Rendezvous by Amanda Quick

“I only wish I had a talent for writing,” she grumbled. “Everyone else around me appears to be producing a manuscript of some sort. Only think of how practical a book on husband management would be, Harry.”

  “I do not doubt the practicality of your subject, madam, but I have serious reservations about your qualifications for writing about it.”

  The gleam of rebellion shone immediately in her lovely eyes. “I would have you know, sir, that I have learned a great deal in the course of the few weeks we have been married.”

  “Not nearly enough to write a book,” Harry told her in his most pedantic tone. “No, not nearly enough. Judging from what I overheard, there are several glaring errors in your theories and vast confusion in your logic. But never fear, it will be my pleasure to continue your instruction until such time as you have got it right, even if it takes years and years of effort on my part.”

  She stared up at him, clearly uncertain how to take his outrageous comment. And then, to Harry’s surprise, she tipped back her head and laughed with delight. “That is most gracious of you, my lord. I vow, few other teachers would have such patience with their students.”

  “Ah, my sweet, I am a very patient man. About most things.” Pleasure shot through him and his hand tightened against the small of her back. He wished he could drag her upstairs to the bedchamber right now, this very minute. He longed to turn the laughter into passion and then change it back again.

  “Speaking of educators,” Augusta said, catching her breath as Harry drew her into a particularly daring whirl, “have you noticed how well your aunt is getting along with my uncle? They have been inseparable since they met.”

  Harry glanced across the room to where Clarissa, resplendent in a claret-red gown and a matching toque, was once more holding forth on the subject of teaching history to young ladies. Sir Thomas was listening intently and nodded appreciatively. Harry thought the gleam in the older man’s eyes had a distinctly nonacademic sparkle.

  “I do believe you have managed to unite two kindred spirits, my dear,” Harry said, smiling down at Augusta.

  “Yes, I rather thought they would suit each other. Now, if only my other little project will come to fruition, I shall be quite satisfied with this house party.”

  “Other little project? What else are you working on, madam?”

  “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.”

  “I am well aware of that, my dear.” He pulled her back against him and pressed her face into his shoulder. “I am sorry, Augusta, but I must be blunt. It would be best if you could leave your brother in the past where he belongs and not concern yourself with what he may or may not have been doing two years ago.”

  “I believe you have already read me this lecture once or twice before,” she muttered into his coat. “It has become quite dull.”

  “Very well,” he said gently. “The fact remains that I wish to find the answers to the questions raised by that poem. Sheldrake and I can accomplish more working together than one of us on his own. There is a great deal of territory to be covered in Town. It is a question of efficiency, Augusta. That is why I am returning to London in the morning.”

  “Very well. I can understand the importance of efficiency.” She raised her head. “Return to London if you must.”

  Relief soared through him. She was going to accept the inevitable after all. Harry smiled slowly with deep approval. “That is the way a good wife should answer her lord. I commend you, my sweet.”

  “Oh, rubbish. You did not allow me to finish, Harry. You may indeed return to London in the morning. But be warned, Meredith and I shall accompany you.”

  “The devil you will.” He thought quickly. “The Season is over. You will be quite bored.”

  “Nonsense. It will a most educational trip for your daughter,” Augusta said, unfazed. “I shall take her about the Town and show her the sights. We shall go to the bookshops and Vauxhall Gardens and the museum. It will be great fun.”

  “Augusta, this is a business trip.”

  “There is no logical reason it cannot be combined with an educational experience for your daughter, Graystone. In the interests of efficiency, of course.”

  “Damnation, Augusta, I will not have time to dance attendance on you and Meredith in Town.”

  Augusta smiled a very determined smile. “We shall not expect you to do so, my lord. I am certain Meredith and I are fully capable of entertaining ourselves.”

  “The mind reels at the thought of you turned loose on London with a nine-year-old child who has never been out of the country. I will not have it and that is final. Now we should be getting back to your guests.”

  Without waiting for a response and more than a little uneasy about the one he would get if he did wait for it, Harry took hold of Augusta’s arm and started back toward the house.

  Augusta said nothing as he guided her toward the lights and music and laughter that spilled through the open windows. In fact, she was unnaturally quiet. He had expected more protests and tears and a series of arguments couched in the emotional style of a Northumberland Ballinger. But all he was getting was a suspicious silence.

  Harry told himself Augusta had finally realized he was quite serious. He comforted himself with the thought that she was coming to grips with the realization that when he gave orders in his own home, he intended them to be obeyed. It was no doubt something of a shock to her because he had indulged her so liberally in recent weeks.

