"I have a feeling you will learn all about it soon enough, my lord." Augusta gave him a distinctly superior sort of smile.
"Augusta, if you are plotting something, I would have you tell me about it at once. The thought of you carrying out another one of your rash schemes is quite alarming."
"Rest assured this scheme is quite harmless, sir."
"Nothing you attempt is ever quite harmless."
"How very gratifying of you to say so, my lord."
Harry groaned and swung her out through the open French doors onto the terrace.
"Harry? Where are we going?"
"I must talk to you, my dear, and now is as good a time as any." He stopped dancing, although the last strains of the music were still drifting through the doors.
"What is it, Graystone? Is something wrong?"
"No, no, there is nothing wrong," he assured her gently. He took her hand and led her deeper into the shadowed garden. He was not looking forward to what he had to say next. "It is just that I have decided to accompany Sheldrake back to London in the morning and I wanted to let you know tonight."
"Go back to London in the morning? Without me?" Augusta's voice rose with sudden outrage. "Whatever do you mean by that, Graystone? You cannot be intending to abandon me here in the country. We have only been married less than a month."
He had known this was going to be difficult. "I have been talking to Sheldrake about that poem of your brother's. We have drawn up a plan of action that might enable us to track down some members of the Saber Club."
"I knew it had something to do with that damn poem. I just knew it. Did you tell him Richard wrote that verse?" Her eyes widened in anger and pain. "Harry, you swore to me you would not do so. You gave me your word."
"Damnation, Augusta, I assure you I have kept my word. Sheldrake does not know who wrote that poem or how I obtained it. He is accustomed to working for me and he knows better than to pry when I tell him a subject is closed."
"He is accustomed to working for you?" she gasped. "Are you telling me that Peter Sheldrake was one of your intelligence agents?"
Harry winced, wishing he had waited until later to bring up the subject. The trouble with that notion was that if she had started shouting at him in the privacy of her bedchamber, all the guests in the neighboring rooms would have overheard. He had chosen the garden as the best site for what he had known would be a heated discussion.
"Yes, and I would very much appreciate it if you would keep your voice down, madam. There may be others out here in the garden. Furthermore, this is a private matter. I do not want it bandied about that Sheldrake once worked for me. Is that quite clear?"
"Yes, of course." She glowered at him. "Do you swear to me you did not tell him where you got the verse?"
"I have already given you my word on that matter, madam, and I do not care for your obvious lack of faith in my honor," he said coldly.
"You do not care for it? How very unfortunate for you, my lord. But it seems to me we are even on that score. You do not appear to have a great deal of faith in my honor, either. You are forever hovering about like Nemesis."
"Like what?" He was startled, in spite of himself. Sometimes his wife was more perceptive than she realized.
"You heard me. Like Nemesis. It's as if you're waiting for me to display some indication of a lack of virtue. I feel I must always worry about someday having to prove myself."
"Augusta, that is not true."
"Not true? Then why do I find myself living constantly with the notion that I am being watched for indications of impropriety? Why is it that every time I go into the picture gallery and see my predecessors, I grow uneasy for fear of being seen in the same light? Why do I feel like Pompeia waiting for Caesar to denounce her because she was not quite above suspicion even though there was no real evidence against her?"
Harry stared at his wife, shocked at the rage and anguish in her voice. He caught hold of her bare shoulders. "Augusta, I had no idea you were thinking such thoughts."
"How could I think otherwise? You go on incessantly about the cut of my gowns. You chide me for riding without a groom. You make me afraid that I will set a bad example for your daughter—"
"That is quite enough, Augusta. You have allowed your imagination to run wild. This is what comes of reading all those novels, my dear. I did warn you about their influence. Now, you will calm yourself at once. You are on the verge of hysteria."
"No." Her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she took a deep, shuddering breath. "No, I am not on the verge of hysteria. I am not so missish as to have a fit of the vapors or lose my self-control in such a fashion over such a trivial matter. I am quite all right, Harry. It is just that I am very angry."
"That much is obvious. And I would not say the matter was trivial. But you have certainly blown it out of all proportion. How long have you been fretting over this? How long have you visualized me as Caesar waiting to denounce Pompeia?"
"I have felt like that from the beginning, my lord," she whispered. "I knew then that in marrying you I was taking a grave risk. I was aware I might never be able to earn your love."
His hands tightened on her. "Augusta, we are talking about trust, not love."
"The kind of trust I want from you, Harry, must spring from love."
Harry eased her a small distance away and raised her chin with his forefinger. He studied her shadowed, shimmering eyes, wanting to comfort her and at the same time annoyed that it should be necessary. He had already given her all he had to give to a woman. If he had anything left that she might term love, it was behind a locked door somewhere deep inside and he knew that door would never be opened.
"Augusta, I care for you, I desire you, and I trust you more than I have ever trusted any other woman. You possess everything I have to give to a wife. Is that not enough?"
"No." She freed herself, stepped back, and snatched a small lace hanky out of her tiny, beaded reticule. She blew briskly and dropped the scrap of lace back into the little bag. "But obviously it is all I am going to get. When all is said and done, I have no real grounds for complaint, have I? I knew I was being very reckless when I agreed to let our engagement stand. I knew I was taking an enormous chance."
"Augusta, you are very emotional tonight, my dear. It cannot be healthy."
"Just because you do not care for strong emotions, my lord, does not mean they are unhealthy. The Northumberland Ballingers have always thrived on strong emotions."
At the mention of those ghostly figures he could never equal in her memory, a raw anger flared in Harry. He reached out, clamped a hand over her bare shoulder again, and swung her around to face him.
"Augusta, if you dare throw your damned Ballinger ancestors in my face one more time, I believe I shall do something extremely drastic and unpleasant. Do I make myself clear?"
Her mouth fell open in astonishment as she gazed up at him. She closed it quickly and gave him a mutinous look. "Yes, my lord."
Harry pulled violently on the reins of his temper, more annoyed with himself for losing it than with Augusta for being the cause. "You must indulge me, my dear," he said dryly. "Something about knowing I can never live up to the standards of your illustrious forebears makes me exceedingly short-tempered at times."
"Harry, I had no notion you were thinking along such lines."
"Most of the time I do not," he assured her bluntly. "It is only on the odd occasion when you point out my deficiencies. But that is neither here nor there at the moment. Let us get back to the matter at hand. Do you believe me when I tell you that Sheldrake does not know the source of the poem?"
She continued to study him for a long moment and then her lashes settled wearily on her cheeks. "Of course I believe you, my lord. I do not doubt your word. Truly, I do not. 'Tis just that the subject of Richard makes me very unsettled. I do not always think clearly when it is raised."