurydice, mother of Philip II of Macedon. She was portrayed in the act of dedicating a monument to education.

A depiction of Sappho composing her poems with a lyre hung over the fireplace. Cleopatra on the throne of Egypt graced the opposite end of the long room. Other paintings and statues illustrated the goddesses Artemis, Demeter, and Iris in a variety of graceful poses.

The furniture was all in the classical style and an assortment of judiciously placed pedestals, urns, and columns had been artfully scattered about to give the drawing room the look of an ancient Greek temple.

The club offered its patrons many of the amenities offered in White's, Brooks's, and Watier's. There was a coffee room in one alcove and a card room in another. Late in the evenings club members with a taste for whist or macao could frequently be found at the green baize tables, still elegantly garbed in the gowns they had worn earlier to a ball.

High-stakes playing was strongly discouraged by the management, however. Lady Arbuthnott made it clear she did not want any enraged husbands knocking on her door to make inquiries about their ladies' recent heavy losses in her drawing room.

A variety of daily newspapers and journals including the Times and the Morning Post were always available in the club, as were a cold buffet, tea, sherry, and ratafia.

Augusta swept into the room and was immediately enveloped in the pleasant, relaxed atmosphere. A plump, fair-haired woman seated at the writing desk glanced up and Augusta nodded to her as she went past.

"How is your poetry going, Lucinda?" Augusta inquired. Lately it seemed that every club member's burning ambition was to write. Augusta alone had escaped the call of the muse. She was quite content to read the latest novels.

"Very well, thank you. You are looking in fine form this morning. Can we assume good news?" Lucinda gave her a knowing smile.

"Thank you, Lucinda. Yes, you may assume the best. 'Tis positively amazing what a weekend in the country can do for one's spirits."

"Or one's reputation."

"Precisely."

Augusta sailed on down the length of the room to where two women were enjoying tea in front of the fire.

Lady Arbuthnott, patronness of Pompeia's and known to every member of the club as Sally, was wearing a warm India shawl over her elegant, long-sleeved, rust-colored gown. She was ensconced in the chair closest to the flames. From that vantage point she commanded a view of the entire room. Her posture was, as always, elegantly graceful and her hair was piled high in a fashionable coiffure. Lady Arbuthnott's charms had once been the toast of Society.

A wealthy woman who had been widowed shortly after her marriage to a notorious viscount thirty years earlier, Sally could afford to spend a fortune on her clothes and did so. But all the fine silks and muslins in the world could not disguise the underlying weariness and the painful thinness caused by the wasting disease that was slowly destroying her.

Augusta was finding Sally's illness almost as hard to endure as Sally herself was finding it. Augusta knew that losing Sally was going to be like losing her mother all over again.

The two women had first met at a bookshop where they had both been perusing volumes on historical subjects. They had struck up an immediate friendship which had deepened quickly over the months. Although separated by years, their shared interests, eccentricities, and sense of adventure had drawn them close. For Augusta, Sally became a replacement for the mother she had lost. And for Sally, Augusta was the daughter she had never had.

Sally had assumed the role of mentor in many ways, not the least of which was in opening the doors of the ton's most exclusive drawing rooms. Sally's contacts in the social world were legion. She had enthusiastically whisked Augusta into the whirl of Society. Augusta's natural social abilities had secured her position in that Society.

For months the two women had enjoyed themselves immensely dashing about London. And then Sally had begun to tire easily. In a short while it became evident that she was seriously ill. She had retreated to her own home and Augusta had created Pompeia's to entertain her.

In spite of the ravages of her illness, Sally's sense of humor and acute intelligence were still very much intact. Her eyes sharpened with pleased amusement as she turned her head and saw Augusta.

The young woman seated next to Lady Arbuthnott glanced up also, her pretty dark eyes filled with anxiety. Rosalind Morrissey was not only the heiress to a considerable fortune, she was also enchantingly attractive with her tawny brown hair and full-bosomed figure.

