Page 69

Once out of the suffocating proximity of St. Ryne, a new iron determination to distance herself emotionally from him swept through Elizabeth.

She paced her room restlessly. She hated the realization that he could make her knees weak with a touch or a look, while he felt nothing.

He acted the large cat playing with its prey.

Why had he come back—to complete her humiliation?

For all her shrewish sins of the past, did she deserve such treatment?

The only time she had felt confident dealing with St. Ryne was the evening she came down to dinner in the altered gown.

Her eyes widened. Of course—how stupid she was to forget!

Justin was not completely immune to her charms, for she’d proven it to herself that night.

Poor Hattie told her often enough that a body caught more flies with honey than with vinegar, but her words had fallen on deaf ears—until now.

Her wardrobe was stuffed with her gowns from home.

Impatiently she sorted through them. The insipid white muslins she should discard.

She must remember to ask Mary if there were any young girls in the area in need of such dresses.

Unfortunately, the rest of her gowns were not much better.

There were perhaps two gowns that offered promise: a red velvet that had been made up for a theater excursion that she had bowed out of at the last moment pleading a headache, and a dark blue watered silk, which, after it was delivered, Lady Romella had decided was too dark a color for an unmarried woman.

Though neither neckline was as vulgarly low as the one she’d fashioned for the gray gown, the colors did her better service.

She chose the blue silk, deciding the red may yet be too strong a color.

Her campaign must start subtly, she thought with a small smile.

“That repast, my dear, was as good as any prepared by a London chef,” St. Ryne praised as he conducted Elizabeth to the library after dinner. “You are to be congratulated.”

“Yes, I believe we are fortunate in Mary.”

He guided her to a chair, then turned to pour after-dinner drinks. “Where did you find this paragon?”

“At one of the tenant farms.” She pulled some needlework from a tapestry bag by the chair.

“The tenant farms?” He had inferred from what Atheridge said that she did not get along with their tenants.

“Yes. You seem surprised.” She threaded her needle and bent her head to the canvas.

“Oh, no, not at all. What are you about there?”

A faint smile traced her lips. “This is a seat cover for a chair in the hall.”

He set a glass of Madeira on the table at her elbow, staring down at her a moment.

“Justin, please, you’re in my light.”

“I beg your pardon.” He walked away to the other chair, then swung around to the mantel to remove the candlestick and place it by her side. “You need more light for that work,” he muttered before taking his seat.

Elizabeth thanked him serenely.

St. Ryne found himself well contented to sit and watch her sew by candlelight.

A warm glow surrounded her, and St. Ryne was struck by her exquisite beauty.

Perhaps Branstoke was correct and he did indeed hold a pearl beyond price in his hand.

She did not seem to be a woman who would rant and rave at innocents, rather the tigress who would defend her cubs.

Lamentably, he knew he had much to learn; he hoped it wasn’t too late.

In the distance they heard the sharp rap of the door knocker. They exchanged glances.

“Bess, were you expecting someone?”

“No, unless—” she paused.

“Excuse me, my lord,” interrupted Atheridge, “but Mr. Tunning is outside desirous to see you.”

“Have him come in.” He looked at Elizabeth. “Do you know what Tunning wants?”

She laughed mirthlessly. “I have a few ideas.”

Before he could question her further, the man was shown into the room. Tunning coughed deprecatingly, turning his hat round in his hands. He had not expected to see the Viscount and Viscountess so comfortably ensconced together.

“Excuse me, my lord, but seeing as you’ve been away awhile, I just thought you might like to see me on your return, to catch up on our accomplishments, as it were.”

Though St. Ryne was annoyed by Tunning's interruption of his first evening with Elizabeth, he had to judge the merit of his words. It rankled him to know that Tunning did not trust his wife to appraise him of the improvements. To the estate agent’s mind, however, he was probably acting efficiently.

“I concede your point,” he allowed reluctantly.

Tunning shifted nervously, bringing a smile to Elizabeth’s lips at his discomfiture. “Shall we repair to the estate room, as all the books and papers are there?”

St. Ryne sighed and rose from his chair. “Will you forgive me, Bess?”

