She screamed. St. Ryne grabbed Tunning by his coat, swung him around, and slammed his fist squarely into his jaw. Tunning fell heavily. St. Ryne stood over him, his feet planted firmly apart, his hands still balled into fists. His breathing was ragged, the only sign of the violence he held in check.
“Consider yourself lucky to get away with your life. Now get out, and I don’t ever want to see your worthless carcass again.”
Tunning scrambled out of his reach and got up, glaring daggers at Elizabeth. He yanked open the library door, revealing Atheridge standing there, his right hand raised to knock, his other holding a tray with coffee and rolls.
“Oh, Mr. Tunning—” began the startled Atheridge.
“Get out of my way,” snarled Tunning, shouldering him aside and almost upsetting the tray.
“What?—” Atheridge uttered, glancing from the raging Tunning to St. Ryne’s implacable visage.
“Mr. Tunning is just leaving. He will not be back,” informed St. Ryne coldly.
Atheridge’s eyes became as big as saucers in his pinched face. He nodded once in deference to the Viscount, then scurried to lay out the coffee. The Viscount and Viscountess stood immobile until he had completed his task and fled the room.
St. Ryne’s shoulders slumped and he ran a tired hand around to the back of his neck to ease tight muscles.
“Thank you, Justin,” Elizabeth said softly.
“For what? Did you think I could possibly stand there and let that idiot harm you? Oh, Bess, Bess,” he sighed, “what a low opinion you must truly have of me.”
“I believe I have just cause.”
“Yes, I know you believe that, and I don’t know what to do to convince you otherwise.”
He was not up to dealing with justifications and recriminations. When he had found she’d left London, he’d been like a madman, and like as not more shrewish than Elizabeth had ever been in her life. His only peace of mind came from the knowledge that Thomas had accompanied her despite her protests. He must remember to reward the young man for his diligence. For now, he would deal with the tumult he discovered on arriving at Larchside; time later to broach their estrangement.
“What is your summation of this poaching charge?” he asked tiredly, easing down into one of the wing chairs, his legs splayed out casually before him.
She came around the desk to pour coffee for the two of them. “I believe Tunning framed Gerry.”
“Why would he have cause to do that? For that matter, what is it Tunning's been up to anyway?”
She compressed her lips, shaking her head in bewilderment. “I don’t really know, at least with any certainty; however, I believe he was collecting some type of blood money from the tenants around here, and collecting fees from the merchants and tradespeople who had business with the estate.”
“I can understand the payoffs from those who buy from or sell to the estate, but could he have gotten such control over the tenants?”
“I don’t know, but what I do think is that Humphries was not one of those from whom he was able to collect.”
St. Ryne shifted straighter in his chair, shaking his head dolefully. “It’s a bad business, Bess.”
“Yes, and nearly impossible to prove unless one of his victims comes forward, and then it’s his word against theirs.”
St. Ryne was silent a moment, then: “Do you think the Atheridges were in on it with him?”
“I’ve wondered, but they could just as easily have been among his victims or merely sycophantic for their own protection.”
He grunted in agreement.
“But what about Gerry, Justin?”
He stretched. “I think it would be best if he were left in Mr. Pfoffler’s care until tomorrow. I know Mrs. Geddy won’t like it, but I don’t trust Tunning not to plan some sort of revenge action, and Gerry would be a likely target, since indirectly he caused Tunning's downfall.”
“You may be right.”
“And what about us?” he asked, then cursed his wretched tongue. It was too soon. He saw her stiffen, the liquid light in her eyes hardening to gold metal. Inwardly he moaned her name as she visibly retreated into herself.
“There is no us, just the shell of a comic play that’s over.”
