Honor's Players

by Holly Newman

  “If you would like.”

  “May I also ask you to smile now and then?”

  “What an odd man you are,” she said in a strangled voice.

  He studied the curve of her graceful neck and the casual hairstyle that was threatening to slip its pins. He smiled. “Just blame it on the hot Jamaican sun.”

  She turned to look quizzically at him, only to be met by an enigmatic smile. “I’m afraid this conversation has degenerated. Perhaps it would be best if we talked later. If you’ll excuse me, I have some more tasks I’d like to complete before tea.”

  St. Ryne watched her leave with mixed feelings. He could have desired a more hopeful response from Elizabeth, but he did note that the ice had not returned to her voice. Perhaps if he investigated Tunning, he’d get her to thaw toward him, though the only thing he expected to find Tunning guilty of was a sense of overweening superiority. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation as he walked toward the estate room.

  Locked!

  He at first wouldn’t believe it. It must be sticking. He placed his shoulder to the door to give it a good shove. Soon, he was forced to admit that the door was indeed locked against him as it had been to Elizabeth.

  “Atheridge!” he bellowed like a wounded bear. “Atheridge, where are you?”

  “Here, my lord, right here. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Yes, bring Mr. Tunning’s head up here on a platter.”

  Atheridge blanched. “My lord?”

  St. Ryne rolled his eyes heavenward. “Preserve us from nodcocks,” he muttered. “You don’t happen to have a key to the estate room, do you? I thought not, for you told Elizabeth you didn’t. Send for Mr. Tunning, for I’d like to see him as soon as possible.”

  “Today, my lord?”

  “If possible, right now! Move it, man!”

  “Yes, my lord, yes, right away.” Atheridge’s spindly shanks scuffled down the hall.

  “Justin, what is all the yelling about?” Elizabeth asked as she passed Atheridge in the hall. She had been in the dining room seeing to the placement of a large epergne on the center of the table when she heard St. Ryne shout for Atheridge. His tone had convinced her he was doing more than giving orders so she hurried to his side. The skin around St. Ryne’s lips was white and through his thin veneer of calm, Elizabeth could see white-hot anger.

  She shivered slightly. She hoped never to see that type of rage directed at her.

  St. Ryne turned almost fathomless dark brown eyes in Elizabeth’s direction as he struggled to capture his anger. “It’s locked.” His voice seethed with suppressed anger.

  Elizabeth raised her eyebrows in mock surprise then burst out laughing.

  “I fail to see what is humorous in this situation.”

  “No, I daresay you don’t,” she managed to choke out before laughter overwhelmed her again.

  St. Ryne shot her a look of reproach that she met with a sunny smile and another little titter of laughter.

  “I’m glad to see Tunning is being democratic about the estate room. He doesn’t want anyone in that room, not just me. I wonder what has he to hide?” she asked, at last harnessing her laughter though a broad smile remained in place.

  A look of consternation and self-disgust swept St. Ryne’s features. “Touché,” he said wryly, giving her a fencer’s salute. “All right, I will accept your reservations on Tunning, but only grudgingly mind you, and endeavor to do some research on my own. Will that mollify you?”

  She eyed him consideringly. “Not entirely, but for the time it will do. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do and you have an interview to conduct. I’ll see you at tea.”

  When she walked away, she found herself fighting a compulsion to turn around.

  “Atheridge hasn’t returned yet?” Elizabeth poured a bowl of tea and handed it to her husband.

  “No, and I can’t imagine what is delaying him or Tunning.

  “Perhaps Mr. Tunning was out at one of the farms or in the village,” she offered.

  “Perhaps.” His frown deepened, creating deep furrows in his forehead. “He should have sent Peter to find him. Young legs move faster.”

  “You probably intimidated him with your bellowing. I vow he’s never heard the like.”

  A reluctant grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “I suppose I was a bit loud.”

  “A wounded animal couldn’t be worse,” she flung back, her own sense of the ridiculous sweeping through her.

