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“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—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, his face taking 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 wet 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, she thought wryly, she distrusted Mrs. Atheridge not to poison her deliberately versus accidentally, as her current cooking 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. Of course, 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 of many comeuppances at her hand, and if she played her cards right, he could not complain to St. Ryne.

The light died out of her eyes as she thought of her husband.

She couldn’t see her way clear of that fine imbroglio.

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.

A brisk fifteen-minute walk brought her to the rectory, and moments later she found herself in a cheery little parlor facing a kind-looking, white-haired gentleman.

“I am delighted, simply delighted by your visit. My oh my, are we now to discover our sleepy little village in the guidebooks as one of the country seats of a Viscount, heir to an earldom?” he teased. A tittering laugh followed his words, and Elizabeth could not help but laugh with him.

“I wouldn’t know, sir, what these publishers deem interesting.”

“Oh, anything for a shilling, my dear, anything at all,” he assured her, his watery blue eyes fairly bulging.

“And what’s anything for a shilling, Father?”

Elizabeth whirled around to see a well-set-up gentleman in modest attire standing by the door.

“Ah, David, there you are. Let me make you known to our new lovely patroness, the Viscountess St. Ryne.” He turned back to Elizabeth. “This scapegrace young gentleman is my son, David Thornbridge.”

Elizabeth heard the warm pride in the vicar’s voice and her eyes pricked with tears. Oh, to have a father with such sensibilities! She willed the telltale moisture away and gracefully extended her hand.

“My lady,” young Mr. Thornbridge murmured, with just the correct degree of deference in his tone as he made his leg.

Elizabeth was impressed. She inclined her head slightly. “You are not, Mr. Thornbridge, a man of the cloth like your father?”

“No indeed, my lady. I am a manager with Waddley Spice and Tea Company in London.”

“Ah, I have heard of them.”

“They are very successful, my lady.”

Elizabeth’s eyes danced merrily. “To be sure.” Not for the world would she divulge to this serious gentleman quite how she knew of Waddley’s.

The Honorable Mrs. Cecilia Waddley, sole owner after the death of her husband, had been born the Honorable Miss Cecilia Haukstorm, granddaughter of a duke, niece of an earl.

She had virtually been sold into marriage to the highest bidder to pay her father’s and brother’s prodigious gambling debts.

Though she had been cut off from society at her marriage, her widowhood saw the doors reopen to her, for not even the highest sticklers continued her omission from their invitation lists.

She was a delightful ninnyhammer, though given to blue megrims, vapors, and sundry other ailments she swore were constantly threatening to take her life from her.

Her dramatic highs and lows were considered by society to be as entertaining as Elizabeth’s own tantrums had been.

No doubt they were filling her place to a nicety.

“You are lucky to get time away from your ledgers and quills.”

“My, ah, my employer is considerate of familial obligations to the point of insistence.”

“Yes,” Reverend Thornbridge said, the twinkle in his eye belying his frown, “and here I thought I’d managed to get rid of this young whelp.”

Elizabeth laughed delightedly. “You don’t fool me in the slightest, sir. You’re as proud as a peacock of him.”

“Please don’t tell him that!” David exclaimed. “You’ll start him spouting off about the sins of pride and you’ll never get out of here.”

The Reverend Thornbridge harrumphed. “Now don’t you go listening to my boy here. Too much city in him to my mind. Seems to me he’s the one who needs the lecture.”

David Thornbridge groaned, but his father chose only to spare him a quick sliding glance before continuing. “But tell me, my child, is there any way I can be of assistance to you in adjusting to your new home?”

“Actually, Reverend, there is. I am in need of servants. Many of the villagers have come to help clean the manor, and they’ve been good, decent people. Unfortunately, the people who have come to interview for permanent positions do not seem cut of the same cloth.”

“Let me guess, the people who have come to apply have all been brought to you by Mr. Tunning,” David suggested drily.

“David!” scolded the reverend.

“No sense wrapping it up in clean linen, Father.”

“No, please, Reverend Thornbridge,” interposed Elizabeth.

“David is not implying anything I haven’t already guessed.

” She sighed. “There is definitely something strange going on, though I don’t know precisely what as yet.

Nonetheless, I still need servants, and as you surmise, I do not want any of Tunning’s ilk.

The problem is, it appears none of the village people will come forward to me directly. ”

The reverend frowned. "I know. I can’t tell you all, as I don’t have facts, only suspicions. But I can make a suggestion.” He spoke slowly, capturing her full attention with his eyes. “If you are planning to visit any of your tenant farms, you may wish to talk to Mary Geddy.”

Out of the corner of her eye Elizabeth saw David Thornbridge suddenly smile and nod, and this piqued her curiosity. “I’m afraid I don’t recall meeting anyone by the name of Geddy. Could you give me her direction?”

“She lives with her daughter and son-in-law, Ellie and Nat Humphries, and their son Gerald.”

“They’re at the Home farm!”

“Yes, but remember to visit them when you’re making your rounds.”