“Thought you might like some company, my lord,” Tunning said heartily.
St. Ryne turned away from him to look out over the property. “Did you indeed? I wonder.”
“Beg pardon?”
“I’m thinking I shall go have a talk with Humphries. For all that you say, the man is obviously doing something right. Such a fellow could be exemplary to all.”
“But, my lord?—”
The Viscount held up his hand to cut him off. “Personally, Tunning, I don’t care what the man’s politics are, and if his oratory could cause the others to do as well, then I say, so much the better.” He cast an eye in his estate agent’s direction. “Frankly, I have not seen any great communicative powers displayed. When one considers it, it is very singular,” he went on musingly.
“Oh, no—hardly that, my lord,” Tunning replied bluffly. "These people know their place better than to try to hobnob with the gentry.”
A cold anger swept through St. Ryne, and for a moment he did not trust himself to speak. The man was an insufferable snob, positively medieval. If that was his attitude, it explained the problems plaguing the estate. “Is that what you impart to these people? To know their place?” he asked evenly, though he was near trembling with rage.
Tunning looked questioningly at the Viscount only to encounter a blank mask. “If necessary,” he replied slowly, trying to gauge his employer’s reactions.
“Ah-h,” St. Ryne said silkily, gathering up the reins in his hands. “I believe the question now is, do you know yours?” Without awaiting a reply, he put spurs to his horse, turning his head for home.
“Bess! Bess!”St. Ryne strode rapidly into the manor, flinging his gloves on a side table.
“Shall I inform ’er ladyship you desire to speaks with ’er, milord?” a gawky, bran-faced young man asked as he assisted the Viscount in removing his greatcoat.
“Who the devil are you?”
“Peter Forney, milord. Your wife—I mean ’er ladyship, the Viscountess, she’s engaged me to be a footman ’ere.”
“Ah, Thomas’s replacement.” He heartily clapped the thin young man on the back. “Splendid. Now, just tell me where I might find the Viscountess.”
The new footman stumbled under the impact of St. Ryne’s hand, then stood up straighter. “I believe, milord, she’s consult’n with Mrs. Geddy in the kitchen.”
“Thank you,” St. Ryne acknowledged, turning to walk toward the kitchen. As he neared the door, a sound he had never heard before assailed his ears, the sound of carefree laughter. He hesitated, listening intently. It was Bess, and she was laughing as though she had not a care in the world. Suddenly he wanted to witness her mirth, to see how it would transform her features and light her golden eyes. He continued his bold swift stride in hopes of catching sight of a heretofore unknown phenomenon.
Hearing the heavy tread of boots on stone, Elizabeth turned swiftly to the sound, a half-peeled apple and a knife in her hand, a wide smile gracing her lips and sparkling in her sunshine eyes. She wore a big apron over her leaf-green day dress, her hair carelessly knotted at the top of her head, straggling wisps framing her face. Before her on the heavy, worn wood table was a pan half full of peeled apples and a basket containing fresh ones. Behind her the golden autumn sun poured through the small windows set high on the wall and flooded the table with an umbrella of light. St. Ryne’s heart constricted for all he knew he was missing, and he wished he could have this scene done in a painting by Gainsborough to save forever.
The apple slipped from her grasp, and she fumbled to catch it. “Justin! What brings you back here so early in the day?” she asked breathlessly.
“Tunning.”
“Tunning? I don’t…”
“Do you know that man is a blathering snob? Worse, perhaps, than my own mother—if that’s possible.” He reached around her to pick up a fresh apple, nodding acknowledgment of Mrs. Geddy’s presence.
Elizabeth relaxed and laughed softly, laying the knife and fruit on the table. “Haven’t I been trying to tell you something of this?”
“Umm-m,” St. Ryne mumbled, crunching on a crisp bite. “Ought to laugh more often, you know. It is a very pretty sound. All in all, you’re a beautiful woman. Frowns don’t become you. Some women can use a pout or frown to increase their charms, but I’m sorry to have to inform you, my love, you don’t number amongst them.”
Incredulity swept over Elizabeth’s face. “What are you about, Justin?”
The hint of a wry smile twisted St. Ryne’s lips. “Laughter. After spending unconscionable hours in our illustrious estate agent’s company?—”
“Questionably illustrious,” corrected Elizabeth placidly.
“What? Oh, all right, questionably illustrious. I suddenly find myself possessed of a desire to hear and see you laugh.” He turned to Mrs. Geddy. “Tell me, ma’am, is it so ridiculous for a husband to wish to see his wife happy?”
“Not at all, my lord.”
“See? I have also decided you are working too hard. What are you doing with these apples?”