"Ah, my dear Augusta," Sally said with deep satisfaction as Augusta bent down and kissed her affectionately on the cheek. "Something tells me you have met with success, hmmm? Poor Rosalind here has been quite overset for the past few days. You must put her out of her misery."

"With pleasure. Here is your journal, Rosalind. Not exactly with Lord Enfield's compliments, but what does that signify?" Augusta held out the small leather-bound volume.

"You found it." Rosalind leaped to her feet and grabbed the journal. "I can hardly believe it." She threw her arms around Augusta and gave her a quick hug. "What an enormous relief. How can I possibly thank you? Was there any problem? Any danger? Does Enfield know you took it?"

"Well, matters did not go precisely according to plan," Augusta admitted as she sat down across from Sally. "And we should probably discuss the business immediately."

"What went wrong?" Sally asked with interest. "Were you discovered?"

Augusta wrinkled her nose. "I was interrupted in the very act of retrieving the journal by Lord Graystone, of all people. Who would have imagined that he would have been wandering around at that hour? One would think he would have been busy writing another treatise on some moldering old Greek if he was even awake. But no, there he was, sauntering into the library, cool as you please while I was on my knees behind Enfield 's desk."

"Graystone." Rosalind sank back down into her chair with a horrified expression. "That high stickler? He saw you? He saw my journal?"

Augusta shook her head reassuringly. "Don't worry, Rosalind. He did not know it was yours, but yes, he did discover me in the library." She turned to frown seriously at Sally. "I must say, it was all very mysterious. He apparently knew that I would be there and he even knew I wanted something out of the desk. In fact, he even produced a length of wire and picked the lock. But he refused to tell me his source of information."

Rosalind put a hand to her mouth and her dark eyes widened in alarm. "Dear heaven, we must have a spy in our midst."

Sally made soothing noises. "I am quite certain there is nothing to worry about. I have known the man for years. Graystone's town house is just at the other end of the street, you see. I can tell you from experience that he is almost always possessed of the most unusual information."

"He gave me his word he would not tell a soul about the incident and I am inclined to believe him," Augusta said slowly. "He has become a close friend of my uncle's in recent months, you know, and I believe he thought he was doing Sir Thomas a favor by keeping an eye on me at Enfield's."

"That's another thing about Graystone," Sally said smoothly. "He can be trusted to keep a secret."

"Are you certain?" Rosalind looked at her anxiously.

"Absolutely positive." Sally raised her teacup to her pale lips, took a sip, and set the cup and saucer firmly on the end table. "Now, then, my bold young friends. We have managed to brush through this unfortunate affair safely enough, thanks to Augusta's daring and my own ability to secure invitations for acquaintances on short notice. Lady Enfield did owe me a few favors, after all. However, I feel I should take this opportunity to make a point."

"I believe I know what you are going to say," Augusta murmured, pouring herself a cup of tea. "But it is entirely unnecessary. Not only did Lord Graystone see fit to read me a boring lecture, I can assure you, I have learned a lesson from poor Rosalind's sad plight. I, for one, will never, ever, put anything down in writing that can possibly come back to haunt me."

"Nor will I, ever again." Rosalind Morrissey clutched the journal very close to her breast. "What a beast that man is."

"Who? Enfield?" Sally smiled grimly. "Yes, he is most definitely a bastard when it comes to his dealings with women. Always has been. But there is no denying he fought bravely enough during the war."

"I do not know what I ever saw in him," Rosalind stated. "I much prefer the company of someone like Lord Lovejoy. What do you know of him, Sally? Your information is always the most current, even though you rarely leave the comforts of your own home."

"I have no need to go abroad for the latest on dit." Sally smiled. "Sooner or later it all flows through the front door of Pompeia's. As for Lovejoy, I have only recently begun hearing of his charms. They are many and varied, I am told." She glanced at Augusta. "You can testify to that, can you not, Augusta?"

