St. Ryne thought of his wife’s sharp manner and Atheridge’s comment on the time she spent with the tenants. “To whom have they been insolent? My wife?”
“No, my lord. It’s too busy toad-eating her,they are. She’s always down there, and even went so far as to hire that Mary Geddy when I expressly told her the Humphries are a bad lot.”
St. Ryne sat forward in his chair, pushing a stack of ledgers away from the place before him to clear a space for his arms. He suddenly felt his understanding of the situation at Larchside crumbling. “What has Mary Geddy to do with the Humphries?”
“She’s Mrs. Humphries’s mother, and a very insinuating woman, she is.”
“Mrs. Humphries’ mother? Does she live with them?”
“Yes, for about five years, now, I’d say.”
“Mrs. Geddy is an excellent cook.” St. Ryne looked steadily at Tunning. “Can you say you know of better?”
Tunning squirmed. “Not precisely, my lord. But it does no good to encourage them,” he returned roundly. “I don’t trust them and I’d watch out for the Viscountess with them—bad influence, that.”
St. Ryne crossed his arms upon his chest, sinking his head down in thought, a brooding pout on his face. “I understand none of the servants who have been hired have been of your choosing.”
“No, and that’s a fact I also wanted to discuss with you, but didn’t rightly know how to bring up.”
“I’m giving you your opportunity. Speak.”
Tunning coughed and shifted his feet before responding. “I’ll not wrap it up in clean linen, my lord. The Viscountess don’t like me, and that’s a fact.”
“Why?” The question shot out between them, hanging over the table.
“Now, my lord,” he cajoled, mopping his brow, “there’s no pulling the wool over my eyes. I’m up to every rig and row invented.” He leaned toward the Viscount, the look of state secrets to sell upon his face. “I’ve heard stories about the Viscountess, stories that would curl your hair, beggin’ your lordship’s pardon.”
St. Ryne’s hackles rose, though he managed to wave his hand dismissingly. “Stories mean nothing. You would be wise to remember that if you wish to remain in our employ,” he slowly replied, pinning him with a quelling stare.
Tunning was disconcerted. “Well, to be sure, to be sure,” he placated quickly. “But it still don’t change the fact that the Viscountess is resistant to my advice.”
“You’ve traded words with her?”
Tunning laughed weakly. “Yes, and that’s a fact, but I’d say we’ve got each other’s measure now, my lord,” he hastily assured St. Ryne.
“Indeed? If that is the case, I wonder who is really being insolent to whom?”
Tunning's smile dimmed and he fidgeted with his watch chain.
“Why don’t we call in Elizabeth to discuss the servant situation?”
“Now that you’re home, my lord, that’s not really necessary.”
“Oh, but I insist.” St. Ryne rang the bell for Atheridge who responded with suspicious alacrity.
“Atheridge, ask the Viscountess to join Mr. Tunning and me in the estate room, please.” St. Ryne did not wait for Atheridge’s bow, but adroitly changed the subject and began speaking to Tunning of a proposed meeting with Grigs to discuss the condition of the stable, and whether it could be remodeled or if it needed to be completely rebuilt.
“Are you planning to settle here permanently, my lord?”
“Hardly, I have other properties, some of which are considerably larger than Larchside.” St. Ryne rose and began prowling the small room as he talked. He peered at the dates on the ledgers in the bookcase.
“Then, begging your pardon, my lord, why are you fixin’ the place up? To sell?”
“I can’t do that, Tunning. You see I settled Larchside on my wife when we married.” He turned back to the table. “So, I will be depending on you to turn this property around and make it more than marginally profitable.”
“I understand.” Tunning's thoughts chased around in his head. Perhaps if he could show periodic improvement in the revenues and property condition, he would still be left to run Larchside and could easily arrange to continue his side earnings. It may well be that the faster repairs and improvements were made, the faster would he see the backs of the Viscount and his interfering wife.
Atheridge coughed from the doorway. “Excuse me, my lord.”
