Honor's Players (19 page)

“I trust you didn’t lose excessively,” Elizabeth said faintly, her mind in a whirl.

“Don’t worry, I won’t be visiting the gull gropers, but I’ll have to abstain on wagers till quarter day,” he said heartily. He frowned, suddenly serious. “About time I laid back from gambling. Going to be a married man now and can’t have my wife denied her little fripperies because I’ve gambled away the blunt, you know.”

“How commendable. Helene is truly to be felicitated at securing such a caring husband. But tell me, in what way was the little dining room bet proposed—only curiosity you understand.”

A puzzled expression captured his fair features. “Well, I don’t quite know what you’d call it except maybe in the manner of taming a shrew—sorry, you know, but you did ask. Say, you won’t take any offense, perhaps I shouldn’t have said—”

“No, no, Freddy, you did perfectly right. Oh, the dance has ended and I do believe I see Helene looking for you.”

“Really? Where? So sorry to rush off, really must go, she hates it if I wander too far, you know,” he said, laughing again.

Elizabeth was glad to be quit of him, for now her mind churned with the implications of what Freddy had so glibly let fell from his lips. So, the bets she feared were real and in the manner of taming a shrew. She shuddered. She knew she was referred to as the Shrew of London. But taming sounded so much like breaking a horse to bridle or—

Another instance in which that particular phrase was used came to mind, and she froze. No, it couldn’t be, she silently wailed. It was all there, however, clear for any to see. Had anyone? What a fool she had been! Her entire courtship, marriage, and now this blasted ball—nearly straight from Shakespeare’s famous play and she an unwitting player since he had come to ask for her hand and had turned everything she said to compliments. The wedding should have truly tipped his hand, what with his late arrival, slovenly dress, and refusal to stay for the wedding breakfast. She wondered how hard he had worked to find a suitable property, to say nothing of his behavior at the dressmakers when he’d vetoed the purchase of a cap such as married women wore.

Her eyes misted, and she fought the threat of tears with an angry shake of her head. What she saw as love in him was no doubt satisfaction at his accomplishment: a calm, dutiful and worshiping wife. Faugh! He had much to learn. Her heart was breaking; however, she was well used to disappointments in life and would weather this as well.

She looked up to see him approaching her, carrying two glasses of punch. Her lips twisted cynically; so he’d thought to tame a shrew, she mused, a hard metal glitter in her yellow eyes. She rose and swished the gold material of her skirt back, a tight smile turning up one corner of her mouth in the enigmatic manner of Mona Lisa. Two bright spots of color flared on her cheeks, and she raised her chin bravely.

“Here, my love,” he said handing her a punch glass, his attention on watching Freddy circle the room with Helene on his arm. He slowly turned his head back to her. “That was good of Freddy to keep you company while I—” he broke off, too late noting her expression to anticipate her actions. This time the punch hit him full in the face.

“Perhaps if I had been successful last time I would have been spared this marital farce!” she exclaimed shrilly, watching with satisfaction as the punch dripped down his suddenly implacable features to stain his neck cloth and waistcoat. “You have had your fun, Justin. Now you’ll rue the day you studied to be a shrew tamer and took a character in a play for your model.” She tossed her head grimly to fight the tears that threatened to overflow. Through the blur she saw him reach for her and murmur her name. She evaded his touch, her control held in place only by a silken thread.

She turned away from him to run from the ballroom, pushing aside those who did not move readily from her path. Dancers faltered in mid-step, and the orchestra screeched wrong notes then fell silent. A shocked hush filled the ballroom.

“Elizabeth, no!” shouted St. Ryne, then his head swung around to pin Freddy where he stood, his face black as thunder. Slowly he took a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his face, and then he stalked over to Freddy.

“What did you say to her?” he gritted.

“Easy, St. Ryne,” Sir James Branstoke murmured, coming up to lay a hand on his arm.

He shook the hand off, continuing to glare at Freddy. “Damn it, man, what did you say?”

Freddy gaped at him a moment before words could tumble out of his mouth. “Nothing! I—I mean we were just discussing bets.”

“What?!”

“She-she acted like she knew, commiserated with me on my losses and just asked what type bets they were.”

“And?”

“I—I said they were bets on taming the Shrew of London.”

