Honor's Players (10 page)

“I’ll have Atheridge bring you some Madeira,” he said, swinging around sharply toward the bell pull. His momentum appeared to put him slightly off balance, and his hand shot out to break the imminent fall, knocking the candle off the table in its wake and sending globs of wax flying.

In an instant St. Ryne was on his knees, grabbing the candle and extinguishing its flame. “How absurdly clumsy of me. I do beg your pardon, my dear.”

St. Ryne faced the firelight, his back to Tunning. Elizabeth had no trouble seeing the mischief in his eyes, and her lips twisted to keep from laughing. “It has been a long day for both of us. No doubt we are both much fatigued.”

“No doubt,” he returned smoothly, replacing the candlestick on the table.

Elizabeth was now seated in shadows, and some of the tightness in St. Ryne’s chest released. He turned back to Tunning. “And now, my good man—”

Tunning coughed. “If it pleases, your lordship, I’ve a matter I’d like to bring to your attention.”

“Yes?” St. Ryne’s brow rose. He walked away from Elizabeth to sit behind the desk forcing Tunning to turn away from her as well.

“It’s about one of the tenant families, my lord. I think they should be replaced, they’re nothing but a pack of troublemakers.”

“Who are they? And why didn’t you say anything earlier today when we made the rounds?”

Tunning shifted uneasily, very aware of the fact that St. Ryne hadn’t asked him to sit as well. Maybe he didn’t have as complete an understanding of this dandy as he thought. “It’s the Humphries, my lord.”

“Humphries?” St. Ryne said in surprise.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Aren’t they at the Home farm?”

“Aye, but—”

“That is the only well-maintained and properly running farm on the estate!”

“I know, my lord, and that’s why I didn’t say anything afore. Truth is that appearance is deceptive and rooted in self-interest.” Tunning restively fingered his gold-filigreed watch chain.

“Self-interest!” St. Ryne laughed. “Self-interest like that brings in the rents.”

“Hold a moment, my lord, and let me say my piece,” he burst out gruffly, sweat glistening on the top of his bald pate.

Elizabeth and St. Ryne were surprised by his tone, albeit for different reasons. Elizabeth found the estate agent to be officious while St. Ryne surmised he was genuinely concerned about something.

“They’re rousing up the other tenants. They’ve got queer Republican notions and they’re inciting the others to revolt. Now I know,” he hurried on before St. Ryne could interrupt, “there have been Humphries at the Home farm for generations, but this lot’s bad blood. We’ll have trouble soon if they stay on. ”

St. Ryne frowned. “Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

Elizabeth stared at him. Was he seriously thinking of turning a whole family out simply on the word of this toad?

Tunning squirmed uncomfortably. “Well, my lord, it was because they keep up a good appearance that I hesitated to say anything and I also didn’t want you to think I didn’t know my business.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes in disbelief.

“Truth is, I went over the books this afternoon and, though I hate to admit my own carelessness, it does appear they may be shorting you on the percentages—leastways in comparison with the other tenants. They’re not giving much more than the others and, as you so noted, my lord, the Home farm is in much better condition.” Tunning had hit his stride now and his words trotted out easily. “Now, I do take the blame for not keeping a tighter rein on things here and of course, if your lordship thinks I should be replaced, I understand.” He spread his hands deprecatingly. “My only defense is the lack of interest exhibited by Sir Jeremy. I guess I slid into assuming that was a common attitude with the gentry. But now I have your measure, my lord, and I guarantee I’ll not be so remiss again!”

Elizabeth laughed silently and turned to St. Ryne to share the joke with him only to find him frowning. Surely he saw through this man!

“I don’t blame you, Tunning. This estate has been mismanaged for quite some time, and I expect it is galling to a man such as yourself to lack the authority to rectify the situation. Nonetheless, the Home farm is paying more than the others, and I’d hate to lose the revenues. This is not a matter to be decided lightly.”

“I concede that, my lord,” Tunning returned grudgingly.

“I am returning to London on the morrow. When I return, we may discuss the situation further.”

“Oh, are you, my lord?”

Elizabeth thought she detected a note of eagerness in Tunning's voice.

“Yes, though the Viscountess will be staying on to oversee the restoration of the manor house. Oh, blast, I forgot to ring for Atheridge. Would you care for a glass of port, Tunning?”

“Aye, that I would.”

“Well, pull up a chair over here.”

Tunning scuttled to obey, his mind churning over the Viscount’s attitude. He was certainly a cautious young buck, more than he’d anticipated, albeit one he remained confident he could manipulate to advantage.

A soft rap on the door preceded Atheridge’s entrance.