"I danced with him at the Lofenburys' ball last week," Augusta said, remembering the laughing, red-haired baron with the brilliant green eyes. "I must admit it is quite exciting to dance the waltz with him. And he is rather mysterious, I understand. No one seems to know much about him."

"He is the last of his line, I believe. There was something said about estates in Norfolk." Sally pursed her lips. "But I have no notion of how prosperous his lands are. Best take care that you are not becoming enamored of another fortune hunter, Rosalind."

Rosalind groaned. "Why is it that all the most interesting men have a serious character flaw of one sort or another?"

"Sometimes it is just the reverse," Augusta said with a sigh. "Sometimes the most interesting male around perceives a serious character flaw in a certain female who happens to be quite attracted to him."

"We are discussing Graystone again?" Sally gave Augusta a shrewd glance.

"I fear so," Augusta admitted. "Do you know he all but admitted he has a list of suitable candidates he is reviewing for the position of Countess of Graystone?"

Rosalind nodded soberly. "I have heard about that list. Whoever is on it will find it difficult to live up to the standards set by his first wife, Catherine. She died in childbirth the first year of her marriage. But in that single year she apparently managed to leave behind a lasting impression on Graystone."

"She was a paragon, I presume?" Augusta queried.

"A model of womanly virtue, or so it is said," Rosalind explained wryly. "Just ask anyone. My mother knew the family and frequently held Catherine up to me as an example. I met her once or twice when I was younger and I must confess I found her a prig. Quite beautiful, however. She looked like a Madonna in one of those Italian paintings."

"It is said a virtuous woman is worth more than rubies," Sally murmured. "But I believe many men discover the hard way that virtue, like beauty, is often in the eye of the beholder. It is quite possible that Graystone does not seek another paragon."

"Oh, he definitely wants a paragon," Augusta assured her. "And in my more rational moments, I realize he would make a perfectly obnoxious, quite intolerable husband for a woman of my spontaneous and uninhibited temperament."

"And in your more irrational moments?" Sally pressed gently.

Augusta grimaced. "In my darkest hours I have actually considered taking up the serious study of Herodotus and Tacitus, throwing away all my tracts on the rights of women, and ordering up a whole new wardrobe of unfashionable gowns with very high necklines. But I have found that if I have a cup of tea and rest for a few minutes such madness passes quickly. I soon return to my normal self."

"Good heavens, one would certainly hope so. I cannot see you in the role of a paragon of female behavior." Sally broke out in uproarious laughter and the sound caused everyone in the room to turned toward the threesome seated near the fire. The ladies of Pompeia's smiled knowingly at each other. It was good to see their patronness enjoying herself.

Scruggs, who had opened the drawing room door at that moment, apparently heard the laughter, too. Augusta happened to glance up and saw him watching his mistress from beneath his thick, beetled brows. She thought there was something oddly wistful in his expression.

Then his startling blue eyes met Augusta's and he bobbed his head once before turning away. She realized with a start of surprise that he was thanking her silently for giving Sally the gift of laughter.

A few minutes later on her way out of the club, Augusta paused to glance at the latest entries in the betting book that was enshrined on an Ionic pedestal near the window.

She saw that a certain Miss L.C. had wagered a Miss D.P. the sum often pounds that Lord Graystone would ask for the hand of "the Angel" before the month was out.

Augusta felt quite irritable for the next two hours.

"I swear, Harry, there is a wager on it in Pompeia's betting book. Most amusing." Peter Sheldrake lounged with languid ease in the leather chair and eyed Graystone over his glass of port.

"I am glad you find it amusing. I do not." Harry put down his quill pen and picked up his own glass.

"Well, you wouldn't, would you?" Peter grinned. "After all, there is very little you seem to find amusing about this business of getting yourself a wife. There are wagers in the betting books of every club in town. Hardly surprising there's one in Pompeia's. Sally's collection of dashing female friends work frightfully hard to ape the men's clubs, you know. Is it true?"

