Rendezvous (38 page)

“Yes, it is.”

“Slow down, you are turning the pages too fast. I cannot read it.”

“I doubt if you would understand the meaning, even if you could read it. ’Tis in code. An old one that was broken a long time ago.”

“Really? Can you read it? What does it have to do with my brother? What do you think it means, Harry?”

“Please be quiet, Augusta. Sit down and give me a few minutes to examine it. I have not dealt with this particular code for quite some time.”

Augusta obeyed, sitting very still, her hands laced tightly together in her lap as she eagerly awaited the results of her investigations.

Harry went back around behind his desk and sat down. He opened the volume to the first page and studied it with an intent expression. He turned the page and then he turned another. Finally he glanced at a few pages toward the end of the book.

After an excruciatingly long time, he closed the journal and raised his eyes to meet Augusta’s. There was a new coldness in his gaze, an icy chill that went beyond anything she had ever seen in those crystal gray eyes.

“Well, my lord?” she whispered.

“It appears to be a record of coded dispatches sent with various couriers during the war. I recognize some of the dispatches mentioned because my agents intercepted them and I decoded them.”

Augusta frowned. “But how does that relate to my brother?”

“This is a very personal journal, Augusta.” Harry fingered the volume gently. “A private record meant for no one’s eyes except the one who wrote in it.”

“But who would that have been? Can you tell?”

“Only one man could have known about all of these dispatches and only one man could have known the names of all these couriers and French agents listed at the
beginning. This journal must have once belonged to the Spider himself.”

Augusta began to panic. “But, Harry
what does that have to do with my brother?
”

“It would appear, Augusta, based on this and some other evidence, that someone is trying to tell us that your brother was the Spider.”

“
No, that is impossible
.” Augusta shot to her feet. “What you say is a lie.”

“Please sit down, Augusta,” Harry said quietly.

“I will not sit down.” She took one step forward, planted her hands on the desk, and leaned toward him, willing him to believe her. “I do not care how much proof you produce. Do you hear me? My brother was no traitor. My lord, you must believe me. No Northumberland Ballinger would ever betray his country. Richard was not the Spider.”

“As it happens, I am inclined to agree with you.”

Dazed by his ready acceptance of Richard’s innocence after all the damning evidence, Augusta sat down abruptly. “You agree with me? You do not believe that journal belonged to Richard? For it most certainly did not, my lord. It is not in his handwriting. I swear it is not.”

“The handwriting proves nothing. An intelligent man would most certainly have developed a unique style of writing for the purposes of keeping a dangerous journal such as this.”

“But Harry—”

“As it happens,” Harry interrupted gently, “there are other reasons which make it difficult if not downright impossible to believe your brother was the Spider.”

Augusta smiled slowly, aware of a deep surge of glorious relief. “I am glad, my lord. Thank you for believing in his honor. I cannot tell you how much this means to me. I shall never forget your kindness in this matter, and rest assured you shall have my everlasting gratitude and appreciation.”

Harry regarded her silently for a moment, his fingers drumming absently on the leather-bound volume. “Naturally,
I am pleased to hear you say that, madam.” He put the journal into his desk drawer and turned the key in the lock as he spoke.

“’Tis true, Harry.” Augusta’s smile grew brilliant. Then she cleared her throat delicately. “Given the evidence of that horrid poem and this journal, plus your tendency to prefer logic to blind faith, however, I do have a question.”

“Yes?”

“May I ask precisely why you are so ready to believe Richard was not the Spider?” She waited in unbearable suspense to see if Harry would admit that it was his affection for her that had swayed his opinion.

“The answer is obvious, Augusta.”

“Yes, my lord?” She beamed at him.

“I have been living with a Northumberland Ballinger for some weeks now and I have come to know the habits and characteristics of the breed rather well. And as I have been assured that all Northumberland Ballingers share a number of traits—” He broke off with a shrug.

Augusta was beginning to get confused. “Yes, Harry? Pray continue.”

“Allow me to be blunt, madam. No Northumberland Ballinger would be at all likely to have the temperament suited to a brilliant spymaster who managed to escape detection for years and whose identity is still unknown.”

“Temperament, Harry? Whatever does that mean?”

“It means,” Harry said, “that the average Northumberland Ballinger, which your brother evidently was from all accounts, is
too damned emotional, too rash, too indiscreet, too impetuous, and too bloody idiotic
to make a halfway decent spy, let alone a master of spies.”

“Oh,” said Augusta, blinking as she absorbed the unexpected response. And then the depths of the insult struck home. She leaped to her feet again, incensed. “How dare you say such things? How dare you? Apologize at once, sir.”

“Do not be ridiculous. One does not apologize for the truth.”

Augusta stared at him in mounting fury. “Then you leave me no option, my lord. You have insulted my family one too many times. As the last of the Northumberland Ballingers, I demand satisfaction for your slanderous remarks.”

Harry stared at her in amazement. Then he got slowly to his feet behind his desk. When he spoke his voice was lethally soft. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me, sir.” Augusta was trembling with her outrage, but she kept her chin high. “I hereby challenge you to a duel. Your choice of weapons, of course.” She scowled as Harry continued to fix her with a stunned look. “You are allowed the choice in this instance, are you not? I understand that is how it is done. I issue the challenge, you choose the weapons. Is that not correct?”

“Correct, madam?” Harry started around the desk. “Yes, that is definitely the correct form for a duel. In fact, as the one who is being challenged, I demand the right to choose not only the weapons, but the location of this appointment.”