“Of course,” she acquiesced, nodding her head slightly.

She owned herself disposed to wonder at the success of Tunning's venture and found herself considering the meeting a weather vane for the success of her marriage.

Justin did not appear anxious to quit her side; if such a feeling extended to questioning the veracity of Tunning's word over hers, she would be well content and inclined to bend in her attitude toward her husband in return.

The needle she plied struck her thumb smartly, recalling her to her task at hand.

“It’s good to see you back, my lord,” Tunning said, easing himself ponderously into a plain wooden chair.

“You seem almost relieved. Have there been problems?” St. Ryne rounded the table to sit, irked to realize Tunning sat before him and without permission.

Tunning reached for a port bottle from a nearby tray and poured two glasses. “Oh no—leastwise, not overt like, but it’s building. Them Humphries are bad business. They’re too independent, not following my advice or letting me handle the sales. They’re also disruptive.”

St. Ryne accepted the glass wordlessly, though silently he wondered what a port bottle and glasses were doing in his estate room.

Tunning seemed to take it for granted that this was his domain.

He took a sip of port before speaking, and leaned back in his chair to study the estate agent through lazily hooded eyes. “In what manner?” he finally asked.

“Insolent, my lord.”

St. Ryne thought of his wife’s sharp manner and Atheridge’s comment on the time she spent with the tenants. “To whom have they been insolent? My wife?”

“No, my lord. It’s too busy toad-eating her , they are. She’s always down there, and even went so far as to hire that Mary Geddy when I expressly told her the Humphries are a bad lot.”

St. Ryne sat forward in his chair, pushing a stack of ledgers away from the place before him to clear a space for his arms. He suddenly felt his understanding of the situation at Larchside crumbling. “What has Mary Geddy to do with the Humphries?”

“She’s Mrs. Humphries’s mother, and a very insinuating woman, she is.”

“Mrs. Humphries’ mother? Does she live with them?”

“Yes, for about five years, now, I’d say.”

“Mrs. Geddy is an excellent cook.” St. Ryne looked steadily at Tunning. “Can you say you know of better?”

Tunning squirmed. “Not precisely, my lord. But it does no good to encourage them,” he returned roundly. “I don’t trust them and I’d watch out for the Viscountess with them—bad influence, that.”

St. Ryne crossed his arms upon his chest, sinking his head down in thought, a brooding pout on his face. “I understand none of the servants who have been hired have been of your choosing.”

“No, and that’s a fact I also wanted to discuss with you, but didn’t rightly know how to bring up.”

“I’m giving you your opportunity. Speak.”

Tunning coughed and shifted his feet before responding. “I’ll not wrap it up in clean linen, my lord. The Viscountess don’t like me, and that’s a fact.”

“Why?” The question shot out between them, hanging over the table.

“Now, my lord,” he cajoled, mopping his brow, “there’s no pulling the wool over my eyes.

I’m up to every rig and row invented.” He leaned toward the Viscount, the look of state secrets to sell upon his face.

“I’ve heard stories about the Viscountess, stories that would curl your hair, beggin’ your lordship’s pardon. ”

St. Ryne’s hackles rose, though he managed to wave his hand dismissingly. “Stories mean nothing. You would be wise to remember that if you wish to remain in our employ,” he slowly replied, pinning him with a quelling stare.

Tunning was disconcerted. “Well, to be sure, to be sure,” he placated quickly. “But it still don’t change the fact that the Viscountess is resistant to my advice.”

“You’ve traded words with her?”

Tunning laughed weakly. “Yes, and that’s a fact, but I’d say we’ve got each other’s measure now, my lord,” he hastily assured St. Ryne.

“Indeed? If that is the case, I wonder who is really being insolent to whom?”

Tunning's smile dimmed and he fidgeted with his watch chain.

“Why don’t we call in Elizabeth to discuss the servant situation?”

“Now that you’re home, my lord, that’s not really necessary.”

“Oh, but I insist.” St. Ryne rang the bell for Atheridge who responded with suspicious alacrity.

