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When Mr. Tunning returned an hour later with the local magistrate, it was a jolly party he found in the kitchen for Elizabeth, shelving her own troubles, endeavored to raise the spirits of her people with tales of London sights and eccentricities.

She presided over the breakfast party with grace and humor, setting at ease Mary and her grandson.

At first they were all frigidly formal with her, Mary scandalized that Elizabeth should choose to eat with them.

When they relaxed and accepted her company, they were a merry group, and laughter rang through the kitchen.

The Atheridges vehemently protested Gerry’s release from the pantry, and attempted to cow their fellow servants; however, Elizabeth summarily dismissed them from the room, with warnings they’d be ill-advised to continue their rhetoric unless they wished to find themselves dismissed from Larchside entirely.

Though the kitchen party congratulated Elizabeth on routing the Atheridges, it did put her to mind of the biggest obstacle remaining to her discovering happiness at Larchside—to wit, Tom Tunning.

He had been a thorn in her side since they’d met.

It was clear he viewed her as a nuisance rather than a threat to his position, and it galled her to admit she did not have the power to be a threat.

It was obvious he knew she was the butt for society’s entertainment, and as such, a nonentity—or worse, free game.

Tunning, she realized with a heavy heart, was a matter she would have to take up with Justin, particularly in light of his current activities.

It was clear to Elizabeth that Gerry was being framed for poaching.

The question was, by whom? Her obvious candidate was Tunning, for he had contrived the past month to rid Larchside of the Humphries family’s presence.

In fairness, she knew she could not accuse without evidence.

She was still puzzling her course of action when Tunning and the magistrate, followed by the smug Atheridges, stepped through the kitchen door.

“What is going on in here?” he roared. He strode over to Gerry, hauling him from his seat by the collar of his shirt. He shook him like a rag doll. “Why is this miserable poacher sitting here? He should be locked up!”

“Get your hands off of him,” Elizabeth ordered, rapping him smartly on the arm with a long-handled wooden spoon.

Startled, Tunning fell back. “What are you doing here?”

“Eating breakfast,” she snapped, “though it’s hardly any concern of yours.” She rose from the table, gracefully extending her hand toward the magistrate. “I am the Viscountess St. Ryne, and you are—?” she trailed off while smiling with just the correct degree of civility.

“William Pfoffler, my lady, the magistrate of this county.”

“I understand we have weighty issues to discuss.”

Mr. Pfoffler inhaled deeply. “So Mr. Tunning led me to believe.”

She nodded her understanding. “Let us adjourn to the library. I believe it is a much more fitting background to discuss this matter.”

“There’s nothing to discuss!” Tunning blustered. “I caught this lad red-handed. He needs to be clapped in irons.”

Elizabeth pursed her lips and frowned. “Mr. Tunning,” she said warningly.

“If her ladyship wishes to discuss the ramifications of this offense, we shall, of course, do so,” placated Mr. Pfoffler.

“Thank you. Thomas, you may return to the stables for now.” He touched his forelock and scrambled out of his seat.

“Your arm?” she requested the magistrate.

Smiling benignly at her, he extended his arm and led. her out of the room followed by a scowling Tunning and the rest.

In the library, Elizabeth sat behind her desk, ordered Atheridge to lay a fire, and encouraged Mary to one of the seats near it.

Atheridge began to object but was forestalled by the quelling look on the Viscountess’s face.

He and his wife moved to stand by the door, only to be summarily dismissed from the room.

Though Tunning glowered, the magistrate nodded approval, forcing the estate agent to hold his tongue.

“Now, what exactly is the nature of the charges?” Elizabeth asked the magistrate.

“Poaching, and it’s a serious crime, my lady. Just this year the government made it punishable by deportation to Australia.”

“Should still be a hanging offense,” muttered Tunning.

Elizabeth pointedly ignored him. “I would like to know the circumstances which prompted this charge.”

“Mr. Tunning claims he caught young Gerry Humphries here with a snare in one hand and a rabbit in the other.”

“I see. And when did this occur, Mr. Tunning?”

“At dawn.”

“You were up early. Why?”

“My actions aren’t in question; it’s this dog you should be asking.”

“You are being unaccountably difficult, Mr. Tunning. All right, maybe you’ll answer me this—did you see Gerry set the trap?”

“Well, no, I don’t know when he did that. Probably the night before, when I was busy with the accounts.”