“Harry?” Alarmed by the unrelenting expression in his eyes as he came toward her, Augusta began to edge backward. “My lord, what do you think you are doing?”

Harry reached her just as Augusta was thinking it might be very smart to turn and run for the door. She took another step backward, but she was too late.

Harry scooped her up as though she were a sack of flour and tossed her over his shoulder. He stalked toward the door, opened it, and carried Augusta out into the hall.

“Good grief, Harry. Stop this at once.” Augusta pounded on his broad back. She kicked out wildly, but he clamped his arm around her thighs, anchoring her.

“You wanted a duel, madam; you shall have one. We shall use the weapons with which nature has already endowed each of us and the field of honor shall be my bed.
I assure you there will be no quarter given until you beg for it.”

“Damnation, Harry. This is not what I intended at all.”

“That is unfortunate for you.”

Harry was halfway up the stairs with Augusta when Craddock emerged from the direction of the servants’ hall. The butler was struggling hastily into his jacket. His shirt still hung open and he was carrying his shoes. He stared at his master and mistress in astonishment.

“I heard a commotion, your lordship,” Craddock stammered, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Is aught amiss?”

“Not a thing, Craddock,” Harry assured him as he stalked on up the stairs with Augusta over his shoulder. “Lady Graystone and I are merely on our way to bed. See to the lamps.”

“Of course, your lordship.”

Augusta caught a glimpse of Craddock’s face as Harry carried her around the corner at the top of the stairs. The butler was struggling valiantly to stifle a great shout of laughter. She groaned in disgust.

Harry dismissed his valet with a single word as he strode into his bedroom. “Out.”

The man vanished, closing the door behind him, but not before Augusta had seen the grin on his face. She shot Harry a withering glance as he dumped her lightly down onto the bed.

When he sat down next to her and began removing his boots, Augusta sat up hurriedly. Her fury had already begun to fade and common sense was returning quickly. She was well aware that what she had said downstairs in the library had been utterly beyond the pale.

“Harry, I am sorry I made that wild challenge. I realize it truly was outside the limit for a wife to do such a thing, but you do have a way of infuriating me.”

“That is nothing compared to the effect you have on my temper, madam.” The second boot hit the floor. Harry
stood up and started to strip off the remainder of his clothing.

Augusta saw that he was already fully aroused. She felt the familiar warmth begin to twist and curl in her lower body.
I love him so
, she thought resentfully. It really was most unfair that he had such power over her.

“Now, madam wife, we shall begin the duel.” Harry came down onto the bed and pushed the skirts of her gown and petticoats up to her waist with one swift motion. His hand clamped boldly on her thigh and his eyes gleamed as he bent over her.

“And will you apologize if I win?” she whispered as her skin warmed under his touch.

“There will be no apologies from me, madam. But you demanded satisfaction and I swear you shall have it. Of course, I shall also have mine.”

His mouth covered hers as he crushed her beneath him.

A
ugusta
stirred in the big bed, aware of the hard, solid, disturbingly masculine body beside her. The heavy scent of the recent lovemaking hovered in the air and her body was still damp.

She opened her eyes and saw a pale moon outside the window. Slowly she stretched out her legs, wincing at the slight soreness in her thigh muscles. It was always this way after Harry had made love to her. She felt as though she had ridden a blooded stallion long and hard.
Or perhaps it was she who had been ridden
. She smiled to herself.

“Augusta?”

“Yes, Harry?” She turned on her side and propped her elbows on his bare chest.

“There is something I would know about this night’s work.”

“And what is that, my lord?” She twined her fingers in the crisp mat of hair on his chest. It was amazing how what they shared together in bed could affect both their moods,
she reflected. For example, she was no longer feeling at all belligerent and defensive.

“Why did you not come to me immediately with that note the lad handed you this afternoon? Why did you try to keep such a dangerous rendezvous on your own?”

Augusta sighed. “I doubt that you would understand, Harry.”

“Try me.”

“Even if you do understand, you will doubtless not approve.”

“You have the right of it on that point. But tell me why you did not come to me with that note, Augusta,” he ordered gently. “Was it because you feared the information you would be given would be evidence against your brother?”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “Just the opposite, in fact. I assumed from the note that it would be the proof I needed to remove the cloud of suspicion that hangs over Richard’s name.”

“Then why did you not confide in me? You knew I would be interested in whatever transpired tonight.”

She stopped toying with his chest hair. “I wanted to show you that I could be as useful and helpful in your investigations as your close friends.”

“Sally and Sheldrake?” Harry frowned. “That was most foolish, Augusta. They have had a great deal of experience at this kind of thing. They know how to take care of themselves. You know nothing about conducting an investigation.”

“But that is just it.” She sat up beside him. “I want to learn. I want to be part of your circle of truly close friends, the ones with whom you share your deepest thoughts. I want to have the kind of bond with you that Sally and Peter do.”

“Hell, Augusta, you are my wife,” Harry muttered, exasperated. “Our bond is far more intimate than any I share with Sally or Peter Sheldrake, I assure you.”

“The only time I feel truly close to you is when we are in bed together as we are now. And that is not enough, because even then there is a distance between us.”

“There is no distance at all between us at such times, madam.” He smiled as he stroked a hand down over her hip. “Or need I remind you?”

She wriggled away from his touch. “But there is a kind of distance because you do not love me. You only feel some physical passion for me. It is not at all the same thing.”

His brow rose. “You are an expert on the difference?”

“I expect every woman is an expert on the difference between passion and love,” Augusta retorted. “’Tis no doubt an instinct.”

“Are we going to get ourselves mired again in that useless argument with all its confounded feminine logic?”