  It was unfortunate that she was unhappy with the present situation, but it was for the best. Harry knew he was going to be extremely busy in London. He would not have time to accompany Augusta or Meredith on their outings and he did not like the thought of Augusta going to a series of entertainments alone. Especially evening entertainments.

  Augusta was at her most dangerous at night, from what Harry had observed. His brain quickly summoned up a multitude of all-too-vivid scenes: Augusta paying midnight visits to gentlemen’s libraries; Augusta dressed in breeches while she attempted to break into a locked desk that was not her own; Augusta dancing with rakehells like Lovejoy; Augusta playing too deep at cards; Augusta in a darkened carriage, shivering with passion.

  It was enough to make any intelligent, cautious husband extremely wary.

  Harry was in the process of reassuring himself on that point when the toe of his boot struck something soft in the grass. He glanced down and saw that it was a man’s glove.

  “What the devil? I believe one of our guests will be looking for this, Augusta.” Harry scooped up the glove and then he saw the gleam of a boot in the bushes. A pale blue satin slipper was right next to it. “Then again, perhaps he knows precisely where he dropped it.”

  “What is it, Harry?” Augusta turned to see what he was doing and then she closed her mouth on a soft little giggle as she saw the boot and the blue slipper. She started to smile.

  Peter Sheldrake swore calmly and stepped out of the bushes, his arm still wrapped firmly around a furiously blushing Claudia. Claudia was frantically struggling to push the tiny sleeve of her blue gown back up onto her shoulder.

  “I do believe that is my glove you have found, Graystone.” Sheldrake held out his hand with a rueful smile.

  “I rather thought so.” Harry handed over the glove.

  “You may as well be the first to know,” Sheldrake said easily, his eyes on Claudia’s embarrassed face as he put on his glove. “Miss Ballinger has just consented to become engaged to me. I shall be speaking to her father before we leave for London in the morning.”

  Augusta shrieked with delight and threw her arms around her cousin. “Oh, Claudia, how wonderful.”

  “Thank you,” Claudia managed, still struggling to straighten her sleeve. “I only hope Papa will approve.”

  “Of course he will.” Augusta stepped back, smiling with supreme satisfaction. “I know Mr. Sheldrake will be perfect for you. I have been certain of it all along.”

  Harry stared at her and suddenly rememb
ered something she had said earlier during the waltz. “Was this the second project you mentioned, my dear?”

  “Yes, of course. I knew Mr. Sheldrake and Claudia would do famously together. And only think how practical the marriage is from my cousin’s point of view, sir.”

  “Practical?” Harry’s brow rose inquiringly.

  “Certainly.” Augusta smiled a bit too sweetly. “Claudia will be gaining not only an extremely handsome and gallant husband, but a highly trained butler, too.”

  There was a frozen instant of silence and then Harry heard Sheldrake groan as realization sunk in. Harry shook his head in rueful acknowledgment of his wife’s perceptive qualities.

  “I congratulate you, my dear,” he said dryly. “Sheldrake, here, has fooled a great many observant people with that butler role.”

  Claudia’s eyes widened. “Scruggs.” She whirled around and confronted her intended. “You are Scruggs at Pompeia’s. I knew I recognized you from somewhere. How dare you fool me like that, Peter Sheldrake! Of all the conniving, underhanded tricks. You should be ashamed of yourself, sir.”

  Peter winced and shot Augusta a sour look. “Now, Claudia, my dear, I was only playing the part of Scruggs in order to help out an old friend.”

  “You could have told me who you were. Why, when I think of all the times you were rude to me as Scruggs, I could throttle you.” Claudia drew herself up proudly. “Let me tell you, sir, I am not at all certain I wish to remain engaged to such an ill-mannered gentleman.”

  “Claudia, be reasonable. It was just a little game I was playing.”

  “You owe me an abject apology, Mr. Sheldrake,” Claudia snapped fiercely. “I will expect you to get down on your knees for that apology. On your knees, do you hear me?”

  Claudia picked up her skirts and fled back toward the lights of the great house.

  Peter turned on Augusta, who was choking on her laughter. “Well, madam, I trust you are satisfied with this night’s mischief. You seem to have put an end to my engagement before it was even begun.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Sheldrake. You shall just have to work a bit harder at the task of wooing my cousin. She deserves that apology, by the way. I am not particularly pleased with you, either, I might add. When I think of how sympathetic I was toward you whenever you complained of your rheumatism, I get vastly annoyed.”