"Go and get the poem, Augusta."

She shook her head in confusion. "Why must you see it?" Then a thought struck her. "Does this have something to do with your suspicions about him?"

"I cannot tell you that until I have seen the poem. Bring it to me at once, Augusta. I must have a look at it."

She took an uncertain step back toward the door. "I am not certain I want to show it to you. Not until I know what you think it will prove."

"It may answer some long-standing questions."

"The sort of questions that have to do with spies, sir?"

"It is just barely possible." Harry bit each word out between set teeth. "Not likely, but possible. Especially if your brother was working for the French."

"He was not working for the French."

"Augusta, I do not want to hear any more of the elaborate theories you have constructed to defend the circumstances in which Richard Ballinger died. Until now I have had no objection to your maintaining your illusions as long as you liked. In fact, I encouraged the process. But this matter of a poem about a spider and its web changes everything."

Augusta braced herself, her mind racing. "I will not show it to you unless you promise me you will not try to use it to prove Richard guilty of treason."

"I do not give a damn about his guilt or innocence. I have questions of my own to answer."

"But in answering them, you might very well seek to prove Richard's guilt. Is that not so, my lord?"

Harry came around from behind the desk in two long, prowling strides. "Bring the poem to me, Augusta."

"No, not unless you will give me your word that what you discover will not harm Richard's memory in any way."

"I will only give you my word to keep silent about his role in whatever was happening at the time. That is the most I can promise, Augusta."

"That is not enough."

"Damnation, woman, it is all I can give you."

"I will not let you have that poem. Not if there is the least chance it can hurt Richard's reputation. My brother was an honorable man and I must protect his honor now that he is no longer here to do it."

"Bloody hell, madam wife, you will do as you are told."

"The war is over, Graystone. No good purpose can be served by showing you that poem. It is mine and I intend to keep it. I am never going to let anyone see it, especially not someone like you who believes Richard was guilty of treason."

"Madam," Harry said in a soft, deadly voice, "you will do as I command. Bring me your brother's poem. Now."

"Never. And if you try to take it from me, I swear I shall burn it. I would rather destroy it, even though it is stained with his life's blood, than risk allowing you to use it to further tarnish his memory." Augusta whirled and fled from the library.

She heard the muffled crash of shattering glass just as she slammed the door shut behind her.

Harry had thrown something very heavy and very fragile against the library wall.

Stunned at his loss of control, Harry gazed in fury at the sparkling shards of broken glass. They glittered in the sunlight like the paste jewels Augusta wore with such pride.

He could not believe he had allowed her to drive him to this.

The woman had bewitched him. One moment he lusted for her with an outrageous passion; the next he was consumed with gratitude as he watched her slowly but surely befriend his daughter. In yet another instant she would make him laugh or drive him to distraction with her unpredictable actions.

And now she had finally brought him to the jagged edge of a seething jealousy that was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

And the worst of it was that Harry knew he was jealous of a dead man. Richard Ballinger. Bold, daring, reckless, very likely traitorous Richard.

Augusta 's brother, a man who, even if he were still alive, would not be a sexual rival. But a man who, entombed and enshrined as the last male issue of the dashing Northumberland Ballingers, occupied a place in Augusta 's heart that Harry knew was forever closed to him.

Locked in the safe, untouchable realm of the beyond, Richard would live forever in Augusta's imagination as the ideal Northumberland Ballinger, the glorious older brother whose honor and reputation she would defend to the last.

"Goddamn you to hell, you damn Northumberland bastard." Harry stalked back to his chair and threw himself down into it. "Were you still alive, you son of a bitch, I believe I would call you out."

And thereby sever whatever fragile bond I do have with my new wife and cause her to hate me forever, Harry reminded himself bitterly. He might as well confront the logic of the matter. There was no doubt but that if the situation were put to the test, Augusta would side with her brother against her husband.

As she had proven only a few minutes ago.

"Bastard," Harry said again, unable to think of any other word to describe his ghostly rival for Augusta's affections.

How does one fight a ghost?

Harry sprawled in the chair behind the desk and forced himself to contemplate the disastrous situation from every angle.

He had to admit that he had handled the thing wrong right from the start. He should never had summoned Augusta to the library with such urgency. Nor should he have ordered her to turn over the poem. If he had kept his wits about him, he would have done it all much differently.

But the truth was he had not been thinking all that clearly. After Meredith had casually dropped a mention of Richard Ballingers poem about webs and spiders, Harry had been swamped with a violent need to get his hands on it.

Harry thought he had convinced both himself and Sheldrake that he had put the war and all its horror behind him. But he acknowledged now that he would never be able to forget the man called the Spider. Too many men had died because of the bastard. Too many risks had been taken by good men such as Peter Sheldrake. Too many battlefield losses had been caused by the traitor.

And the knowledge that the Spider had very likely been English had only made the frustration and anger all the more searing for Harry.

Harry knew he had had a reputation for going about his intelligence work with cold blood and even icier logic. But the truth was that it had been the only way he had been able to perform his grim tasks. If he had allowed his emotions to interfere, he would have been paralyzed. Each move and countermove, each decision, each estimate or analysis would have been skewed by the gut-destroying fear of making a mistake.

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.