“Bring us some port, Atheridge, and some Madeira for the Viscountess,” requested St. Ryne.

“Very good, my lord.”

“Oh, and Atheridge,” St. Ryne added, studiously avoiding trading looks with Elizabeth, “this room is a bit drafty, please have the Viscountess’s shawl fetched.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Elizabeth cast St. Ryne a fulminating glance though truly she did feel chilled, but not, she suspected, from the air. Tunning, now sitting at ease by the desk had cast more than one assessing look in her direction, and she did not care for his intense consideration.

“Now, Tunning, as I said, I will be returning to London tomorrow. While I am gone, various tradesmen and craftsmen will be coming to Larchside. The Viscountess will be directing these worthies in the decorating and restoration of the manor. It will be your responsibility to keep an accounting and see these tradesmen are paid. It will also be yours to see that the estate is not unduly charged for the services received. In fact all bills, whether for Larchside or for the Viscountess’s personal fripperies, shall be directed to you.”

His words set Elizabeth’s teeth on edge. Yes, he had threatened to take such an action, but Elizabeth had taken it for only that, a threat. She looked over at St. Ryne to note him regarding her steadily, a smug smile on his face.

“Surely, St. Ryne, you would not wish to burden Mr. Tunning with such trivialities. I take it from your conversation there are several farms that need his close attention if they are to be made profitable. I should be quite desolate if I hampered his efforts in that direction.”

Atheridge’s return with the refreshments, followed by Mrs. Atheridge bearing her shawl, interrupted her. Elizabeth accepted the shawl with ill grace and draped it around her loosely. She rose to pour, nodding a dismissal to the Atheridges.

St. Ryne had difficulty deciding which shone more brightly in the light of the candelabrum by the tray: the cleaned crystal wineglasses or Elizabeth. He sucked in his breath as she bent to pick up another glass. The hussy was near to falling out of her dress and refused to adequately cover herself with the shawl. He watched through hooded eyes as she first served Tunning then handed him a glass.

Elizabeth smiled sardonically at him then turned to find Tunning devouring her silhouette with avid eyes. A shuttered expression descended over her features. She returned to the serving tray to pick up her glass, casually drawing the end of the shawl over her shoulder and tossing it across her front to drape the other shoulder. She turned to face St. Ryne, the light of the candles haloing her hair. She gracefully lifted the glass to her lips, savoring the taste of the sweet wine.

“As I was saying, St. Ryne,” she said, returning to her chair, “I am perfectly capable of overseeing the affairs of the manor.”

“Nonsense, my dear. We both know how you lack a proper understanding as to the value of money,” St. Ryne returned smoothly. "I have on two occasions witnessed this unfortunate deficit in your education. I must insist Mr. Tunning handle the accounts.”

Tunning looked from the Viscount to his wife and back, secretly crowing. “Now, my lady, don’t fret yourself. It is no burden at all. Accounts are my business, so to speak.”

Yes, I’ll wager they are, Elizabeth thought to herself. She did not like that self-satisfied expression on his face. Before St. Ryne returned she vowed she’d closely examine his account books. If one farm could be as well maintained as they inferred, it struck her as odd that all were not. Then there was the matter of Mrs. Atheridge’s petticoats. There was something about this man she could not like. His eyes held a sneaky shrewdness. She watched him fidget with his ornate watch chain. That, like the housekeeper’s petticoats, was not in keeping with his position.

Elizabeth watched him exchange a masculine, patronizing look with her husband at her expense. It was with sheer determination that she fought an impulse to fly into anger and properly rake him down.

“I’ll come by each afternoon to advise her ladyship. I’ll see she’s not gulled. I’ll also arrange for servants.”

“I prefer to choose my own.” Her voice was rigid, coming out as it did through clenched teeth.

“Well, no offense my lady, but being new in these parts, you’d do well to be advised by me.” He leaned back in his chair and spoke like a grand gentleman dispensing favors. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll arrange that all interviews be scheduled when we have our meeting in the afternoon so you can sit in and give your opinion, too.”

‘What?” She could not fathom this man’s boundless audacity.

“He has a point, my dear,” St. Ryne interrupted smoothly, hoping to squelch the storm he saw brewing in her gold eyes. Damn the man. Though it was his intention to teach his willful wife a lesson by leaving the accounts in Tunning’s hands, he had not meant for this fellow to infer that she was a helpless ninny hammer. He also did not care for his patronizing manner. Then a thought occurred to him, and perhaps it would be another good lesson for Elizabeth.

“Justin!”

