St. Ryne laughed but when he spoke, his tone was sympathetic. “It’s not the same, though, is it?”
Thomas shook his head, then remembered himself. “No, my lord.”
“Don’t look so glum. My man Grigs is due here within the hour. Tell him I said you’re to have a trial.”
Thomas’s lean face lit up again like a beacon. “Thank you, my lord! I’d best get cracking. I don’t want Mr. Grigs’s first impression to be bad. Excuse me, my lord!”
St. Ryne watched him lead the horses away before he mounted the stairs. It suddenly occurred to him that his wife might not be pleased with his meddling in her disposition of servants. He shook his head ruefully, another sin to atone for, most likely.
It was his desire to change the direction of his relationship with Elizabeth, and he knew this might not be an easy proposition. Nevertheless, he felt confident that his newly discovered love for his termagant wife would guide him to gentle wooing. It was as though the scales had fallen from his eyes, and a blind man made to see. Though he had laughed at society for failing to see the parallels to William Shakespeare’s play, he was equally guilty of failing to see Elizabeth’s true nature. No, worse yet, of failing to act upon the gentleness and fragility he did glimpse.
He massaged his brow as he stepped into the hall, pondering his course of action. It was his nose that first alerted him to the extent of the changes within. The house smelled of fresh paint, polishing oils, and strong soap. He lowered his hand and looked around the hall, well satisfied. A smug expression—as if he were solely responsible—spread across his features. To an extent he felt he was, for he had taken to wife the woman who was capable of rendering such miracles in a short amount of time.
He spotted Atheridge coming out of the door under the stairs. “Atheridge! Where is my wife?”
“Oh, my lord! You startled me. We had no word of your coming.”
“I sent none. My wife, please?”
“In the library, my lord. Let me announce you.”
“In my own house? Hardly.” He strode down the hall to the library door, rapped once softly, and before waiting for a response, walked into the room.
CHAPTER 10
Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave . . .
Act IV, Scene I
Elizabeth 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 wouldalso, 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 missedhimas 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.”
