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“Yes. I must tell you, and I do hope you will not be too offended,” she said patronizingly, “your knowledge of the niceties of feminine attire is lamentable. I’m sure you had the best of intentions.” She reached over to pat his hand soothingly.

He flushed dark red. She had managed to turn the tables on him, and now what had seemed like clever maneuvering came across decidedly flat.

“My apologies,” he said stiffly. “Your own trunks should be arriving in the next day or so. I shall not repeat my error.”

“No, I don’t think you will,” she returned smugly.

He eyed the décolletage again. “Isn’t that a trifle, ahem, too, too?—”

"Too what?” she asked serenely.

“Perhaps I should have Atheridge fetch a shawl for you.”

“To what purpose?”

St. Ryne ground his teeth in frustration and would have spoken had Atheridge not entered just then.

“Excuse me, my lord, but Mr. Tunning is here.”

“Ah, yes, we were expecting him.” He glanced askance at Elizabeth.

She merely smiled. ‘Have him conducted to the library. We will join him there shortly.” He watched Atheridge bow himself out of the room before turning back to Elizabeth.

Then, scowling blackly, he scraped his chair back from the table, rose, and stiffly offered his arm.

A triumphant light shone in Elizabeth’s eyes. Success! She had finally managed to break down his guard and score a hit. It was a practice she intended to continue. The Honorable Viscount St. Ryne would rue the day he played fast and loose with her.

Elizabeth heard a drawer hurriedly slide shut as Atheridge opened the library door. She looked around in time to see the estate agent scuttle around the edge of the desk.

“Amazing, I never knew as how this old desk would clean up so good.” The man forced a small nervous laugh, his voice tinged with a country accent. He moved his hand uncertainly from the polished surface of the desk to fiddle with his gold watch chain.

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. A slight sheen of perspiration showed above the man’s lips. He was nervous! The realization surprised her. What manner of man was this?

“You wished to see me, my lord?” he affected primly, losing his country accent. He had himself well in hand now, Elizabeth noted, even going so far as to maintain a slight swagger as he approached.

“Yes, Tunning. First, allow me to make you known to my wife, the Viscountess St. Ryne.” He guided her toward him.

Elizabeth was put to mind of a reptile by Tunning. A fat toad, she decided, and a strangely frightening one. He made her skin crawl, and she couldn’t help raising her chin haughtily.

St. Ryne witnessed her reaction and frowned.

He did not hold with being unreasonably snobbish to the lower classes, and her reaction struck him forcefully as unwarranted.

The words to rebuke her subtly were on his lips when his glance slid down from her face to her chest and the profusion of exposed creamy flesh.

He ground his teeth and owned her expression might be needful, as he noted a wide smile spread across Tunning's face. It was just shy of being lascivious.

Tunning bowed, though his head stayed level enough for his eyes to remain upon the Viscountess. Atheridge’s eyes must be clouding with age, he thought, for here was a decidedly delicious morsel. He licked his lips and wondered if the cut of her gown was also indicative of the cut of her morals.

“I am charmed, my lady,” he said smoothly.

Charmed, what an odd word for an employee to use. A chill passed over Elizabeth, and she wished she hadn’t teased St. Ryne so, and had availed herself of a shawl.

St. Ryne witnessed Tunning's crude reaction to his wife’s near exposure. Damn the woman, was she lost to all sense of propriety? A curious possessive jealousy flared within his chest, igniting a flame of craftiness.

“Here, my dear, you have been on your feet all this day overseeing the cleaning, please sit down.” He grabbed her elbow and propelled her to one of the chairs by the fireplace.

With his free hand, he angled the chair away from the light of the fire then gently seated her.

Her face was now in shadows, but to his chagrin he noted the light from the single small taper on the table by her elbow cast a glow upon her chest.

There was nothing for it but to emulate his mother. The Countess of Seaverness was the clumsiest woman of his acquaintance, yet through unbounded arrogance she ignored any destruction left in her wake.

“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 please, 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. No, more like he merely possessed typical aristocratic arrogance.

“It’s the Humphries, my lord.”

“Humphries?” snapped St. Ryne 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 taken by surprise 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.”