“So how can you say for certain he set the trap?”

“Makes no matter, he must a known it was there.”

“Why? Isn’t it possible he could have stumbled upon it?”

“Impossible, not in that part of the woods.”

“But you were there, too. If he hadn’t found it first, might not you have? And if you had freed the rabbit and someone saw you, should they call you poacher?”

“You’re forgetting one thing. There’s the matter of the poacher’s bag lying not far from the trap,” said Mr. Pfoffler.

“Poacher’s bag?” Elizabeth looked quizzically at Gerry, who shrugged his bewilderment.

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Tunning took me to the scene of the crime this morning before we came here, and I found it under a bush with two traps and another rabbit.”

“Found this morning, you say, after Gerry was locked in my pantry?”

“Yes, just before we came here.”

She looked at Tunning and nodded thoughtfully. “Clever. You were certainly thorough when you constructed this crime. What puzzles me is why you are afraid of the Humphries.”

“What!” roared Tunning.

“You see, Mr. Pfoffler,” said Elizabeth, ignoring Tunning, “Gerry is well known in the neighborhood as an animal lover, who often goes out early to view the animals in the woods. He would be the last person to set snares to capture rabbits. Someone who knew of his habit could easily frame him for poaching. It strikes me odd that Mr. Tunning should be about so early in the morning, and just so happens to be in the proper location to view Gerry with snare and rabbit in hand, particularly when one knows Mr. Tunning has been encouraging the Viscount to turn the Humphries out of the Home farm. He claims they are a bad lot yet, inexplicably, the Home farm is in the best condition. I contend our estate agent has manufactured this incident as a means to destroy the Humphries.”

“My lady, that’s a serious accusation.”

“You Jade,” growled Tunning.

“Mr. Tunning, please!”

“Oh, his lordship has his hands full with this one, he does. Do you know, sir, what society calls her? The Shrew of London—I can see you’ve heard the title.

It was bestowed on her for being the most unmanageable and contrary female.

The Viscount deserves our sympathy. She will do whatever runs against his lordship’s best interests.

He even gave me explicit orders when he was away to have charge of all monies.

She wasn’t to have a farthing, that’s how much he don’t trust her. ”

“That will be enough, Mr. Tunning,” ordered St. Ryne coldly.

All eyes turned in shocked surprise at the sound of his voice. He stood by the library door, his arms folded across his chest, his dark eyebrows furrowed to a straight bar above his eyes.

“Justin!” exclaimed Elizabeth.

His face softened slightly when he looked at her. “Poor Bess. Did you truly think I wouldn’t care if you left?”

“I—I—” she began in confusion.

“Later, my love. Thomas apprised me of the problem when I arrived.” He turned to Pfoffler. “You must be the magistrate.”

“Yes, the name’s Pfoffler, William Pfoffler.”

“Thank you for coming to investigate this sorry situation. It would not do at all for a miscarriage of justice to occur from undue haste.”

“Yes, yes, quite right, my lord.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll understand when I suggest you allow me to investigate the charges before we haul young Gerry here off to prison to stand trial. I’m sure later today or tomorrow will be just as timely.”

“In—investigate!” sputtered Tunning. “My lord, I don’t know what that groom told you, but I caught him with the goods in hand! There isn’t anything to investigate.”

St. Ryne eyed him coldly. “You seem overly anxious to prosecute, Mr. Tunning. May I remind you that the property from which he allegedly poached was mine, and on my property, I decide if the law has been broken or not.”

“Of course, my lord, but I tell you?—”

“Enough! We will discuss it later.” He turned back to the magistrate. “Now, sir, as we were discussing, I’d like a little time.”

“That’s all well and good, my lord, but what do we do with this miscreant? We can’t let him go—he may run off, and then where would I be? No, no, my lord, can’t have that. It would look bad in the county.”

St. Ryne smiled congenially. “You’re a shrewd magistrate. I can see we are lucky in your services. Why don’t you take him into temporary custody then. Yes, just the ticket, and of course, anyone in temporary custody is well fed and cared for, to say nothing of dispensing with shackles.”

Mr. Pfoffler scratched his head. “I suppose I could do that?—”

St. Ryne drew the magistrate aside to whisper in his ear. “Between us, Mr. Pfoffler, I would appreciate it. I will admit I was in my cups last night, and this morning have a devil of a head. I plead time to recover before I can think property.”