“What an odd man you are,” she said in a strangled voice.
He studied the curve of her graceful neck and the casual hairstyle that was threatening to slip its pins. He smiled. “Just blame it on the hot Jamaican sun.”
She turned to look quizzically at him, only to be met by an enigmatic smile. “I’m afraid this conversation has degenerated. Perhaps it would be best if we talked later. If you’ll excuse me, I have some more tasks I’d like to complete before tea.”
St. Ryne watched her leave with mixed feelings. He could have desired a more hopeful response from Elizabeth, but he did note that the ice had not returned to her voice. Perhaps if he investigated Tunning, he’d get her to thaw toward him—not but what the only thing he expected to find Tunning guilty of was a sense of overweening superiority. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation as he walked toward the estate room.
Locked!
He at first wouldn’t believe it. It must be sticking, he decided, placing his shoulder to the door to give it a good shove. Soon, however, he was forced to admit with chagrin that the door was indeed locked against him as it had been to Elizabeth.
“Atheridge!” he bellowed like a wounded bear. “Atheridge, where are you?”
“Here, my lord, right here. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Yes, bring Mr. Tunning’s head up here on a platter.”
Atheridge blanched. “My lord?”
St. Ryne rolled his eyes heavenward. “Preserve us from nodcocks,” he muttered. “You don’t happen to have a key to the estate room, do you? I thought not, for you told Elizabeth you didn’t. Send for Mr. Tunning, for I’d like to see him as soon as possible.”
“Today, my lord?”
“If possible—now move it, man!”
“Yes, my lord, yes, right away.” Atheridge’s spindly shanks scuffled down the hall.
“Justin, what is all the yelling about?” a perturbed Elizabeth asked as she passed Atheridge in the hall. She had been in thedining room seeing to the placement of a large epergne on the center of the table when she heard St. Ryne shout for Atheridge. His tone had convinced her he was doing more than giving orders so she hurried to his side. The skin around St. Ryne’s lips was white and through his thin veneer of calm, Elizabeth could see white-hot anger.
She shivered slightly. She hoped never to see that type of rage directed at her.
St. Ryne turned almost fathomless dark brown eyes in Elizabeth’s direction as he struggled to capture his anger. “It’s locked.” His voice seethed with suppressed anger.
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows in mock surprise, then burst out laughing.
“I fail to see what is humorous in this situation.”
“No, I daresay you don’t,” she managed to choke out before laughter overwhelmed her again.
St. Ryne shot her a look of reproach that she met with a sunny smile and another little titter of laughter.
“I’m glad to see Tunning is being democratic about the estate room. He doesn’t want anyone in that room, not just me. I wonder what he has to hide?” she asked pointedly, at last harnessing her laughter, though a broad smile remained in place.
A look of consternation and self-disgust swept St. Ryne’s features. “Touché,” he said wryly, giving her a fencer’s salute. “All right, I will accept your reservations on Tunning—but only grudgingly, mind you—and endeavor to do some research on my own. Will that mollify you?”
She eyed him consideringly. “Not entirely, but for the time it will do. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do and you have an interview to conduct. I’ll see you at tea.”
When she walked away, she found herself fighting a compulsion to turn around.
“Atheridge hasn’t returned yet?”Elizabeth poured a bowl of tea and handed it to her husband.
“No, and I can’t imagine what is delaying him or Tunning.”
“Perhaps Mr. Tunning was out at one of the farms or in the village,” she offered.
“Perhaps.” His frown deepened, creating deep furrows in his forehead. “He should have sent Peter to find him. Young legs move faster.”
“You probably intimidated him with your bellowing. I vow he’s never heard the like.”
