"You underestimate yourself, my dear." He smiled whimsically. "I considered them very great favors indeed. I shall never forget the feel of your lovely breast cupped in my hand. Soft and firm and full. And it was crowned with a perfect rosebud that flowered beneath my fingers."

Augusta gave a horrified squeak of dismay. "My lord."

"Do you really believe I could forget the elegant form of your thighs?" Harry continued, well aware of what this intimate recitation was doing to Augusta's composure. He told himself it was past time the lady received a sharp lesson. "Round and finely shaped like those on a Grecian statue. I will treasure forever the great privilege you allowed me when you let me touch your beautiful thighs, my sweet."

"But I did not allow you to touch them," Augusta protested. "You just went ahead and did it."

"You did not lift a finger to stop me. Indeed, you kissed me with a great deal of very warm, one might even say very willing passion, did you not?"

"No, I did not, sir." She looked slightly frantic now.

Harry's brows rose. "You felt nothing when you kissed me? I am deeply hurt. And sadly disappointed to think that you gave me so much and felt nothing in return. For me, it was a rendezvous with passion. I shall never forget it."

"I did not say I felt nothing. I only meant that what I felt was not precisely a warm and willing passion. I was taken by surprise, that is all. My lord, you are misreading the situation. You should not have placed such a serious significance on those events."

"Does that mean you find yourself at that sort of midnight rendezvous so frequently that you no longer take such intimate encounters seriously?"

"I meant nothing of the kind." Completely flustered now, Augusta glared at him in mounting dismay. "You are deliberately trying to make me feel that I ought to stay engaged to you merely because we got a little carried away on the floor of your library."

"I feel that certain promises were made that night," Harry said.

"I made no promises."

"I disagree. I felt that you very definitely made binding promises when you allowed me the intimate privileges of an engaged man. What was I to think when you gave every indication that you would welcome me as a lover and as a husband?"

"I did not give any such indication," she retorted weakly.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Ballinger. I cannot bring myself to believe that you were merely amusing yourself with me that night. Nor can you convince me that you have sunk so low as to make a habit of toying with a man's affections on the floor of his library. You may be reckless and rash by nature, but I refuse to believe that you are heartless, cruel, or completely without regard for your honor as a woman."

"Of course, I am not without regard for my own honor," she said through gritted teeth. "We Northumberland Ballingers care a great deal for our honor. We would fight to the death for it."

"Then the engagement stands. We are both committed now. We have gone too far to turn back."

There was a sharp cracking sound and Augusta looked down at her fan. She had been clutching it so tightly she had snapped the fragile sticks. "Oh, bloody hell."

Harry smiled and reached down to catch her chin on the edge of his hand. Her long lashes swept up, revealing her deeply troubled, hunted gaze. He bent his head and brushed a kiss against her parted lips. "Trust me, Augusta. We shall do very well together."

"I am not at all certain of that, my lord. I have given this much thought and I can only conclude we are making a grave mistake."

"There is no mistake." Harry listened to the first strains of a waltz drifting through the open windows. "Will you honor me with this dance, my dear?"

"I suppose so," Augusta said ungraciously as she jumped to her feet. "I do not see that I have a great deal of choice in the matter. If I refuse, you will no doubt tell me that propriety demands I dance the waltz with you simply because we are engaged."

"You know me," Harry murmured as he took her arm. "I am a stickler for the proprieties."

He was aware that Augusta was still gritting her teeth as he led her back into the brilliantly lit ballroom.

Much later that evening Harry got out of his carriage in St. James Street and walked up the steps of a certain dignified establishment. The door was opened immediately and he stepped at once into the uniquely comfortable, solidly masculine warmth afforded only by a properly managed gentlemen's club.

There was nothing else quite like it, Harry reflected as he took a seat near the fire and poured himself a glass of brandy. No wonder Augusta had come up with the notion of entertaining Sally and her friends with a parody of a St. James Street club. A man's club was a bastion against the world, a refuge, a home away from home where one could either be alone or find companionship, according to one's personal whim.

In a club a man could relax with friends, win or lose a fortune at the tables, or conduct the most private of business, Harry reflected. He himself had certainly done enough of the last during the past few years.

Although he had been forced to spend much of his time on the continent during the war, he had always made it a point to drop in on his clubs whenever he had been in London. And when he had been unable to keep tabs in person he had made certain to ensure that one or two of his agents had memberships at the more important establishments. The sort of secret intelligence one could glean in this environment never ceased to astound Harry.

He had once learned the name of a man who had been responsible for the death of one of his most valued intelligence officers here in this very club. The killer had unfortunate accident a short while later.

In another, equally dignified establishment farther along St. James, Harry had contracted to buy the very private journal of a certain courtesan. He had been told the lady enjoyed entertaining the many French spies who, disguised as emigres, had been sprinkled about London during the war.

It was in the course of deciphering the childishly simple code in which the lady had written her memoirs that Harry had first come across the name Spider. The woman had been killed before Harry had had a chance to talk to her. Her maid had tearfully explained that one of the courtesan's lovers had stabbed her mistress in a jealous rage. And, no, the distraught maid had absolutely no idea which of her employer's many lovers had done the deed.

The code name Spider had haunted Harry for the duration of his work for the Crown. Men had died in dark alleys with the word on their lips. Letters from French agents referring to the mysterious Spider had been discovered on the persons of secret couriers. Records of troop movements and maps thought to have been meant for the Spider had been intercepted.

But in the end the identity of the man Harry had early on learned to think of as his personal opponent on the great chessboard of war had remained a mystery. It was unfortunate that he had a difficult time tolerating unsolved puzzles, Harry told himself. He would have given a great deal to have learned the truth about the Spider.

His instincts had assured him from the start that the man had been English, not French. It annoyed Harry that the traitor had escaped detection. Too many good agents and too many honest soldiers had died because of the Spider.

"Trying to read your future in the flames, Graystone? I doubt you'll find any answers there."

Harry glanced up as Lovejoy's drawling voice interrupted his quiet contemplation. "I rather thought you might be along sooner or later, Lovejoy. I wanted to have a word with you."

"Is that so?" Lovejoy helped himself to brandy and then leaned negligently against the mantel. He swirled the golden liquid in his glass and his green eyes gleamed malevolently. "First you must allow me to offer you my congratulations on your engagement."