St. Ryne swung around. “Yes, where is the Viscountess, my wife?”
“She says, my lord, as the estate room has been locked to her the entire time you’ve been gone, she takes that to mean it is a room she’s not to enter, and therefore begs you’ll come to her.”
“Locked! Didn’t you give her all the keys, Atheridge?”
Atheridge looked nervously to Tunning for support.
“Now, my lord, with all the strangers coming in and out, I weren’t sure we could trust them all, so I kept the door locked,” Tunning explained easily.
“I suppose there is merit in that,” the Viscount allowed grudgingly. He could see he would have to lay down new ground rules as to how the estate business would be handled in the future. It appeared this man had controlled the estate like a ruling despot. It probably worked fine under Sir Jeremy Redfin, but he did business differently. Two changes he would institute quickly were the practice of locking the estate door from the inside, and the maintaining of a port bottle.
“Then, too, my lord,” Tunning went on, failing to note the Viscount’s pensive attitude, “women really don’t need to bother their pretty little heads with numbers.”
St. Ryne raised an eyebrow. “I begin to see why you and the Viscountess do not get along. Enough for this evening. We will talk again tomorrow.” St. Ryne rose from his chair, anxious to return to the library. He now knew all his suppositions as to what exactly had transpired during his absence to be worthless. It gave him an uneasy feeling he couldn’t quite capture.
Elizabeth forced herself to continue her needlework and refrain from looking up when St. Ryne entered the library. She knew it was merely a fit of pique that caused her to respond to his summons as she did. Almost the moment the words were out of her mouth she’d regretted them. Only an overwhelming desire to deny herself Tunning's company kept her in her seat.
When her husband didn’t address her, she risked a quick peek up through her lashes to see him refilling his port glass. Herpulse suddenly throbbed as he settled himself in the chair next to her.
“Why haven’t you been willing to follow Mr. Tunning's advice?” His tone was neutral.
“If he gave good advice, I’d have followed it,” she said, copying his tone.
“How do you know his advice is bad?” St. Ryne probed, attempting to understand.
Elizabeth sighed and leveled an intent stare at him. “Have you approved of the servants I engaged? The improvements I’ve made?”
“Of course! I told you when I arrived that you have worked miracles here, and the last few hours have only confirmed that observation. But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“Doesn’t it? None of the changes I’ve made have met with Mr. Tunning’s approval,” Elizabeth said disgustedly. She stuffed her needlework into its tapestry bag. She was no longer calm enough to work.
“What? But Tunning says?—”
“Oo-oo!” Elizabeth surged to her feet, unwilling to hear words she felt certain would be said in Tunning's defense. “Your precious Tunning is a scoundrel and a thief. If you bothered to open your eyes, you’d see that for yourself. He may have been successful in keeping me from seeing the books, but I know what he is up to! Now if you’ll excuse me,my lord,” she said, the honorarium dripping acid, “I will go to bed, for I suddenly find myself bored beyond measure. Good night!” she said, slamming the door shut behind her.
St. Ryne dolefully shook his head. He was somehow managing quite nicely to muff his good intentions.
CHAPTER 11
Pluck up spirits; look cheerfully upon me.
Act IV, Scene 1
St. Ryne frowned. Blast it! Would the accursed man never grant him a moment’s peace? For the past three days, everywhere he turned, there was Tunning. His shadowed presence was rapidly giving credence to Elizabeth’s negative impressions of the man, to say nothing of his own nagging disquiet.
His weight shifted and his leather saddle creaked as his mount sidled. He leaned forward to pat the horse’s neck reassuringly, trying to decide if he should wait for Tunning to catch up or pretend he never saw him and canter off along the ridge. The latter was tempting, but with a sigh he stood his ground. This coil was of his own making, and withal Tunning was a part, he could not slip away. Still, he did wish it was Elizabeth riding so determinedly in his direction.
Elizabeth. Lovely Bess. Now just thinking of her brought a light of humor and affection to his eyes—a light she did not deign to recognize. With awe-inspiring tenacity she persisted in therole of the proper chatelain, and to his annoyance, treated him with great deference.
At first he had devoted his time to being available to her, should she need anything. He quickly discovered she was self-reliant and stood in no need of his assistance. He tried then to initiate conversation, and albeit she answered civilly enough, he could neither raise a smile nor spark a fire. For a while he searched his mind for ruses to shock her out of her bloodless attitude, only to discard them all, for ruses and games had precipitated his current dilemma. In truth, he was a stranger living on sufferance within his own home—except with Tunning. He did not yet know what was Tunning’s game, but it made him deuced uncomfortable. As he was drawing a bad hand in his efforts with Elizabeth, perhaps it was time to study Tunning and unwind the coil from the nether end.
Tunning was drawing closer, his hat jammed tight on his balding head while his brown coattails flapped in the wind. St. Ryne deliberately turned his eyes away to look out across the valley. From the windswept ridge he could see all of Larchside. It was no rare find; however, it had a certain practicality and comfortable feel. His brow furrowed in thought as he studied the tenant farms from his high vantage point. The differences in condition between the Home farm and the other farms were marked, yet from here one could see they shared the same type of lands. None appeared to suffer from marshy pastures or rock-strewn fields. Why was the Home farm in so much better condition?
He would like to have some time alone with that Humphries fellow, if he could ever get Tunning off his tail. When he was about, all his people were morose and uncommunicative, allowing Tunning to butt in and answer any questions he posed. Although the man knew his business, it did begin to appear there was havey-cavey business afoot.
He turned in his saddle toward Tunning as the man rode up the hill to his side. His horse’s sides were heaving, and St. Ryne wondered how long Tunning had ridden about before spotting him on the ridge.
“Did you want something?” St. Ryne did not bother to keep the disgust from his voice.