St. Ryne clenched his fists to his side and closed his eyes briefly. “Oh, no,” he whispered.

“I warned you, St. Ryne,” reminded Branstoke. “What are you going to do?”

St. Ryne turned empty eyes on him. “Get down on my knees and beg forgiveness,” he said simply. His face was bleak as he crossed the ballroom. The guests, catching sight of his face, slid out of his way without a word. At the doorway Lord Monweithe stopped him. St. Ryne looked into the tortured expression of the other man and laid a hand upon his shoulder for some small measure of reassurance. “I know,” he murmured, “I love her, too.”

In the hall Jovis confirmed his fears. She had demanded her cloak and had fled without waiting for her carriage to be called. Grimly he set off after her, praying the cold weather kept those who would prey on the unwary off the streets. He remained alert, his eyes darting down alleys and streets, his ears sensitive to sounds of struggle, though his mind continually recited a litany of self-condemnation. It was with relief he saw his town house. The door opened before he could mount the steps and a white-faced Predmore stood in the lighted opening.

“Oh, my lord, I’m so relieved to see you. Her ladyship, she’s in a dreadful temper,” he said, hurriedly closing the door after he entered. “She near cuffed poor Willy here senseless when he reached to take her cloak.” He waved his hand toward the unfortunate footman who stood in the hall nursing a sore jaw. “Then she tore up the stairs shouting for her maid. They’re up there now, sir, and I don’t like to think how that little maid is faring for we’ve heard two crashes.”

“Fear not, she won’t hurt the maid. Her anger is well directed,” he said wryly. “I will talk to her.” He slowly mounted the stairs, his steps measured and apprehensive. From her room he heard sharp murmurings, rending of fabric, thumps, and small crashes. He winced, then tentatively raised his hand to knock on the door.

“Go away, I do not want anything,” came her voice sternly through the closed door

“Bess, I have to talk to you.” He inclined his head toward the door listening for her response.

“You! What happened, did I cause you to lose a bet, or are you upset I failed to know my lines?”

“Listen to me. It’s true, at first I was enacting Petruchio’s role and thought to treat you like Katharine. I studied the play carefully and even went so far as to make notes.”

“You have done a masterful work. I’m sure someone will commend you for it,” she ground out.

“My family had been importuning me for the past year to marry and fulfill my obligations yet all they would recommend for wives were meek little paragons while I desired a woman of personality. If I wanted a meek wife to mouth words of duty to her husband and would call him lord and master, I would have married one of the women my family put forth.”

“There would be no sport in that and no monetary gain save for a dowry,” she snapped back.

He sighed and ran a distracted hand through his hair. “I would have done it without the bets. Please let me in so I can explain and won’t have to stand here baring my soul to the entire household.”

“It will do you good, perhaps even give you a bit of character, if you’re lucky.”

“Bess!”

“No!” Her voice turned low and harsh. “I have played the fool and thought to grab a chance at love. Love, ha! A cat’s satisfaction at catching its prey. This prey is prey no longer, and I’ll see you the fool before I play jester for your cronies’ entertainment again.”

“Bess, I love you too. That’s the damnable thing about this entire mess. I love you to distraction and was hoping to show you this night the proof of my affections.”

“That you have done full well, thank you. I don’t need your kind of affection.”

“Bess, please!”

Inside the bedroom Elizabeth cringed at his call. He was such a good actor. He should have trod the boards. She had waited so long to hear him say he loved her that even now, even with the knowledge of his deceit, his manipulation, and falseness of his feelings, she was still moved by his words. The silken thread of her control snapped, allowing the tears she’d bottled inside her to flow. With a strangled sob she threw herself on her bed to muffle the sound as copious tears fell.

St. Ryne strained to hear her answer, wondering if that was a sob he heard. He banged on the door impatiently and shook the lock, yet the door remained closed to him. In disgust he flung himself away and stumbled back down the stairs to his library and a brandy bottle.

Ivy, Elizabeth’s little country maid, clucked her tongue and shook her head at the carryings on of gentry. She crossed to the bed to sit beside her mistress and stroke her head in comfort for when all was said and done, whatever be a person’s class, true suffering was the same.