  “Bess, Bess!” St. Ryne said urgently, coming to sit next to her. “Listen to us. We are enjoying each other’s company. Give us a chance!”

  She looked at him archly though her pulse fluttered erratically. “I should hope we could learn to be comfortable with each other,” she said carefully.

  St. Ryne’s shoulders slumped and he bit back a scathing retort. “Yes, comfortable. It is more than some have,” he managed to say evenly before returning to his chair. “And where is our treat?”

  Elizabeth looked at him quizzically but did not press him. She pulled the top off a silver server. “Right here, and still quite warm.” She handed St. Ryne his plate, laughing at his expression of ecstasy as he took a bite.

  “Why is it that this is considered a childhood dessert not suitable once one reaches one’s maturity?”

  Elizabeth chuckled as she took a bite. “I don’t know,” she managed to mumble between bites.

  “You know, I’d dearly love to see my mother’s face if she were to witness me eating this.”

  “Why?”

  “My mother is an unusual woman, and that may well be an understatement. She has an arrogant manner one could cut with a knife and is one of the highest sticklers in the ton, yet she is the clumsiest woman, forever knocking over things and breaking them. Father says she adopted her arrogance as a defense for her clumsiness. If she ignores it, it’s like she defies anyone else to notice it. She can be damned infuriating. I don’t know how Father can stand to live with her, but in their own way, they do seem devoted to each other, not that Mother would dare display any such feeling publicly.”

  “So why would she react to your eating this?”

  “Because she has reached the stage where she has decided I need to become somber, serious, and able to put aside childish things. I must become a paragon of rectitude.”

  A trill of uninhibited laughter assailed his ears. “You?” she asked, “a paragon of perfection?”

  “So she would have me be.”

  “How boring.”

  “My thought exactly.”

  “At least you have parents who cared. I don’t think my father has ever cared one whit whether I lived or died.”

  “Surely you jest!”

  “Do I? My father has never forgiven me for killing my mother and refuses, when he can, to recognize my existence.”

  “Doing it a little too brown, Bess,” he said severely.

  “What do you know of it? You’re much too cocksure of yourself by half. Mama contracted pneumonia after rescuing me from a duck pond. She died a few days later. I was only five at the time; however, Papa blamed me for her death and it was years before he would even look at me, and he never speaks to me unless he has to. The only person who has ever cared whether I lived or died is Hattie, my old nurse.”

  “I care.”

  His soft words hung between them. Elizabeth ardently wished she could believe them. A look of open vulnerability appeared in her eyes, pulling at St. Ryne.

  “Bess—” he murmured, rising.

  A light knock halted him. He turned toward the door, then cast one last glance in Elizabeth’s direction before granting permission to enter.

  “Excuse me, my lord, Mr. Tunning's here to see you, sir.”

  “Show him in.”

  “Do you wish me to leave?” Elizabeth asked, color slowly returning to her face.

  “No, that’s not necessary,” he assured her. He turned to confront Tunning when he entered. “Where have you been? I sent fo
r you hours ago.”

  “Beg pardon, my lord. I was checking on the cost of supplies for the stable. Some of those tradesmen can be real crooks, boosting prices just ’cause they works for gentry. I put them in their place right enough. We’ll not be gulled by any merchants in these parts.”

  St. Ryne relaxed a bit at hearing Tunning's explanation. “I sent for you regarding the estate room.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “It’s locked again, damn it! What are you about, locking my own estate room against me?”

  “I assure you, my lord, it weren’t done intentionally. I guess locking the estate room has just become habit of late, like I told you when you returned, because of all the strangers about. I assumed you had a key, my lord. I’ll have the smith make up another.”

  “Have him make two,” interposed Elizabeth.

  Tunning looked from St. Ryne to the Viscountess and back. “Two, my lord?”

  “Yes, an excellent idea. You should have one on your ring, my dear.”

  “Are you intending to work in the estate room, my lord?” Tunning asked in a strangled voice.

