Quick, Amanda by Rendezvous

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 aboutLondon 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.
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    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."
    "Thank you." Harry waited.
    "Miss Ballinger does not seem your type at all. I fear she has inherited the family inclination toward
    recklessness and mischief. 'Twill be an odd match, if you don't mind my saying so."
    "But I do. Mind, that is." Harry smiled coldly. "I also object to your dancing the waltz with my fiancée."
    Lovejoy's expression was one of malicious expectation. "Miss Ballinger is rather fond of the waltz. She
    tells me she finds me a skilled partner."
    Harry went back to contemplating the fire. "It would be best for all concerned if you found someone else
    to impress with your dancing skills."
    "And if I do not?" Lovejoy taunted softly.
    Harry sighed deeply as he got up from his chair. "If you do not, then you will oblige me to take other
    measures to protect my fiancée from your attentions."
    "Do you really believe you can do that?"
    "Yes," said Harry. "I believe I can. And I will." He picked up his unfinished brandy and swallowed what
    was left in the glass. Then, without a word, he turned and walked toward the door.
    So much for rash statements about not getting into duels over women, Harry thought ruefully. He knew
    he had just come very close to issuing a challenge a moment ago. If Lovejoy did not take a hint, it might
    very well come to something irritatingly melodramatic such as pistols at dawn.
    Harry shook his head. He had only been engaged for two days and alreadyAugusta was having an
    extremely unsettling effect on his quiet, orderly existence. It certainly made one wonder what life was
    going to be like after he married the woman.
    Augustasat curled in the blue armchair near the library window and frowned down at the novel in her
    lap. She had been attempting to read the page in front of her for at least