“Show him in,” said Elizabeth, a calm, neutral expression possessing her features. It was time for a confrontation with the slimy toad—on her terms.
Tunning scurried into the room, rubbing his cold-reddened hands before him. “Ah, my lady, ready and waiting are you to begin?”
“As you see.”
He laughed heartily. “That’s what I like about you, my lady, always straining at the bit, and a sweet goer you are to be sure.” He winked broadly at her and laughed again at his witticism, then his lips curled into a leer. “To be sure, it is a real mystery why the Viscount would take his leave so sudden with a woman like you to warm his bed. Perhaps he doesn’t appreciate you properly.”
Elizabeth seethed, though the only outward manifestation of her emotional state was the white knuckles of her clenched hands, mute witness to her rage. She had considered Tunning coarse, but never in all her dealings with the man had she imagined he could so far forget himself as to speak to her in such a manner. Could he actually have the effrontery to believe she might turn to him as a substitution for her absent husband? The idea was mind-boggling, and left her momentarily bereft of speech.
“Oh, now I’ve gone and embarrassed you.” He swaggered toward the desk, a ridiculous lugubrious expression on his face. “Don’t you fret, my lady, old Tom Tunning's not one to be a gabble-box, but should you ever need a shoulder to cry on, mine are right broad.” He reached out to touch her shoulder.
Elizabeth shied out of his way, her jerky action toppling her chair.
“Now, my lady, no need being shy,” Tunning said, mistaking her action for coquetry. He extended a hand to help her up, a self-satisfied smile plastered across his face.
“Don’t you dare touch me you—you slimy toad!” she cried, giving voice to her image of him. She scrambled to her feet, placing the width of the desk between them. “How dare you infer, let alonethink, I should be interested in you. Your insolence knows no bounds. Get your fat, sweaty person out of my sight!”
Tunning's face darkened. “Don’t you go getting high-and-mighty. From what I heard tell, you’re just run goods. You best remember who holds the purse strings around here, and sweeten your tongue a bit. That fancy husband of yours left fast enough, no doubt for more sprightly game.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, gold flame shooting out through her dark lashes. “You may hold the purse strings,” she said icily,“but you don’t control me. You would best be advised to rethink your attitude before I have you thrown off this property.”
Tunning laughed in her face, though something about her expression gave him pause.
“Tunning, Larchside is mine!” she spat. “It was part of my marriage settlement. Didn’t St. Ryne tell you? How remiss of him. So you see, ultimately, I am your employer. This time I am inclined to give you mercy—indeed, I fear your ignorance warrants it. Now get your carcass and those sorry excuses for servants you’ve brought here out of this house.”
Tunning's mouth opened and closed like a toad catching flies, his face taking on a choleric hue. “You’ll rue the day you jibed at Tom Tunning!’’
Elizabeth, struggling to hide her trembling, merely lifted her hand and pointed to the door.
Tunning stalked out, slamming the door shut behind him.
Elizabeth’s breath came out in a rush, her limbs suddenly as weak as a wet rag. She stumbled to one of the wing chairs and sank into it. Raising her hands to her face, she let out long, shuddering sobs. It galled her to know she truly had no power over Tunning; it was all a farce. For all her bravado, St. Ryne could easily negate her words. She had no idea if he would even believe her if she were to relate the tale. She cringed even to contemplate Tunning's next actions if he were to divine the hollowness of her words. He could make life akin to Dante’s Inferno.
She slowly lowered her hands from her face, balling them into fists that impotently pounded the chair arms. She wanted nothing so much as to scream her frustrations at the top of her lungs. She could not, however, afford to let Tunning hear of her immature behavior via the Atheridges. Ah yes, the Atheridges, Tunning’s spies. It would not do to show any sort of weakness to them. She must get her tears under control, her breathingregular, make it appear she was totally unmoved by the scene in the library, for she’d wager they’d know of it.
She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes, willing each muscle in her body to relax. What was she to do? She still was without servants and now, she thought wryly, she distrusted Mrs. Atheridge not to poison her deliberately versus accidentally, as her current cooking threatened to accomplish. There seemed to be many decent people in the village, for all who came to help at Larchside had been good folk. How could she find others to assume permanent positions in her household? Who would know everyone in the area?
Her eyes flew open. Of course, the vicar! A vicar would know his flock. Perhaps he even knew some of the skeletons rattling around, like Tunning and the Atheridges. No doubt he would be expecting her to make a duty call anyway. Perfect. Tunning could not rant and rave at suggestions from a man of the cloth.
“Oo-oo,” Elizabeth mouthed silently, a devilish light glowing in her eyes. Tunning was about to receive the first of many comeuppances at her hand, and if she played her cards right, he could not complain to St. Ryne. The light died out of her eyes as she thought of her husband. She couldn’t see her way clear of that fine imbroglio.
The next morning, Elizabeth felt beset by locusts. Not only did tradesmen and craftsmen arrive to push and pull for her attention, but also her trunks of personal belongings arrived. So busy was she that it wasn’t until nearly teatime before she could slip away to trek down to the village and the little stone church she had seen the day before.
A brisk fifteen-minute walk brought her to the rectory, and moments later she found herself in a cheery little parlor facing a kind-looking, white-haired gentleman.
“I am delighted, simply delighted by your visit. My oh my, are we now to discover our sleepy little village in the guidebooks asone of the country seats of a Viscount, heir to an earldom?” he teased. A tittering laugh followed his words, and Elizabeth could not help but laugh with him.
“I wouldn’t know, sir, what these publishers deem interesting.”
“Oh, anything for a shilling, my dear, anything at all,” he assured her, his watery blue eyes fairly bulging.
“And what’s anything for a shilling, Father?”
Elizabeth whirled around to see a well-set-up gentleman in modest attire standing by the door.
“Ah, David, there you are. Let me make you known to our new lovely patroness, the Viscountess St. Ryne.” He turned back to Elizabeth. “This scapegrace young gentleman is my son, David Thornbridge.”
Elizabeth heard the warm pride in the vicar’s voice and her eyes pricked with tears. Oh, to have a father with such sensibilities! She willed the telltale moisture away and gracefully extended her hand.