"Is what true?" Harry scowled at the younger man. Peter Sheldrake was suffering from a serious case of ennui. It was not an uncommon problem among the men of the ton, especially those who, like Peter, had spent the past few years on the continent playing Napoleon's dangerous war games.

"Don't fence with me, Graystone. Are you going to ask Sir Thomas's permission to pay court to his daughter?" Peter repeated patiently. "Come, now, Harry. Give me a hint so that I can take advantage of the situation. You know me, I like a good wager as well as the next man." He paused to grin briefly again. "Or lady, for that matter."

Harry considered the matter. "Do you think Claudia Ballinger would make a suitable countess?"

"Good God, no, man. We're talking about the Angel. She is a model of propriety. A paragon. To be perfectly blunt, she is too much like you. The pair of you will only reinforce each other's worst traits. You will both find yourselves bored to the teeth within a month of the wedding. Ask Sally, if you do not believe me. She happens to agree."

Harry raised his brows. "Unlike you, Peter, I do not require constant adventure. And I most certainly do not want an adventurous sort of wife."

"Now, that is where you are going wrong in your analysis of the situation. I have given this considerable thought and I believe a lively, adventurous wife is precisely what you do need." Peter got to his feet with a restless movement and went to stand at the window.

The fading sunlight gleamed on Peter's artfully styled blond curls and emphasized his handsome profile. He was, as usual, dressed in the first style of fashion. His elegantly tied cravat and crisply pleated shirt were a perfect complement to his faultlessly cut coat and snug trousers.

"It is you who craves action and excitement, Sheldrake," Harry observed quietly. "You have been bored since you returned to London. You spend too much time on your clothes, you have begun to drink too much, and you gamble too heavily."

"While you bury yourself in your study of a lot of old Greeks and Romans. Come, now, Harry, be honest. Admit you, too, miss the life we lived on the continent."

"Not in the least. I happen to be quite fond of my old Greeks and Romans. In any event, Napoleon is finally out of the way at last and I have duties and responsibilities here in England now."

"Yes, I know. You must see to your estates and titles, honor your responsibilities. You must get married and produce an heir." Peter gulped down a long swallow of his wine.

"I am not the only one who must see to his responsibilities," Harry said meaningfully.

Peter ignored that. "For God's sake, man, you were one of Wellington's key intelligence officers. You controlled dozens of agents such as myself who collected the information you wanted. You developed the ciphers that broke several of the most important secret codes the French had. You risked your neck and mine to get the maps that were needed for some of the most crucial battles in the Peninsula. Do not tell me you don't miss all that excitement."

"I much prefer deciphering Latin and Greek to poring over military dispatches written in sympathetic ink and secret codes. I assure you I find the histories of Tacitus far more stimulating than pondering the workings of the minds of certain French agents."

"But think of the thrill, the danger you lived with on a daily basis for the past several years. Think of the deadly games you played with your opposite number, the one we called Spider. How could you not miss all that?"

Harry shrugged. "My only regret regarding Spider was that we never succeeded in unmasking him and bringing him to justice. As for the excitement, I never sought it out in the first place. The tasks I assumed were more or less thrust upon me."

"But you carried them out brilliantly."

"I discharged my duties to the best of my ability and now the war is over. And none too soon, as far as I'm concerned. You're the one who still seeks out unhealthy thrills, Sheldrake. And I must say, you are finding them in the oddest places. Do you like being a butler?"

Peter grimaced. His blue eyes were bright with wry humor as he turned to face his host. "The role of Scruggs certainly lacks the thrill of seducing a French officer's wife or stealing secret documents, but it has its moments. And it is worth a great deal to see Sally enjoying herself. I fear she will not be with us too much longer, Harry."

"I know. She is indeed a gallant woman. The information she was able to glean from certain parties here in England during the war was invaluable. She took grave risks for her country."