  “Yes, about time I acquainted myself with the crops and numbers.”

  “I will make myself available to assist you.”

  “I think I am capable of reading by myself,” St. Ryne drawled.

  “Well, I’ll just be by to answer questions, then.”

  “That will not be necessary as my hours in the estate room will no doubt be erratic. Any questions I have will be brought out later.”

  “If you’re sure, my lord. . . ”

  “Yes, Tunning, confound it, there is no need for you to live in my pocket.”

  “To be sure, my lord, no offense meant. Will that be all?”

  “Yes— No! Give me your key for now. We will deal with the smith later.”

  Reluctantly, Tunning removed a large brass key from his pocket.

  “Thank you. You may go.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  St. Ryne turned the key over in his hand, blindly staring at it. Suddenly, closing his fist over it, he rose from his chair. “Will you excuse me, Bess? My curiosity is aroused.”

  St. Ryne tapped the letter against his hand then went in search of Elizabeth. The letter was franked by her father and appeared to be in his strong hand. Given what Bess had told him of her relationship with her parent, he could not help but wonder at its content. It was a splendid excuse to search her out, something he now tried to do at odd moments of the day.

  Their open conversation over the apple flummery was not repeated; however, as they spent more and more time together at tea, over dinner, and in the evening, or at chance encounters during the day, the formality between them began to fade. Elizabeth smiled and laughed more, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks rosy. She began to enjoy St. Ryne’s company, his humor, and his solicitous nature. At times it made her wonder if the early days of her marriage weren’t some nightmare from which she awoke. They still maintained separate bedrooms and nothing seemed to be occurring to change that circumstance. St. Ryne was very careful not to do anything untoward that would upset their fragile budding relationship.

  For her part, Elizabeth wondered if St. Ryne would ever be interested in her. She craved his touch but was too afraid of his coldness and disgust if she demonstrated passion.

  He found her in the drawing room, working on the chair cover. The new drapes had not yet arrived from London, and consequently the pale sunlight streamed in through the tall bare windows. Elizabeth sat with the sun pouring over her shoulders, shining on the brilliant colors of the canvas in her lap and casting the red-gold aura he had become so familiar with on her hair.

  “This just came for you.”

  “A letter, for me?” She took the letter from him. “It’s from my father!”

  “You act surprised.”

  “In truth, I am. I thought he’d washed his hands of me.”

  “Well, obviously not. Aren’t you going to read it?”

  She stared at the letter. “I suppose I must,” she said ruefully. She broke open the wafer and spread the closely written sheet open on her needlework. Her eyes quickly scanned the contents, then she looked up at St. Ryne. “Oh, come read this, too. ’Tis rich, I vow!”

  St. Ryne leaned over the back of her chair, her hair tickling his chin and smelling of jasmine. The letter, in very stilted words, was to inform them of Helene’s betrothal to Frederick Shiperton, Esq.

  “Poor Freddy,” they muttered simultaneously then began to laugh until their eyes watered. St. Ryne, his hands resting on her shoulders, dropped a kiss on her head. Elizabeth stilled at his touch then slowly turned her head to look up at him. Silently they stared at each other.

  Elizabeth nervously licked her lips. “They want us to come to London for a betrothal ball. It’s to be the last society event before the Christmas season,” she said faintly.

  “All right,” he breathed, his head coming inexorably closer. “We’ll leave tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow!” yelped Elizabeth. She turned her head away and with nervous fingers rolled her needlework up and replaced it in the tapestry bag. “Then I must get busy, there are a thousand things to do.”

  St. Ryne sighed and stood upright. “Yes, of course, my dear. Let me know if I may be of any service to you.”

  “Thank you, Justin, I will. I must find Mrs. Atheridge to supervise the packing and check on the laundry, and then I’ll go see Mary and tell her not to get any more perishables. I’ll need to wash my hair this evening, as well.”

  St. Ryne laughed, holding his hands before him as if to ward off a blow. “Enough! I can see I have much to learn about traveling with a household,” he said humorously.

