Page 67

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

Act IV, Scene I

E lizabeth 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 execution of 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 more 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 'liming. “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 whom 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?”