“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 of ten 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 Napoléon’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, Napoléon 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 grima
ced. 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.”
&nbs
p; “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.”
“You sent the notices off to the papers? Uncle Thomas, I do not believe it. This is a disaster. “Tis obvious a terrible mistake has been made.”
Still reeling from the stunning blow of her uncle’s offhanded announcement that he had accepted an offer of marriage on her behalf, Augusta paced the library. She was ablaze with a furious energy and she scowled fiercely as she tried to think her way clear of the dreadful situation.
She had just come in from an afternoon ride in the park and was still wearing a dashing new ruby-colored riding habit trimmed in gold braid à la militaire. The matching confection of a hat with its perky red feather was still perched on her hair and she was still wearing her gray leather boots. A servant had told her that Sir Thomas had a message for her and she had breezed straight into the library.