Page 62

This is the way to kill a wife with kindness…

E lizabeth’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 apprehend 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 ever one to live upon expectations, for she’d never had any in her life, monetarily or emotionally.

Such thoughts, of course, always brought her round 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 all but 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, mute witness to her rage.

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.