Honor's Players (18 page)

The gentlemen remaining behind in the dining room were also wont to spare no bones with their comments. No sooner had the last skirt swished from sight and the doors closed following the ladies’ exit, than they felt free to loosen their tongues.

It was a circumstance St. Ryne grudgingly accepted in his mind but was uncertain as to his course. Casually he signaled for his glass to be refilled and leaned back in his chair.

“Amazing,” drawled one sprig of fashion, absently dropping the quizzing glass he held up to observe the ladies’ departure. Several gentlemen echoed his sentiments, emboldening him to preen and continue. “St. Ryne, I admit to myself I am nonplussed. Miracles do occur.”

“Ha! With that one, I vow it took more than a miracle unless miracles are engendered with the judicious use of a riding crop to a fair backside,” sneered another from the other end of the table.

“Now hold there!” blustered Monweithe, rising slightly out of his seat.

He was forestalled by St. Ryne. “It is you who need the riding crop for you have the manners and mind of a cur.” He pinned the offender with a malevolent eye. “No, do not think to call me out while I am in my father’s house. In truth, you are the knave who gives insult,” he said softly. His gaze swept the party. “Be it known, gentlemen, I do not countenance slurs cast upon my wife.”

Carlton Tretherford sniffed and scratched the side of his nose. “Perhaps it is not she who has been tamed. More likely her calmness stems from satisfaction at training you to run tame like a cursed lap dog.” He picked up a nut to crack.

“And I must perforce call you Uncle,” murmured St. Ryne, watching him contrive a child’s trick of cracking the nut between his fingers. “Gentlemen, can none of you accept the concept of wedded bliss?” he asked expansively, waving his wineglass before him.

“Confound it, Justin,” complained Freddy, “you’re doing it too brown. We ain’t gudgeons and we all know Lady Elizabeth.”

St. Ryne took a sip of wine then shook his head in mock sadness. “Freddy, I find your lack of confidence appalling.”

Sir James Branstoke leaned back in his chair, elbows resting on its arms as his hands contemplatively formed a steeple. “Do not be hasty. I believe there is unexposed truth to Freddy’s words,” he mused.

Tretherford harrumphed and bent forward, strands of lank gray hair falling onto his face. “Talking don’t pay toll. I propose a test. The Viscount here is cocksure the demon’s been driven out of the woman.”

“Tretherford, I warn you!” thundered Monweithe, only to be over born by the roaring enthusiasm of the others at the table and the multiple exhortations for Tretherford to continue. St. Ryne crossed his arms over his chest and a dark scowl descended over his features though he nodded continuance.

Tretherford sneered at Monweithe then turned back to encompass the gentlemen at the table. The footman and butler standing by the door strained to hear.

“I propose a test of the Viscountess’s new docility. A simple test. Have him bid her come here. For surely if she is a dutiful wife and properly tamed, she’ll come.” He looked about the company, a smirching smile on his lips as gentleman after gentleman voiced approval.

“All right, we are agreed. And to make it sporting, I wager one hundred pounds she will not come when sent for.”

A clamor of agreement rose from the others at the table despite St. Ryne’s scowl.

Freddy jumped up onto his chair, holding his glass high. “And I’ll bet the same that my sweet Helene comes. What do you say, Tretherford, willing to put your money where your mouth is, too?”

Tretherford surged to his feet, shaking his fist at Freddy. “I’ll have you know, you arrogant jackanapes, a lady such as my Romella always knows her place and just what’s expected of her, too. To be sure I make the same bet.”

“Well, what do you say, Justin?” Freddy asked, teetering on the chair.

“A hundred pounds?” St. Ryne queried in low-voiced disgust. “Is that all you gentlemen are willing to wager on your wives? I make such bets on my dogs or horses, but on my wife? Nay gentlemen, I’ll wager you one thousand pounds she comes!” Looking triumphantly into their stunned faces he raised his wineglass and drained it.

“Don’t worry, I’ll cover you, lad,” Lord Monweithe assured St. Ryne.

“I’ll stand in no need of assistance, sir.”

Freddy called for pen and paper to record the bets and the other side bets made by the company. Branstoke came to St. Ryne’s side, laying a hand upon his shoulder. “Your play is over. In God’s name, man, have done!”

At first St. Ryne failed to comprehend Branstoke’s words, then as their meaning filtered through, a dark red suffused his face. “I had not thought—”

“This was not planned?”

“No, I’ve vouchsafed the play anytime this past week.”

“Does she know of the play?”

“To my knowledge, she has not fallen to it yet, though she is a bright woman and one who could.”

Branstoke squeezed his shoulder. “I pray she stays in ignorance a while longer.”

“You think it would matter?”

Branstoke eyed him pityingly. “I know it would.”

“Ready, Justin,” Freddy called out gaily as he sanded the document he’d contrived.

“After you, gentlemen,” he said suavely.

“As you proposed the bet, Mr. Tretherford, I suggest it is only right you issue the first summons,” Branstoke suggested as he settled back in his seat.

“Done.” Tretherford turned to the door where the butler was stationed, hooking his thumbs in the small pockets of his waistcoat while throwing his shoulders back. “You, sir, bid my wife, the Honorable Mrs. Carlton Tretherford, to come here.” He turned back to the company, a smile on his face and a slight swagger in his step.

The butler returned swiftly. “Pardon, sir, but she says she is busy at the moment.”