Peter nodded, his gaze thoughtful. "Sally has always loved intrigues. Just as I do. She and I have much in common and it pleases me to guard the portals of her precious club. Pompeia's is the most important thing in her life these days. It gives her much pleasure. You can thank your little hoyden friend for that, you know."

Harry's mouth curved ruefully. "Sally explained that the harebrained notion of a ladies' club modeled after a gentlemen's club was all Augusta Ballinger's idea. Somehow it does not surprise me."

"Hah. It would not surprise anyone who knows Augusta Ballinger. Things have a way of happening around her, if you know what I mean."

"Unfortunately, I believe I do."

"I am convinced Miss Ballinger came up with the idea of the club solely as a way to amuse Sally." Peter hesitated, looking thoughtful. "Miss Ballinger is rather kind. Even to staff. She gave me some medicine for my rheumatism today. Few ladies of the ton would have bothered to think of a servant long enough to worry about his rheumatism."

"I did not know you suffered from rheumatism," Harry said dryly.

"I don't. Scruggs does."

"Just see that you guard Pompeia's well, Sheldrake. I do not want Miss Ballinger to come to social grief because of that ridiculous club."

Peter quirked a brow. "You're concerned about her reputation because of your friendship with her uncle?"

"Not entirely." Harry toyed absently with the quill pen on his desk and then added softly, "I have another reason to want her kept safe from scandal."

"Ah-hah. I knew it." Peter leaped toward the desk and slammed his empty glass down on the polished surface with explosive triumph. "You're going to take Sally's and my advice and add her to your list, aren't you? Admit it. Augusta Ballinger is going on your infamous list of eligible candidates for the role of Countess of Graystone."

"It defeats me why all of London is suddenly concerned with my marital prospects."

"Because of the way you are going about the business of selecting a wife, of course. Everyone's heard about your list. I told you, there are bets all over town on it."

"Yes, you told me." Harry studied his wine. "What, precisely, was the wager in Pompeia's betting book?"

"Ten pounds that you would ask for the Angel's hand by the end of the month."

"As a matter of fact, I intend to ask for Miss Ballinger's hand this very afternoon."

"Damnation, man," Peter was clearly appalled. "Not Claudia. I know you have the impression she would make you a very proper sort of countess, but a lady who wears wings and a halo is not really what you want. You need a different sort of female altogether. And the Angel needs a different sort of man. Do not be a fool, Harry."

Harry raised his brows. "Have you ever known me to play the fool?"

Peter's eyes narrowed. Then he grinned slowly. "No, my lord, I have not. So that's the way of it, eh? Excellent. Excellent. You will not be sorry."

"I am not so certain of that," Harry said ruefully.

"Let me put it this way. At least you will not be bored. You will propose to Augusta this afternoon, then, eh?"

"Good God, no. I do not intend to propose to Augusta at all. This afternoon I am going to ask her uncle for his permission to wed his niece."

Peter looked momentarily blank. "But what about Augusta? Surely you will have to ask her personally first? She is four-and-twenty, Graystone, not a schoolroom miss."

"We both agreed I am not a fool, Sheldrake. I am not about to put an important decision such as this in the hands of the Northumberland side of the Ballinger family."

Peter continued to appear blank for a moment longer and then comprehension set in. He roared with laughter. "I understand completely. Good luck to you, man. Now then, if you will excuse me, I believe I shall make a quick trip to a couple of my own clubs. I wish to place a few wagers in the betting books. Nothing like having a bit of secret intelligence, is there?"

"No," Harry agreed, thinking of how many times his life and the lives of others had depended on such intelligence. Unlike his restless friend, he was very glad those days were behind him.

At three o'clock that afternoon, Harry was shown into the library of Sir Thomas Ballinger.

Sir Thomas was still a vigorous man. A lifetime of devotion to the classics had not softened his sturdy, broad-shouldered frame. His once-blond hair was silvered now and quite thin on top. His well-trimmed whiskers were gray. He had on a pair of spectacles which he removed as he glanced up to see his visitor. He beamed at the sight of Harry coming toward him.