Tis well, sir, that you hunted for yourself; Tis thought your deer does hold you at bay.

—Act V, Scene 1

Elizabeth woke well before the first rays of dawn touched London rooftops. The dull throbbing in her head from the night before had grown into searing pain, her eyes and chest uncomfortable from prolonged weeping. She rolled over listlessly in bed and looked about the dark room, her eyes dimly discerning the shadows of her rage. Fuzzily she ran her hand across her brow as if to pull her thoughts together.

She lurched sideways out of bed. She had made plans last evening, plans for this dark morning. She pressed the heels of her hands against her agonizing temples and sat down again on the edge of the bed.

A soft scratching at her door roused her.

“Mistress?” called a quiet voice, “be you awake?”

Elizabeth rose and hurried to the door. “Shush, yes I’m awake.” She unlocked the door to let her maid slip in with a tray of hot chocolate. “Well?” she asked.

“I doubt anyone be rising early today with all the hue and cry of last night. His lordship drunk himself into a stupor, he did, and had to be carried to bed. I saw the butler remove an empty spirits bottle and confide to Mr. Cranston it were brandy. Like as not he’ll have an awful head.”

“It couldn’t be any worse than mine,” Elizabeth said dully as she sat down on a small sofa by the fireplace.

“Can I fetch you some lavender water, my lady?”

“No, I doubt it would help.”

“Well here, drink your chocolate while I stoke the fire bright again,” soothed Ivy. “Are you still determined to return to Larchside today?”

Elizabeth watched the woman deftly rekindle the fire “Yes, and I’m not going to wait upon a carriage either. I intend to ride back with only a small portmanteau of necessities.”

She raised a hand to forestall Ivy’s objections “You will have to follow as best you can with the remainder of my things. I’m certain my husband will not stop you; however, if everything continues in disarray, it may be a few days before you are able to come.”

“I understand, my lady.”

“Help me get into my riding habit, then while I pack a few items, you run along to the stable and see if you can get a horse to be saddled for me.”

“Oh, that won’t be no problem, ma’am,” she said brightly, “seein’ as how Thomas is kinda sweet on me.”

Elizabeth laughed hollowly as her maid twitched the skirts into place and fastened the hooks. “Good, and keep it quiet. Though I do not think my husband will follow, I do not hold the same faith in his not trying to stop me.”

“Don’t you worrit, my lady, we’ll get you off right and tight.”

Patches of cold wet fog still clung to the road and laid low in the valleys as Elizabeth, followed faithfully by Thomas, rode toward Larchside. Despite her depressed spirits, she was amused by the young groom’s dogged insistance that he accompany her. She had even tried to order him to remain behind, but with an apology he refused. Her maid’s estimation of him climbed considerably and both were surprisingly voluble in their instance. They wore down her resistance finally by a blunt admission on Thomas’s part of reluctance to being available to answer questions when her absence was discovered and the reminder that there was no one now at Larchside who would see to her horse. He promised to be discreet and not trouble her with his company and so rode silently behind, leaving Elizabeth to her own thoughts.

In truth, her thoughts were as murky as the day; the weather, she mused, was much like it had been the first time she’d journeyed to the manor. She’d come last time bottled up with anger and fear for what was to be. Today she traveled with anger and fear for what was not. How ironic for her to come full circle and the property, once considered a prison, now represented a haven.

Her headache found relief in the cold morning air, and with that relief and the long miles to travel came an opportunity for objectivity. A nagging little belief that perhaps she’d been too hasty in her anger wormed its way into her thoughts. Justin freely admitted his guilt in the past. His explanation, though not terribly flattering, did ring true.

And he had not strived to wrap up his actions in clean linen, to make them flattering to her ears. In all, he talked as though his guilty actions were a distinct part of the past and that at some time he had suffered an attitude change. Of course, suffered might be precisely the correct word, and he regretted any softness he might have begun to exhibit and thus felt no compunction in setting her up once again for the entertainment of society. Still, though he displayed some of the blind arrogance of the privileged, when his errors were presented to him, he did not retreat into stubborn denial as so many were wont to do.

Regardless, there remained the matter of the last wager. If he had regretted his previous behavior, would he have engaged in such a heartless bit of foolery? Her spirits sank again for she could not believe the sincerity of his remorse if he continued to treat her like a stage character and an object for sport.

