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’sgood 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.”
