Honor's Players (12 page)

The Countess ignored him. “I own I discounted the rumors of a betrothal when they reached my ears and said as much to anyone with the audacity to question me. But oh, the mortification to read of it in the Morning Gazette! I pushed and harried your father to return and put an end to such outlandishness only to find when I set foot on English soil that the deed was done almost a week past!”

St. Ryne sat down in the chair opposite his father. “Mother, I’m afraid you find me all at sea.”

“Wouldn’t mention sea to her, if I were you, my boy. They don’t get along.”

St. Ryne’s lips twitched as he offered a sideways thank you before continuing. “Prior to your departure for France you told to me that marriage was an event consummately to be desired. Your arguments spoke strongly of duty to the family. It was only my desire to please you that hurried my steps to the altar. "

From next to him came a snort of laughter. He studiously refrained from looking at his paternal parent for fear they would both start openly laughing.

Lady Alicia bristled. “Now see here, Justin, you know perfectly well what I meant. I have taken the trouble to introduce you to any number of eligible young ladies who would grace the Harth name. ”

St. Ryne studied his hands for a moment. “But I am more than a name, and sometimes I believe you forget that."

“Such impudence!” The Countess rose from her seat to pace the floor between the two gentlemen. “I shall never be able to show my face in polite company. The Shrew of London for a daughter-in-law! The humiliation!”

“Humiliation, Mother?” St. Ryne asked, his patience snapping. “Tell me, what exactly is wrong with my wife? Naught that I see. Is it because you did not choose her from your collection of simpering protégés? You’ll catch cold at that! And surely not even you can complain of her lineage—she is, after all, a daughter of an Earl.”

“Who’s been a friend of mine anytime these past thirty years,” his father interposed.

St. Ryne barely spared Seaverness a glance while his wife glared daggers at him.

“And as for being a shrew,” St. Ryne continued, “may I remind you that you are not the one to live with her, I am; and if I don’t consider her a shrew, then such arguments are a moot point.”

“But, Justin, how can you—”

“Enough.” He ran his hand through his hair and took a deep breath, aware of his own chaotic thoughts and emotions.

He sighed. “I regret my anger; however I now put you on notice. If I hear rumor of any aspersions cast upon my bride by you, you will henceforth be refused admittance to any home of mine.”

“He has got you there, my dear,” the Earl told his wife.

“Hush!” She then turned back to her son, her manner conciliating. St. Ryne eyed her warily.

“How did they do it, Justin?”

“Do what?”

“Force you to marry her. Did they manufacture a compromising position?"

St. Ryne ground his teeth in vexation. “I asked her of my own free will,” he said. “If she had refused me, however, I swear to you now I would have willingly compromised her to have her as my bride!” He flung himself out of his chair to stand by the window, staring with blind eyes out onto the shadowed street below.

The Earl whistled through his teeth. “That is a strong encomium, Alicia,” he said conversationally.

St. Ryne was shaken by the truth of his statement. Bile rose in his throat at the knowledge of his poor treatment toward his bride. Branstoke was correct. She was a paragon, a pearl past price, and he was in danger of so carelessly damaging her lustrous soul. He had to see her, show her his kind side. He wanted to learn to laugh and cry with her, to discover the nature of her hidden sorrows and yank them out by the roots, to love her and maybe someday be loved in return.

He turned to face his parents.

“Justin, I—” began his mother, only to be silenced by a wave of his hand.

“Since my return from Jamaica, I have been a damned fool.” He laughed deprecatingly. “The hot sun that shines in that region has been the catch-all for my sins. Perhaps the only truly intelligent action I have taken of late has been to marry Elizabeth. If you two will please excuse me, I must instruct my servants. I will be returning to my bride in the morning.”

His parents silently watched him leave, and then the Earl grabbed his Countess’s hand, pulling her over to sit on the arm of his chair. The Countess struggled briefly against him, her color rising in her cheeks in embarrassment before she relaxed and allowed herself to be so situated. She sat stiffly, only tentatively allowing herself to move her arm around her lord’s neck.