Tunning observed the soundless exchange between the Viscount and his wife. There seemed to be little love lost between the two. He’d tell the Atheridges not to fear losing their sweet deal just yet, particularly if he was able to get rid of the meddlesome Humphries who noticed too much and asked too many questions. He was a trifle annoyed that the Viscount would not allow himself to be immediately led by him; however, he considered himself a patient man and it did appear the Viscount was disposed to defer to him, a circumstance that suited Tom Tunning perfectly.

He looked at the Viscountess. There was a morsel that suited him perfectly, too. Highborn ladies were often known to participate in a dalliance with those of other classes, if for no other reason than to cuckold their husbands. If the Viscount was to make a habit of long absences away from his bride, well, Tom Tunning would just have to see what he could do to soothe the poor Viscountess’s frustrations. Several images came to his mind of a nude and writhing young woman lying beneath him. Atheridge said they slept apart on their wedding night, too.

Elizabeth did not miss the smug and hungry look on Tunning’s face and she felt a warm blush suffuse her cheeks. How dare St. Ryne put her in this position!

Elizabeth and Tunning were so caught in their own thoughts that they were startled when they realized St. Ryne was again speaking to them.

“—looks fool you. Though the Viscountess may not have a head for money, she is an intelligent woman. I trust her to choose servants wisely and furthermore, should a problem arise with which you would consult me, please speak to her before sending any messages to London. I trust her to handle even the knottiest problem.”

Elizabeth turned to St. Ryne in surprise.

Tunning grinned fatuously. “Don’t you worry, my lord, I’m sure we’ll get along famously.”

Elizabeth doubted that but kept her lips clamped shut as she contemplated St. Ryne’s last statement.

“I have no doubt of it,” her husband said, rising from his chair. “Thank you for coming, Tunning. I’ll see you on my return.”

At that, Tunning had no choice but to rise also, make his bows, and leave.

Elizabeth looked questioningly at St. Ryne, a slight look of wonder and openness on her face. Suddenly there were so many questions tumbling around in. her mind waiting to be voiced. Unfortunately they faded quickly as memories of the humiliations she’d suffered at his hands also came to mind. She closed her eyes, lifting her hand to her forehead as if to push away the confusion and clear her mind.

“If you will excuse me, Justin, I would retire. It has been, as you stated earlier, a long day.”

“Of course, my dear,” he said, offering his arm to walk her to the door. Pointedly she ignored his gesture, murmured a goodnight, and brushed past him.

St. Ryne crossed to the tray to refill his glass. He had seen her open, avid look and had hoped she was ready to open up to him. Disastrously, he also saw it fade to be replaced by a cool aloofness. Perhaps he was making it too difficult for her to be open with him. That was one of the reasons he was returning to London. Branstoke was correct. He was walking a tightrope, but there was no turning back.

This is the way to kill a wife with kindness . . .

—Act III, Scene 3

Elizabeth’s fingertips drummed restlessly, the only outward sign of her agitation. Before her on the gleaming desktop lay a short missive from St. Ryne. He had been gone two days and one night. Idly she speculated on the gossip his presence in London engendered. None to her advantage, she was convinced. Of course, the viciousness of the gossip depended entirely on whether or not St. Ryne really was in London and not elsewhere in the arms of some fair Paphian. It was particularly galling to realize she did not know her husband well enough to know if he had leanings in that direction, let alone whether he currently sported a mistress.

The letter, at least, indicated he’d seen to some business in London for he spoke of the various tradesmen and craftsmen she was to expect to descend like locusts upon the morrow. It appeared, therefore, that he had every intention of restoring Larchside to whatever pretentions of bygone splendor it might have possessed. She wondered at his efforts. Larchside was not an overly large manor house, and she surmised he possessed several finer establishments to say nothing of his expectation, not that she was one to live upon expectations for she’d never had any in her life, monetarily or emotionally.

Such thoughts, of course, always brought her full circle to the mystery of their marriage. Despite his recent eccentricities, St. Ryne had always been referred to in her hearing as a man of great address and elegance of manner, not in the least condescending. All in all, the polite world considered him an ideal catch.

Why he had never married was a large question in Elizabeth’s mind, though larger too was the question, why her? She was very much alive to the fact that it was not a match his family condoned, for his parents had been conspicuously absent from the wedding. The marriage became more and more curious when she fully assimilated that distressing fact. For herself, she had to own, she was strangely content. Even fencing with St. Ryne was more enjoyable than living at Rasthough House had ever been. Here, too, she was mistress. Her brow descended and a slight frown bent her lips. Unfortunately, it did not appear that the Atheridges or Tunning saw her in quite the same light.

Tunning would be here soon.