“Atheridge, ask the Viscountess to join Mr. Tunning and me in the estate room, please.” St. Ryne did not wait for Atheridge’s bow, but adroitly changed the subject and began speaking to Tunning of a proposed meeting with Grigs to discuss the condition of the stable, and whether it could be remodeled or if it needed to be completely rebuilt.

“Are you planning to settle here permanently, my lord?”

“Hardly, I have other properties, some of which are considerably larger than Larchside.” St. Ryne rose and began prowling the small room as he talked. He peered at the dates on the ledgers in the bookcase.

“Then, begging your pardon, my lord, why are you fixin’ the place up? To sell?”

“I can’t do that, Tunning. You see I settled Larchside on my wife when we married.” He turned back to the table. “So, I will be depending on you to turn this property around and make it more than marginally profitable.”

“I understand.” Tunning's thoughts chased around in his head.

Perhaps if he could show periodic improvement in the revenues and property condition, he would still be left to run Larchside and could easily arrange to continue his side earnings.

It may well be that the faster repairs and improvements were made, the faster would he see the backs of the Viscount and his interfering wife.

Atheridge coughed from the doorway. “Excuse me, my lord.”

St. Ryne swung around. “Yes, where is the Viscountess, my wife?”

“She says, my lord, as the estate room has been locked to her the entire time you’ve been gone, she takes that to mean it is a room she’s not to enter, and therefore begs you’ll come to her.”

“Locked! Didn’t you give her all the keys, Atheridge?”

Atheridge looked nervously to Tunning for support.

“Now, my lord, with all the strangers coming in and out, I weren’t sure we could trust them all, so I kept the door locked,” Tunning explained easily.

“I suppose there is merit in that,” the Viscount allowed grudgingly.

He could see he would have to lay down new ground rules as to how the estate business would be handled in the future.

It appeared this man had controlled the estate like a ruling despot.

It probably worked fine under Sir Jeremy Redfin, but he did business differently.

Two changes he would institute quickly were the practice of locking the estate door from the inside, and the maintaining of a port bottle.

“Then, too, my lord,” Tunning went on, failing to note the Viscount’s pensive attitude, “women really don’t need to bother their pretty little heads with numbers.”

St. Ryne raised an eyebrow. “I begin to see why you and the Viscountess do not get along. Enough for this evening. We will talk again tomorrow.” St. Ryne rose from his chair, anxious to return to the library.

He now knew all his suppositions as to what exactly had transpired during his absence to be worthless.

It gave him an uneasy feeling he couldn’t quite capture.

Elizabeth forced herself to continue her needlework and refrain from looking up when St. Ryne entered the library.

She knew it was merely a fit of pique that caused her to respond to his summons as she did.

Almost the moment the words were out of her mouth she’d regretted them.

Only an overwhelming desire to deny herself Tunning's company kept her in her seat.

When her husband didn’t address her, she risked a quick peek up through her lashes to see him refilling his port glass. Her pulse suddenly throbbed as he settled himself in the chair next to her.

“Why haven’t you been willing to follow Mr. Tunning's advice?” His tone was neutral.

“If he gave good advice, I’d have followed it,” she said, copying his tone.

“How do you know his advice is bad?” St. Ryne probed, attempting to understand.

Elizabeth sighed and leveled an intent stare at him. “Have you approved of the servants I engaged? The improvements I’ve made?”

“Of course! I told you when I arrived that you have worked miracles here, and the last few hours have only confirmed that observation. But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Doesn’t it? None of the changes I’ve made have met with Mr. Tunning’s approval,” Elizabeth said disgustedly. She stuffed her needlework into its tapestry bag. She was no longer calm enough to work.

“What? But Tunning says?—”

“Oo-oo!” Elizabeth surged to her feet, unwilling to hear words she felt certain would be said in Tunning's defense. “Your precious Tunning is a scoundrel and a thief. If you bothered to open your eyes, you’d see that for yourself. He may have been successful in keeping me from seeing the books, but I know what he is up to! Now if you’ll excuse me, my lord ,” she said, the honorarium dripping acid, “I will go to bed, for I suddenly find myself bored beyond measure. Good night!” she said, slamming the door shut behind her.

St. Ryne dolefully shook his head. He was somehow managing quite nicely to muff his good intentions.