The worst of it all was she could not tear her love felt for him from her heart. Nonetheless, she would not again allow him to get close enough to harm her. If she were lucky, he might divorce her or at least allow her to live her life alone. She sighed audibly and her mare’s ears twitched at the sound. She smiled and leaned forward to pat her neck. “We’ll be home soon, and though you won’t be quartered in the best stable, it will be dry and provide a full measure of oats.”

The animal’s ears flicked again in response to the sound of her voice as they turned down the lane before Larchside.

Elizabeth viewed the manor with satisfaction as she slipped from her horse’s back and handed Thomas the reins. The morning sun was burning off the gray fog while a light autumn wind chased clouds away revealing a warm, welcoming building instead of the foreboding edifice she had faced on her wedding day. She smiled, albeit sadly, and vowed she would make her own form of happiness here.

“After you’ve seen to the horses, please slip over to the Humphries’ and ask Mrs. Geddy if she would be so good as to return to her duties. I’m famished and I’m sure you must be as well, though not, I warrant, hungry enough to stomach Mrs. Atheridge’s fare!”

Thomas chuckled. “Nay, my lady. Don’t worrit, if I know Mrs. Geddy, she’ll nip o’er immediately and cluck and fuss ’cause she weren’t here before you.”

“Yes, that’s most likely true. Now the question is if I can rouse the Atheridges to let me in.”

But even as she spoke the front door to Larchside flew open and Mary Geddy, wrapped up voluminously in cloak and shawls, ran down the steps.

“Oh, milady, milady! It’s reet glad I am to see you. The most dreadful thing has occurred, and I think he done it deliberately and I’m mortal scared,” wailed Mrs. Geddy, grabbing Elizabeth’s hands and wringing them between her own.

“What is it, Mary? Who did what?”

“Mr. Tunning, milady, he’s gone for the magistrate. He says it’s deportation for Gerry and maybe all o’ us, too.” Mary’s words came out in a rush, her color high and her spry little body trembling.

“Deportation? For what?” Shock and concern in Elizabeth’s face gave way to incredulity. Thomas stood rooted in his spot, the reins of their horses held loosely in his hands as he listened, his eyes fairly bugging out of his narrow face.

“Poaching. He says he caught Gerry removing a rabbit from a trap in the woods, but milady, Gerry wouldn’t hurt no animal, he loves’em.”

“That’s certain true, everyone around knows that,” put in Thomas.

Mary threw Thomas a look of thanks and continued: “No one weren’t more surprised than my Gerry to find the poor creature in the trap and he were freeing it, it being caught by only one leg.”

“I see,” said Elizabeth. “When did this all occur?”

“Early this morning.”

“He often goes out early to see the animals,” Thomas said.

“And is this generally known also?”

Thomas looked uncertain. “I think so, my lady. I mean he’s done it since we were young and sometimes he’d drag one or another of the lads with him if he knew a mother with her young were bound to be out feeding.”

Mary nodded vigorously.

“Hmm,” Elizabeth mused thoughtfully. “Where is Gerry now?”

“Why, here milady. Mr. Tunning has him locked up in my pantry, he does, and is scurrying off to fetch the magistrate. I was just talkin’ to him through the door when you rode up. Can you help him?”

“Definitely. Now don’t worry. Tom Tunning will not have anyone deported while I’m here.” She squeezed Mary’s hands reassuringly. “Thomas, take the horses to the stable and see to them, then step up to the house. I know this is all very traumatic for Mrs. Geddy, but not so traumatic she can’t fix us all a nice breakfast, I’ll wager.”

“Oh, milady, you know I would if I could, but the pantry’s locked—”

Elizabeth laughed. “Don’t forget, I am mistress of this manor and have a nice size ring of keys, and besides, I’m sure that grandson of yours is hungry, too. We’ll all have a nice breakfast and await Mr. Tunning's return.”

“Yes, ma’am,” cried Thomas delightedly before he turned, leading the horses at a jog to the stables.

Tears welled up in Mary’s eyes. “Oh, thank you, milady, thank you.”

Elizabeth put her arm reassuringly around Mary Geddy’s shoulders and led her into the house.

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 his 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.