She turned slightly in her chair to look out the tall windows. The ivy that had almost obscured the glass had been pulled away that morning. Now she could look out onto the small park surrounding Larchside. The late afternoon shadows were lengthening, and the two men sent to scythe the lawn were dark silhouettes, their blades catching the sun’s light on the upswing then descending into shadow in a rhythmic dance. Watching the cadence of their motion calmed her, and she could once again view her accomplishments objectively.

Although still somewhat shabby, Larchside was now clean. Elizabeth had made careful inventory of the manor and the condition of each room and its furnishings. Hangings, upholstery, painting, and wallpapering were needed in every room. Some rooms would also need the hand of a skilled plasterer and one bedroom that of a glazier. It would not be an inexpensive proposition to bring the manor house around, to say nothing of the tenant farms. To what extent did St. Ryne expect her to spend the ready? She chewed her lower lip in thought. It would probably be wise to choose the middle road, still in all, it would be costly.

Damn the man! What did he want from her?

She grimaced suddenly when she saw Tunning ride up to the manor. She’d seen more applicants arrive over the past half hour. Soon she would be forced to sit through another nerve-wracking session with Tunning and his idea of servant material. Yesterday she’d been appalled at what she privately considered the dregs of human life being put forward to her as servants, to say nothing of the children! In the spirit of fair-mindedness, she thought perhaps this was merely an example of the difference between country servants and those available in the metropolis, though she did not remember any quite like this on her family’s estate.

That morning, however, she had done some judicious questioning of the couple of village women still cleaning at Larchside. Their comments, or rather hedging lack of comments, spoke volumes to Elizabeth. She didn’t know why Tunning should be trying to make a May game of her, but she would not acquiesce easily. It had been her intention to leave her shrewish temperament toward others behind her in London; however, Tunning might become an exception, particularly in light of the incident that occurred that morning in regard to the estate room.

It had been her thought to go through some of the old household records to find mention of suppliers in the area who had done business with Larchside in the past. They would be among the first she would approach with her custom. Her mind busy with lists of necessities, she almost slammed into the door when it inexplicably did not open under her hand. Jiggling the doorknob confirmed her suspicion. The room was locked. At first that circumstance was a mere annoyance, for it meant she must sort through the ring of keys at her waist for the proper one. Her mild annoyance rapidly turned to profound irritation when she discovered the key was not on her ring.

Muttering under her breath at the slipshod practices of Larchside’s supposed caretakers; Elizabeth went in search of Mrs. Atheridge for the missing key. She had not liked the smug, triumphant look that appeared on Mrs. Atheridge’s face at her query, nor had she liked the way she clasped her hands before her and rocked back on her heels. If the housekeeper had been a cat, she would have expected to see feathers or a mouse’s tail sticking out of her mouth. “I’m sorry, my lady, I don’t have it.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes heavenward. This woman was determined to be an obstructionist. “Well, where is it kept?” she asked patiently.

“I can’t rightly say, as Mr. Tunning keeps the key.”

Startled, Elizabeth spoke her first thought. “Why?”

Mrs. Atheridge shrugged and repeated her last statement causing Elizabeth to grind her teeth.

“And the outside door as well?” she finally asked.

“Yes, my lady.”

Elizabeth dismissed her, then went to her room to change her thin slippers for kid half-boots and to collect her pelisse. Already deducing what she would discover, she proceeded nonetheless out the front door of the manor and around the side to the estate room entrance. It, too, was locked.

She went for a walk then to clear all the cobwebs from her mind. The air was cold but the day was clear and crisp.

She climbed a hill at the back of the estate and discovered from there she could see much of the surrounding countryside. The village was not far away. She saw its stone church at the end of the road through the bare tree branches. To the north was a farm with neat buildings and well-maintained hedgerows. From her vantage point it stood in sharp contrast to the surrounding acres. Due to its proximity, as much as to the curving dirt track leading from it to Larchside, she took it for the Home farm.

Looking at it and its neighbors, Elizabeth couldn’t help but wonder how much of what Tunning said was truth and how much fabrication. The feelings he aroused in her breast made her believe it was the latter. But why? Well, Larchside’s restoration was nicely underway. It was time to turn her attentions elsewhere, and seeking the answers to this riddle was as good a direction as any.

Since the cold was beginning to numb her feet, she’d returned to the manor and the questions that lay there.

Atheridge rapped on the library door breaking her train of thought. “Mr. Tunning is here, my lady.”

“Show him in,” said Elizabeth, a calm, neutral expression possessing her features. It was time for a confrontation with the slimy toad, on her terms.

Tunning scurried into the room, rubbing his cold-reddened hands before him. “Ah, my lady, ready and waiting are you to begin?”

“As you see.”