The Earl chuckled. Though he’d not tell her so, his Alicia and Lady Elizabeth were much alike. Both revealed depth only those close to them could plumb. He raised her hand to his lips, bestowing a kiss on her palm. She blushed and nestled closer.

St. Ryne pulled up his team. There was a marked change in Larchside, even from this distance. He studied the grounds and the house at the end of the long sweeping drive, a slow smile widening his mouth then leaping into his eyes. Obviously his Bess had not sat and sulked at his departure. The wide expanse of lawn had been scythed, shrubs had been trimmed, brambles uprooted, and ivy torn away from the windows allowing them to be cleaned, probably for the first time in five years. Now he was anxious to view what wonders she had wrought inside.

He urged his horses forward. He had not sent word of his imminent arrival, and his valet and groom were still an hour behind him. He was surprised when the front door flew open and a young man ran down the steps to stand stiffly, awaiting his approach. When he stopped his horses before the door, the young man bowed quickly then ran to their heads.

“Welcome home, my lord,” the young man said breathlessly. “I’m a footman here now.” He puffed himself up slightly.

St. Ryne raised his eyebrow then recognized the man as the one on the ladder in the dining room the day before his departure. He searched his brain for his name. “Thomas?” The young man’s face lit up with delight. “Thomas, do you think you could play groom to my horses for me? My groom will be here soon, but these beauties need attention now.”

“Me, my lord? Coo! There’s nothing I’d like better!” Excitement was writ large over the young man’s face as he stroked the neck of one of the pair. “I’ll do a good job, I swear to you!”

St. Ryne maintained an air of gravity. “Do you like horses, Thomas?”

“More than anything!”

“Hmm.” St. Ryne descended from the carriage and approached the man. “Better than being a footman?”

Uncertainty captured Thomas’s face. “Well, sir, I mean, my lord, being a footman ain’t bad, especially for my lady, but—”

St. Ryne laughed but when he spoke, his tone was sympathetic. “It’s not the same, though, is it?”

Thomas shook his head, then remembered himself. “No, my lord.”

“Don’t look so glum. My man Grigs is due here within the hour. Tell him I said you’re to have a trial.”

Thomas’s lean face lit up again like a beacon. “Thank you, my lord! I’d best get cracking. I don’t want Mr. Grigs’s first impression to be bad. Excuse me, my lord!”

St. Ryne watched him lead the horses away before he mounted the stairs. It suddenly occurred to him that his wife might not be pleased with his meddling in her disposition of servants. He shook his head ruefully, another sin to atone for.

It was his desire to change the direction of his relationship with Elizabeth, and he knew that it might not be an easy proposition. Nevertheless, he felt confident that his newly discovered love for his termagant wife would guide him to gentle wooing. It was as though the scales had fallen from his eyes and a blind man made to see. Though he had laughed at society for failing to see the parallels to William Shakespeare’s play, he was equally guilty of failing to see Elizabeth’s true nature. No, worse yet, of failing to act upon the gentleness and fragility he did glimpse.

He massaged his brow as he stepped into the hall, pondering his course of action. It was his nose that first alerted him to the extent of the changes within. The house smelled of fresh paint, polishing oils, and strong soap. He lowered his hand and looked around the hall, well satisfied. A smug expression, as if he were solely responsible, spread across his features. To an extent he felt he was, for he had taken to wife the woman who was capable of rendering such miracles in a short amount of time.

He spotted Atheridge coming out of the door under the stairs. “Atheridge! Where is my wife?”

“Oh, my lord! You startled me. We had no word of your coming.”

“I sent none. My wife, please?”

“In the library, my lord. Let me announce you.”

“In my own house? Hardly.” He strode down the hall to the library door, rapped once softly and before waiting for a response, walked into the room.

Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave . . .

—Act IV, Scene I

Elizabeth sat at the desk, a sheaf of papers before her and a quill in hand, determinedly deceiving herself with the motions of busy employment. Unfortunately, rather than the columns of numbers and their calculations to ascertain the fabric yardage necessary for the drapes and hangings in her bedroom, her hand seemed more inclined to absent circles and squiggles bearing, with some little imagination, all the character of a field of flowers.

