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."