"Graystone. Good to see you. Have a seat. I have been meaning to call on you. I have come across a most intriguing translation of a French work on Caesar which I think you will enjoy."

Harry smiled and took one of the chairs on the other side of the fire. "I am certain I shall find it fascinating. But we shall have to discuss it some other time. I have come upon another sort of errand today, Sir Thomas."

"Is that so?" Sir Thomas eyed him with indulgent attention as he poured two glasses of brandy. "And what would that be, sir?"

Harry took the brandy and sat back in his chair. He studied his host for a long moment. "You and I, sir, are rather old-fashioned in some respects. Or so I have been told."

"There is much to be said for the old ways, if you ask me. Here's to ancient Greeks and amusing Romans." Sir Thomas raised his glass in a toast.

"To ancient Greeks and amusing Romans." Harry obediently took a swallow of the brandy and set the glass down. "I have come to ask for Miss Ballinger's hand in marriage, Sir Thomas."

Sir Thomas's thick brows rose. A thoughtful expression appeared in his eyes. "I see. And does she know you are making this request?"

"No, sir. I have not yet discussed the matter with her. As I said, I am old-fashioned in many respects. I wanted your approval before I proceeded further."

"But of course, my lord. Quite right. Rest assured I am delighted to grant my approval to the match. Claudia is an intelligent, serious-minded young female, if I do say so myself. Very well mannered. Takes after her mother, you know. Even attempting to write a book, just as my wife did. My wife wrote books designed for young ladies in the schoolroom, you know. Quite successful at it, I'm pleased to say."

"I am aware of Lady Ballinger's excellent educational works, Sir Thomas. They are in my own daughter's schoolroom. However—"

"Yes, I feel certain Claudia will make you an admirable countess and I shall be most gratified to have you in the family."

"Thank you, Sir Thomas, but it was not Claudia's hand I intended to request, delightful though your daughter is."

Sir Thomas stared at him. "Not Claudia, my lord? Surely you don't mean… you can't mean—"

"I have every intention of marrying Augusta if she will have me."

"Augusta?" Sir Thomas's eyes widened. He gulped his brandy and promptly choked on it. His face turned a deep, dark shade of crimson as he coughed and sputtered and flailed about with his hand. He appeared torn between stunned amazement and laughter.

Harry calmly rose from his chair and went over to pound his host between the shoulder blades. "I know what you mean, Sir Thomas. It is a somewhat unnerving notion, is it not? I myself had a similar reaction when I first contemplated it. But now I have grown quite accustomed to the idea."

" Augusta?"

"Yes, Sir Thomas, Augusta. You are going to give me your permission, are you not?"

"Certainly, sir," Sir Thomas said immediately. "God knows she won't get a better offer, not at her age."

"Precisely," Harry agreed. "Now, then, it occurs to me that as we are dealing with Augusta rather than Claudia, we must assume her response to an offer of marriage might be somewhat, shall we say, unpredictable."

"Damned unpredictable." Sir Thomas looked glum. "Unpredictability runs in the Northumberland side of the family, Graystone. Most unfortunate trait, but there you have it."

"I understand. Given that lamentable characteristic, perhaps it would be more efficient if we simply made this entire event a fait accompli for Augusta. It might be easier on her if we take the decision out of her hands, if you see what I mean."

Sir Thomas gave Harry a shrewd glance from beneath his thick brows. "Are you by any chance suggesting I fire the notices off to the papers before you ask my niece for her hand?"

Harry nodded. "As I said, Sir Thomas. It will be more efficient if Augusta is not called upon to actually make a decision."

"Bloody clever," said Sir Thomas, clearly awed. "Brilliant notion, Graystone. Absolutely brilliant."

"Thank you. But I have a hunch this is only the beginning, Sir Thomas. Something tells me that staying one step ahead of Augusta is going to take a great deal of cleverness and an even greater amount of fortitude."