"Damnation. I should have known. You are surely going to be the death of me, madam wife. Innocent fool that I am, I assumed you were merely taking a shortcut back through the gardens after a late visit to Pompeia's."

"Oh, no, it had nothing at all to do with Pompeia's. I went to meet a man, you see. Only he was not there. Rather, he was, but he did not show himself until—"

"You just told me this did not involve a man," Harry reminded her grimly.

"Not in the way I assumed you meant," she explained, trying to be patient. "There was no romantic rendezvous, you see. Let me tell you the whole story and then you will understand."

"I sincerely doubt that I will ever understand you, Augusta, but by all means, tell me this story. Please tell it quickly and succinctly, as my patience is hanging by a thread. That fact makes your situation extremely precarious, my dear."

"I see." She bit her lip, collecting her thoughts hurriedly. "Well, today at the balloon ascent a small boy thrust a note into my hand. The note said that if I would come out into the lane behind the house at midnight tonight I should have the truth about my brother. That is all there was to it."

" 'All there was to it. Dear God in heaven." Harry closed his eyes and briefly lowered his head into his hands. "I am going to end up in Bedlam. I know I am going to end up there."

"Harry? Are you all right?"

"No, I am not all right. I just explained to you that I am in imminent danger of going mad." Harry shot to his feet and came around to the front of the desk. He stood there towering over Augusta, folded his arms across his chest, and fixed her with a cold stare. "We will take this one step at a time. Who had the note sent to you?"

"I do not know. As I said, whoever it was did not show himself out in the lane. But he was watching and waiting for me to pick up this book. As soon as I noticed it, he rode out of the lane and went down the street. I never got a close look at him."

"Let me see that book." Harry plucked it out of her lap and began leafing through it.

Augusta jumped up and craned her neck to get a glimpse of what had been written inside. She saw at once that it was filled with handwriting. " 'Tis a private journal of some sort."

"Yes, it is."

"Slow down, you are turning the pages too fast. I cannot read it."

"I doubt if you would understand the meaning, even if you could read it. 'Tis in code. An old one that was broken a long time ago."

"Really? Can you read it? What does it have to do with my brother? What do you think it means, Harry?"

"Please be quiet, Augusta. Sit down and give me a few minutes to examine it. I have not dealt with this particular code for quite some time."

Augusta obeyed, sitting very still, her hands laced tightly together in her lap as she eagerly awaited the results of her investigations.

Harry went back around behind his desk and sat down. He opened the volume to the first page and studied it with an intent expression. He turned the page and then he turned another. Finally he glanced at a few pages toward the end of the book.

After an excruciatingly long time, he closed the journal and raised his eyes to meet Augusta's. There was a new coldness in his gaze, an icy chill that went beyond anything she had ever seen in those crystal gray eyes.

"Well, my lord?" she whispered.

"It appears to be a record of coded dispatches sent with various couriers during the war. I recognize some of the dispatches mentioned because my agents intercepted them and I decoded them."

Augusta frowned. "But how does that relate to my brother?"

"This is a very personal journal, Augusta." Harry fingered the volume gently. "A private record meant for no one's eyes except the one who wrote in it."

"But who would that have been? Can you tell?"

"Only one man could have known about all of these dispatches and only one man could have known the names of all these couriers and French agents listed at the beginning. This journal must have once belonged to the Spider himself."

Augusta began to panic. "But, Harry what does that haw to do with my brother?"

"It would appear, Augusta, based on this and some other evidence, that someone is trying to tell us that your brother was the Spider."

"No, that is impossible." Augusta shot to her feet. "What you say is a lie."

"Please sit down, Augusta," Harry said quietly.

"I will not sit down." She took one step forward, planted her hands on the desk, and leaned toward him, willing him to believe her. "I do not care how much proof you produce. Do you hear me? My brother was no traitor. My lord, you must believe me. No Northumberland Ballinger would ever betray his country. Richard was not the Spider."

"As it happens, I am inclined to agree with you."

Dazed by his ready acceptance of Richard's innocence after all the damning evidence, Augusta sat down abruptly. "You agree with me? You do not believe that journal belonged to Richard? For it most certainly did not, my lord. It is not in his handwriting. I swear it is not."

"The handwriting proves nothing. An intelligent man would most certainly have developed a unique style of writing for the purposes of keeping a dangerous journal such as this."

"But Harry—"

"As it happens," Harry interrupted gently, "there are other reasons which make it difficult if not downright impossible to believe your brother was the Spider."

Augusta smiled slowly, aware of a deep surge of glorious relief. "I am glad, my lord. Thank you for believing in his honor. I cannot tell you how much this means to me. I shall never forget your kindness in this matter, and rest assured you shall have my everlasting gratitude and appreciation."

Harry regarded her silently for a moment, his fingers drumming absently on the leather-bound volume. "Naturally, I am pleased to hear you say that, madam." He put the journal into his desk drawer and turned the key in the lock as he spoke.

" 'Tis true, Harry." Augusta's smile grew brilliant. Then she cleared her throat delicately. "Given the evidence of that horrid poem and this journal, plus your tendency to prefer logic to blind faith, however, I do have a question."

"Yes?"

"May I ask precisely why you are so ready to believe Richard was not the Spider?" She waited in unbearable suspense to see if Harry would admit that it was his affection for her that had swayed his opinion.

"The answer is obvious, Augusta."

"Yes, my lord?" She beamed at him.

"I have been living with a Northumberland Ballinger for some weeks now and I have come to know the habits and characteristics of the breed rather well. And as I have been assured that all Northumberland Ballingers share a number of traits—" He broke off with a shrug.

Augusta was beginning to get confused. "Yes, Harry? Pray continue."

"Allow me to be blunt, madam. No Northumberland Ballinger would be at all likely to have the temperament suited to a brilliant spymaster who managed to escape detection for years and whose identity is still unknown."

"Temperament, Harry? Whatever does that mean?"

"It means," Harry said, "that the average Northumberland Ballinger, which your brother evidently was from all accounts, is too damned emotional, too rash, too indiscreet, too impetuous, and too bloody idiotic to make a halfway decent spy, let alone a master of spies."

"Oh," said Augusta, blinking as she absorbed the unexpected response. And then the depths of the insult struck home. She leaped to her feet again, incensed. "How dare you say such things? How dare you? Apologize at once, sir."

"Do not be ridiculous. One does not apologize for the truth."

Augusta stared at him in mounting fury. "Then you leave me no option, my lord. You have insulted my family one too many times. As the last of the Northumberland Ballingers, I demand satisfaction for your slanderous remarks."