Now that she was intimately acquainted with the condition of Larchside, she spent considerable time at the desk planning the manor’s refurbishment. She’d spent the morning choosing the fabrics for various rooms from the samples the linen drapers supplied. Most of the work was being done in their London workshops, but Elizabeth had decided to have her room done locally. Mary informed her there were women in the village who could sew a neat seam and could use extra money, for signs indicated a harsh winter to come. It would also, they decided, nicely sabotage Tunning’s effort to distance her from the local people. Elizabeth smiled briefly. She and Mary were fast becoming as thick as inkle weavers, much to the Atheridges’ chagrin and Tunning’s rage.

A bold line slashed across the page as her smile faded. St. Ryne had absented himself for a full week now, and she was beginning to feel restive. It wasn’t so much that she missed him as she missed the strange feelings he had introduced in her breast. She found herself contemplating different scenarios for a repeat of those ephemeral feelings. Then a sudden fear would grip her for they seemed such consuming feelings, and she was not at all certain she should allow such powerful emotions to engulf her. It could not be considered ladylike and would likely give St. Ryne a disgust of her.

She chewed her bottom lip as she considered her situation. Her questions might be moot if the Viscount failed to return or if Mr. Tunning’s vicious, oily tongue held sway. She had never liked the estate agent and her experiences in the past week only served to harden her dislike. It was a pity, however, that she had not been able to still her tongue during their last interview.

As she sat behind the desk, she vividly remembered the confrontation for she had been so situated when it occurred. It was caused by her hiring Mary Geddy. She’d known engaging Mary would be tantamount to adding fuel to a burning fire; however, she felt confident of her ability to face Tunning down. She knew, with wry irony, she had signally failed to take the true measure of the man for he was not above fighting dirty. When he heard from Atheridge the identity of her new cook, he came storming into her house without waiting to be announced, his face dangerously red.

“What are you about, employing that Geddy witch? You were to consult me on any hiring!”

“I never remember agreeing to that.”

He pounded his fist on the desk. “I told you those Humphries were a bad lot. A bad lot.”

“I beg to differ with you,” Elizabeth returned coolly, her eyebrow rising in quelling hauteur. “I found the Humphries to be pleasant company, but that is entirely beside the point. I did not hire them, I hired Mary Geddy. Furthermore, Mr. Tunning, I would not have done so if you had presented me with qualified people rather than the pathetic souls to whom you could pay less and pocket the difference. I am paying top dollar, Mr. Tunning, and you’re going to see that everyone I hire receives their proper wages.” Her accusation was a shot in the dark, but she was amply rewarded by the rapid flush on Tunning’s face.

“Are you accusing me of stealing estate funds?” he gritted.

She crowed silently while she considered him. “Outright stealing? No, I grant you more intelligence than that, Mr. Tunning,” she admitted serenely. “I think it more likely you take your pound of flesh from everyone you deal with.”

“That is a lie!”

“Is it?” A triumphant smile played upon her lips. Tunning's eyes narrowed, an ugly sneer twisting his features. He leaned over the desk and Elizabeth found herself shrinking into her chair. “Ah, I see the way of it now, you’re angry with that fine husband of yours for leaving the purse strings in my hands.”

“Ridiculous!” she snapped, yet an uncomfortable feeling nagged at her.

Tunning pressed his advantage. “I’ll not be the victim of a vengeful, frustrated virgin.”

“How dare you!”

He straightened, his pudgy hand fingering his watch chain. “Asides which, you’ve got no proof,” he continued malevolently.

Elizabeth drew a deep breath while her fiery eyes burned through Tunning. “No, I don’t. You saw to that when you locked the estate room and terrorized the local people,” she seethed. “But I’m giving you warning, do not play ducks and drakes with other people’s money again, or I’ll see you on the first ship bound for the penal colony in Australia!”

“Don’t you go threatening me,” he snarled, rocking back on his heels. “I know all about you now that I’ve done some investigating. They call you the Shrew of London, and it’s rumored St. Ryne won a tidy bundle in the clubs by wedding you.”

“You insolent cur!”