  Elizabeth grinned saucily at him. “It’s not so bad as long as one remembers to deal a whip and chain.”

  “Baggage!”

  Elizabeth merely laughed and skipped out of the room. St. Ryne stared after her, a sardonic smile curving his lips. “Just you wait, my love,” he said to the empty room. “Your time is coming.”

  Come on, a God’s name; once more toward our father’s.

  —Act IV, Scene 3

  “Justin, it is not necessary for you to accompany me!” Elizabeth expostulated, drawing on yellow kid gloves.

  “Indulge me, Bess. It is my intention to make amends for that questionable trousseau I gave you.” He drew her arm through his and led her down the steps before their London town house.

  “So you admit to its unsuitability?”

  “It was a quixotic gesture, except perhaps for that gray dress,” he said reminiscently, a hint of a smile curving his lips.

  Elizabeth dimpled up at him. “It did have a certain charm, didn’t it?”

  “I believe it wasn’t its charms that caught my attention,” St. Ryne said drily. “Why haven’t you worn it since?”

  She blushed. “It served its purpose,” was all she would answer in return.

  St. Ryne laughed and pressed her arm closer to his side.

  “So whose establishment are we to grace with our custom?”

  Elizabeth’s brow wrinkled in thought. “In truth, I am still considering. I refuse to visit any of the modistes my aunt frequented. They would likely parade before us fabrics and dresses such as my aunt preferred. I desire something very different. ”

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  “You?” she queried archly.

  “Aside from my wretched choice for a trousseau, I am aware of the niceties of feminine fashion.”

  “Ah, supported the high-flyers, did you?”

  His mouth gaped then snapped shut, his eyes dancing. “Hush, you silly widgeon! No need to broadcast our conversation to all of Bond Street. As to your supposition,” he continued with mock dignity, “may I remind you I have been on the town for ten years now, and since clothing is something women discuss incessantly, a gentleman is bound to pick up a thing or two.” He waved his free hand airily.

  Elizabeth compressed her lips
against a laugh. “Just so.”

  “My lady, I believe you are laughing at me.”

  Elizabeth opened her golden eyes wide and batted her eyelashes in feinted innocence. “I, my lord and master?”

  “Ah—ha! Finally she has the right of it.”

  She wrinkled her nose up at him in playful disgust. Abruptly she realized she was flirting with her husband. She looked up at his teasing visage, aware that she enjoyed his company.

  No, more than that; she loved him. The realization shook her to the core of her being, and a soft blush rose in her cheeks. She looked away, taking note of their surroundings, allowing her face to cool. They had been walking in their own private world, oblivious to their location or the people they passed. Several members of the ton were eyeing them with open curiosity. Elizabeth laughed gaily, a heady euphoria brightening her countenance.

  “Justin!” she exclaimed, tugging on his arm. “Have you noticed, we are the object of close scrutiny and speculation,” she said conspiringly.

  St. Ryne looked up briefly, a wry smile twisting his lips “Let them speculate, it is their bread and wine. What matters is what we know.”

  “And what is that, Justin?” she asked softly.

  For a moment he was bereft of an answer. How can a man tell a wife he has virtually married in jest that he has fallen in love with her? “That you are a siren and I the unlucky creature to hear your call,” he answered lightly.

  “Oh—annoying creature!”

  He laughed, halting her before a dressmaker’s shop “Here is Mme. Marie Vaussard’s establishment. I’d wage your aunt never shopped here, and I think Mme. Vaussard would appreciate your coloring and could turn it to good effect.” He opened the shop door and led her inside.

  The reception room, decorated in the Grecian style, was white and gold with pale green hangings and upholstery. Tall mirrors in simple gold frames hung on one wall appearing to double the room’s size. The shop exuded quiet refinement and elegance and not, as Elizabeth had feared the ostentation of establishments frequented by the Fashionable Impures. A little woman as neat as wax came through a green curtained doorway on their left.