He laughed heartily. “That’s what I like about you, my lady, always straining at the bit, and a sweet goer you are to be sure.” He winked broadly at her and laughed again at his witticism, then his lips curled into a leer. “To be sure, it is a real mystery why the Viscount would take his leave so sudden with a woman like you to warm his bed. Perhaps he doesn’t appreciate you properly.”

Elizabeth seethed, though the only outward manifestation of her emotional state was the white knuckles of her clenched hands. She had considered Tunning coarse, but never in all her dealings with the man had she imagined he could so far forget himself as to speak to her in such a manner. Could he actually have the effrontery to believe she might turn to him as a substitution for her absent husband? The idea was mind-boggling and left her momentarily bereft of speech.

“Oh, now I’ve gone and embarrassed you.” He swaggered toward the desk, a ridiculous lugubrious expression on his face. “Don’t you fret, my lady, old Tom Tunning's not one to be a gabble-box, but should you ever need a shoulder to cry on, mine are right broad.” He reached out to touch her shoulder.

Elizabeth shied out of his way, her jerky action toppling her chair.

“Now, my lady, no need being shy,” Tunning said, mistaking her action for coquetry. He extended a hand to help her up, a self-satisfied smile plastered across his face.

“Don’t you dare touch me you slimy toad!” she cried, giving voice to her image of him. She scrambled to her feet, placing the width of the desk between them. “How dare you infer, let alone think, I should be interested in you. Your insolence knows no bounds. Get your fat, sweaty person out of my sight!”

Tunning's face darkened. “Don’t you go getting high-and-mighty. From what I heard tell, you’re just run goods. You best remember who holds the purse strings around here and sweeten your tongue a bit. That fancy husband of yours left fast enough no doubt for more sprightly game.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, gold flame shooting out through her dark lashes. “You may hold the purse strings,” she said icily, “but you don’t control me. You would best be advised to rethink your attitude before I have you thrown off this property.”

Tunning laughed in her face, though something about her expression gave him pause.

“Tunning, Larchside is mine!” she spat. “It was part of my marriage settlement. Didn’t St. Ryne tell you? How remiss of him. So you see, ultimately, I am your employer. This time I am inclined to give you mercy, indeed, I fear your ignorance warrants it. Now get your carcass and those sorry excuses for servants you’ve brought here out of this house.”

Tunning's mouth opened and closed like a toad catching flies. The his beady eyes narrowed even more as his face took on a choleric hue. “You’ll rue the day you jibed at Tom Tunning!’’

Elizabeth, struggling to hide her trembling, merely lifted her hand and pointed to the door.

Tunning stalked out, slamming the door shut behind him.

Elizabeth’s breath came out in a rush, her limbs suddenly as weak as a rag. She stumbled to one of the wing chairs and sank into it. Raising her hands to her face, she let out long, shuddering sobs. It galled her to know she truly had no power over Tunning; it was all a farce. For all her bravado, St. Ryne could easily negate her words. She had no idea if he would even believe her if she were to relate the tale. She cringed even to contemplate Tunning's next actions if he were to divine the hollowness of her words. He could make life akin to Dante’s Inferno.

She slowly lowered her hands from her face, balling them into fists that impotently pounded the chair arms. She wanted nothing so much as to scream her frustrations at the top of her lungs. She could not, however, afford to let Tunning hear of her immature behavior via the Atheridges. Ah yes, the Atheridges, Tunning’s spies. It would not do to show any sort of weakness to them. She must get her tears under control, her breathing regular, make it appear she was totally unmoved by the scene in the library, for she’d wager they’d know of it.

She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes, willing each muscle in her body to relax. What was she to do? She still was without servants and now, and she distrusted Mrs. Atheridge wouldn’t poison her deliberately versus accidentally as her current cooking ability threatened to accomplish. There seemed to be many decent people in the village for all who came to help at Larchside had been good folk. How could she find others to assume permanent positions in her household? Who would know everyone in the area?

Her eyes flew open. The vicar! A vicar would know his flock. Perhaps he even knew some of the skeletons rattling around, like Tunning and the Atheridges. No doubt he would be expecting her to make a duty call anyway. Perfect. Tunning could not rant and rave at suggestions from a man of the cloth.

“Oo-oo,” Elizabeth mouthed silently, a devilish light glowing in her eyes. Tunning was about to receive the first comeuppances at her hand and if she played her cards right, he could not complain to St. Ryne.

The next morning, Elizabeth felt beset by locusts. Not only did tradesmen and craftsmen arrive to push and pull for her attention, but also her trunks of personal belongings arrived. So busy was she that it wasn’t until nearly teatime before she could slip away to trek down to the village and the little stone church she had seen the day before.