“Same as you. I’ll bide my time for now, but when the Viscount returns, I’ll see that Geddy witch out on her ear, mark my words.”

“You mark mine, Tom Tunning. Stay out of my way or you may see just how much of a shrew I can be. You’ll rue the day you crossed swords with me.” Her fingers closed around the inkstand, her fingers itching to throw it in his face.

“Oh, I think not, my fine lady, I think not,” he snickered, turning on his heel and slamming the library door shut behind him.

Elizabeth still shuddered when she considered that interview. She should have maintained an icy calmness, but her famous temper had once again betrayed her. The truth was, she did not know who St. Ryne would believe. His last words to Tunning before he left indicated a faith in her, but how much of that was real and how much pretense to ease the sting of his actions? She might be tilting at windmills and be as helpless as Tunning inferred.

She leaned back in her chair. She was tired, and a replay of that awful interview was not conducive to creating peace of mind. A wry smile twisted her mouth then crumbled into a tremulous frown. Life had not been fair to her since she was five, why should it change now?

Because I wish it to!

She lowered her head into her hands as a slow trailing of tears slid down her cheeks despite her determined silent protest against them.

St. Ryne stopped mid-stride when he saw his Bess. She jumped from her chair, his name a bare breath of air on her lips. She quickly flicked a tear from her cheek but not before he noted its course and a similar track on the other cheek. He continued forward to grab her hands and guide her around the desk, his warm smile offering humor and friendship. Elizabeth eyed him warily.

“Bess, what is this?” he asked, searching her face carefully.

Embarrassment flooded her cheeks. “Nothing, my lord, I assure you. It is merely fatigue’s cruel gesture, womanly nonsense.”

She withdrew her hands, a mantle of coldly formal reserve settling over her. She glided past him to sit stiffly erect in a chair by the fire. “We were not expecting you.” Suddenly seeing St. Ryne rocked her senses. She drew a steadying breath. “I’m afraid there is still much to do here. We are not yet prepared to provide all the comforts you would wish.”

St. Ryne looked quizzically at the stiff little marionette Elizabeth had become. “What do I care of comforts? As it is, my dear, you have already wrought miracles.” He took the chair opposite her.

Elizabeth refused to look directly at him, her eyes focused just to the side of his head. “The dining room and hall are complete save for draperies and upholstery,” she recited colorlessly. “I am assured the drawing room will be completed tomorrow. I had a bedroom for your use prepared in the event of your return but have not as yet ordered new fabrics for its refurbishment. The grounds have been manicured, though perhaps not perfectly, but this will do until spring. I took the liberty of cleaning out the stable and laying fresh straw. You are correct, it is a ramshackle structure but one, I surmise, which must see us through this winter. I have begun the process of engaging servants; however, it is a slow project. It appears there is considerable hesitation amongst the people here to work at Larchside on other than a contract basis. So far I have engaged the services of a cook, a chambermaid, and a footman.”

“We don’t have a footman any longer.”

“What?” Elizabeth’s head snapped around in surprise.

St. Ryne’s mouth quirked sideways then he struggled to adopt a tone as formal as her own though his eyes danced. “At least, I don’t think we do. It does depend on what Grigs says.” That caught her attention quickly enough, he thought.

“Who is Grigs? What are you talking about?”

“About Thomas, the young man you engaged as a footman. He’s horse mad, did you know? I’m giving him a chance to be a groom if Grigs, my head groom, approves him for training. Grigs should be here within the hour along with Mr. Cranston.”

“Mr. Cranston?” she returned feebly, knowing somehow she’d lost her advantage.

“My valet. Have you found a suitable lady’s maid yet?”

“No, though tomorrow I interview Ivy Murchison, a young woman who, Mary tells me, is quite clever with her hands and eager to enter the profession,” she said, dazed.

“Who is Mary?”

Elizabeth struggled to recapture her reserve. “Our new cook. It has been through her good offices that I have even been able to hire anyone.”

A mock grimace crossed St. Ryne’s face. “My stomach recalls only too well other meals served here. Can this Mary truly cook?”

