“Byron’s only legitimate child was Augusta Ada Byron King or Lady Lovelace. Do you know who that is?”
“Will you be bitterly disappointed if I confess I don’t?” Briefly, Peter inspected two browning steak and mushroom pies, and then closed the oven door.
“No, it’s just a point of interest. Ada is best known for being the world’s first computer programmer. She was a brilliant mathematician. In fact, the computer programming language ADA is named for her. Her mother, Anne Isabella Milbanke, was also a mathematician. When you think about it, that marriage was doomed from the start. A mathematician and a poet.”
“How cynical. Did you want wine with lunch?”
“It’ll put me to sleep.” Grace finished setting the table. “Furthermore, Ada had to pawn the family jewels in order to cover the gambling debts that arose out of her experiments testing mathematical theories of probability in horse racing.”
“A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.” The thin mouth curved in ironic humor.
“She died of cancer when she was only thirty-six.”
He made no comment to this, busy uncorking the wine.
“Byron, of course, was also only thirty-six when he died.”
“I don’t believe in family curses, if that’s where this is leading.”
“No, of course not. Ada never knew her father, although at her request she was buried next to him in St. Mary Magdalen’s church in Nottinghamshire.” She was thinking how odd it was that though she never noticed men’s clothing, she seemed to notice everything Peter wore. Today it was jeans and a cashmere sweater. Yesterday it had been triple-pleat soft slate trousers and a white bonded collar shirt. He had dressed up for Lady Vee. She found that mildly shocking. He deliberately used his…sex appeal.
“Touching as hell,” he said now, setting a glass of wine before Grace.
“I said I didn’t want wine.”
“Grace, relax for five minutes and have a glass of wine.”
“I’m perfectly relaxed.” But to humor him she sipped the wine. “Mm. That’s pretty good. Wine and red meat for lunch. It’s going to take me six months to recover from this vacation.” She added wryly, “Assuming I survive it.”
“You only live once.”
Grace raised her eyebrows. It was the sort of thing many people said—Chaz often said it—but Peter said it with unshakable authority. She indulged in another sip. It really was a very good wine.
“Ada’s mother, Annabella Milbanke—”
“A minute ago you said her name was Anne Isabella.”
“It was. But she’s mostly referred to as ‘Annabella’ in the reference texts. Maybe it was a pet name. Anyway, Byron’s wife is the source for most of the information on his incestuous love affair with his half-sister, Augusta Leigh. Talk about having an ax to grind. She spent forty years writing and rewriting her account of their year-long marriage.”
“Augusta Leigh being the prime candidate for Astarte?”
“Right. At least that was the family’s view. I mean, needless to say, Annabella is something of a prejudiced witness. There’s no proof that Byron had an affair with Augusta. They neither of them ever came out and admitted it.”
There was a brief delay while Peter removed the pies and set them on oak-leaf plates. When the food was served and he was seated across from Grace he commented, “I can tell by the swamp-gas glow in your eye that you’re hoping we’re after some kind of written proof of this affair?”
Grace poked the golden, flaky piecrust with her fork. “Wouldn’t that be incredible? To solve one of the great literary mysteries of all time?” A sudden memory occurred to her. “Oh, by the way, can we stop by a bank? In all the excitement I forgot to replace my traveler’s checks. And my credit cards are no good since I reported them stolen. I need to buy a hat.”
“This sounds urgent. Getting ready for the funeral?”
“And I want to—very funny. And I want to buy a copy of Glenarvon, which you happen to have—dating from 1906. I’ve always wanted to read it.”
Peter’s lean cheek creased but he said only, “Have it your way, Esmeralda. Perhaps we can find a bank to rob on the way. That’ll gratify Chief Constable Heron.”
“The way where?”
“I was certain you were about to suggest we pay Aeneas Sweet a visit.”
High Rhymes and Misdemeanors Page 24