“Excellently. That does remind me, I must tell her to expect one more for dinner.” She rose regally from her chair. “You must want to freshen up before dinner. I will have Atheridge conduct you to your chamber.” She glanced at the large clock on the mantle as she pulled the bell. “We keep country hours here. Dinner will be served in one hour.”

Elizabeth’s determined wintry disposition effectively cooled St. Ryne’s homecoming enthusiasm and convinced him his road would be rougher to travel than he had imagined. Rather than rail at her icy formality, it would do well to get over this rough ground lightly by accepting it without question. Her carefully controlled neutral demeanor had slipped once, so perhaps it wasn’t an easy attitude to maintain. If that were the case, he would do nothing to antagonize her into insuring its continued maintenance.

He listened to Elizabeth instruct Atheridge, her tones measured and correct yet lacking emotion. Perhaps he should first discover what had occurred at Larchside in his absence, for with his wife’s London reputation, there may be bellows to mend with the locals. She had already spoken of difficulty in engaging servants. Some diplomatic maneuvering might be in order.

St. Ryne’s thoughts were pensive as he followed the butler. The meaning behind Elizabeth’s care for his room was not lost on him. He had not joined her in bed on their wedding night or the night after, therefore she did not expect him to in the future, and most likely would vehemently protest any attempt on his part. He could demand his conjugal rights, although that was definitely not what he wanted from his Bess. He wanted her to want him as much as he was discovering he wanted her. In retrospect, it amazed him what a mull he’d managed to make of his marriage. His actions were those of a man puffed up by his own conceit. It would take time to rectify his many errors. Time, he grimly decided, he would take.

“Your chambers, my lord.”

Atheridge’s rusty voice interrupted his reverie. “Thank you.” He looked about with interest at the room Elizabeth had assigned him. It was decorated in bilious green. St. Ryne thought wryly that its current color scheme probably figured in her selection. He’d wager it was also scheduled to be the last room she redecorated. Actually he was pleased; such a choice was calculated with vengeance in mind, tempered with black humor. If she was as bloodless as she was attempting to portray, it was more likely she wouldn’t have cared where he slept or else would have taken the simple expedient of choosing a room that was the farthest from her own.

“Atheridge,” he said suddenly before the man could leave, “how has life been here at Larchside since I left?”

“Beg pardon, my lord?”

St. Ryne frowned, forming his words carefully in his mind. “I left before my wife had the opportunity to properly acquaint herself with Larchside.”

“Yes, my lord”

“I trust there have been no problems?”

“None, though Mr. Tunning and the mistress do not see eye to eye.”

“In what way?”

“Well, not that it’s for me to say, but it did seem she completely disregarded his personnel suggestions and, forgive me my lord, she has sometimes gone so far as to forget her position with the tenants, if you know my meaning,” he explained austerely.

St. Ryne’s brow descended and he nodded his understanding. “Thank you, Atheridge, that will be all. Oh, you can expect my man to arrive shortly, so please see him situated then conduct him here.”

“Very good, my lord.” Atheridge bowed himself out, pleased with his accomplishment. He’d show Tunning he was not the only one who could be needle-witted. Soon that Viscountess would be property tethered, and Larchside would be her gilded perch. Then they could go about feathering their nests as they’d done for years. There was a fair amount of money put away; he’d once asked Tunning if it weren’t time to cut their losses and retire the scene. But the wily estate agent had been confident there were still funds to be milked from the estate and the people serving it.

Alone, St. Ryne shrugged out of his coat, waistcoat, and shirt, shivering slightly in the cool air. The fire laid when he arrived had not caught sufficiently to heat the room. Absently he picked up the poker to stoke the flames, his mind on Atheridge’s words.

It appeared his fears were well founded; Elizabeth had been up to her London tricks and had already managed to terrorize the neighborhood. He should not have left her in so uncertain a temper. She was bound to take some misguided action. He pitied his tenants, especially those whose life looked unnaturally harsh. He wondered what actions he would have to take to sooth ruffled feathers and hurt feelings. It was no surprise that she was having difficulty engaging servants; she probably terrorized all applicants. Tunning must be tearing his hair out, he mused, with her ranting and raving.