A shout of laughter sealed Tretherford’s discomfiture. He flung himself into his chair, murmuring imprecations upon his new wife’s character.

“Now to you, Freddy.”

“Jovis, entreat my lovely bride-to-be to join me now.”

“Entreat, yet. Surely she will come,” St. Ryne teased.

“Entreated or not, more than I can say for yours,” snapped Tretherford.

Raucous laughter followed Tretherford’s denouncement with quips as evidence of ready wit traded among the gentlemen. It was several moments before anyone noticed the butler’s return.

“I’m sorry, sir, she will not come as she is repairing a torn flounce.—"

“A fair answer,” Freddy said.

“—but demands—”

“Demands? Oh worse and worse,” St. Ryne exclaimed. “My dear Freddy, how will you endure it? No matter, rest assured you will have things straightened by the nuptial event. Jovis! Tell my wife I desire her company.”

“I know her answer,” claimed one of the gentlemen from the end of the table.

“What?”

“Save your desires for the sheets, she will not come.”

Elizabeth observed the butler leaving the room for the second time. Why would he visit Aunt Romella and Helene? What did he want? Did someone send him?

“Excuse me, Lady Jersey,” she said, “I must speak with my sister a moment.”

“Yes, you do seem a bit preoccupied and no doubt find my chatter boring.”

Elizabeth swiveled round to face Lady Sally Jersey again, realizing she was on the verge of making a tremendous social gaff with one of the lights of society. “Oh, no, I beg your pardon, it’s just that—you see I must—” a garbled explanation fell from her lips.

“Oh, run along, my dear. My bark is often worse than my bite. I shall just go harass some of the matchmaking mamas who are here. I enjoy watching them maneuver to secure cards to Almack’s.”

Elizabeth laughed, thanked Lady Jersey, and sped to her sister’s side. “Helene, what did Jovis want?”

Helene was fingering a lace ruffle on her gown. “What? Oh, it was just some message from Freddy asking me to come to the dining room. Probably to receive a toast, but I just couldn’t go, what with this torn ruffle and for all times for it to occur.”

“Well, run upstairs and have it repaired before the rest of the guests arrive instead of standing there moaning about it.”

“I would expect you to say something heartless like that!”

Elizabeth sighed. “I’m not heartless, just practical. Excuse me, I must speak with Aunt Romella.”

Lady Helene pouted prettily at her sister’s retreating figure then swished her skirt back into place and headed for the stairs.

“Aunt Romella, excuse me, please,” Elizabeth said breaking into a conversation between her aunt and a prominent widow who it was known was on the make for another husband. Fleetingly it occurred to Elizabeth that her aunt wasn’t above lording it over the poor woman for her success. “What did Jovis want?”

“Really, Elizabeth, you’re no better than ever. Carlton merely requested my presence in the dining room. I of course declined, and mean to educate him on the impropriety of such a request.”

“Of course. Thank you.” She turned in time to see Jovis once again enter the drawing room. For some reason, she knew she was the object of his visit this time and so stood patiently waiting for him to approach.

Jovis cleared his throat. “Um-hum, my lady, your husband sent me to desire you to come to him in the dining room.”

She smiled pleasantly at him. “All right,” she said starting for the door.

“You’re coming?” All of the butler’s studied impassiveness failed him.

“Yes, why not?” she replied, though truthfully she wasn’t as calm as she portrayed. The gentlemen were playing some game, that was obvious. She intended to get to the bottom of the matter. She admitted to a lively sense of curiosity as to the root of this queer start but knew conjecture to be worthless.

The raucous noise emanating from the dining room could be heard in the hall. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow in question though she calmly waited for Jovis to open the dining room door. A sudden quiet descended upon the room.

“The Viscountess St. Ryne!” announced Jovis stentorianly.

Elizabeth, her head held high, the candlelight glowing on her like liquid gold, glided into the room. St. Ryne slowly rose from his chair, a mingled expression of disbelief, chagrin, and love all on his face. He slowly circled the table to her side.

The cry “A hit! A hit!” swept the room.

“You sent for me?” she asked softly, her heart touched by his expression.

“Yes, my love, and I thank you. I am unworthy of you or your care.” He raised her hand up, turned it gently over, and planted a kiss on her palm. A flurry of catcalls and whistles greeted his gesture, but Elizabeth was deaf to their sound. She curled her fingers into her palm as if to hold on to his kiss. He put his arm around her waist. “Gentlemen,” he said, turning to the table, “enough jests and tests. It is time we joined the ladies.”

With alacrity, Branstoke rose, encouraging the gentlemen to do so as well. “I think, St. Ryne,” he drawled, “we all could do much worse than to follow your lead. Gentlemen, the ladies await.”

Elizabeth allowed herself to be conducted from the dining room while maintaining a gracious manner. This attitude was severely tested as one after another of the gentlemen made their way to Justin’s side to clap him on the shoulder and offer congratulations along with sly winks and thinly veiled innuendos. Question after question leapt to her mind, all crowding forward to be asked but she held her tongue, smiling graciously at all. Imagined answers also came forward with painful clarity, answers she wished to ignore for if they were the truth, then her fragile happiness would shatter, it being born into her that perhaps her entire marriage stemmed from bets made over cards and cups for sport.

Valiantly she tried to deny her foreboding, her smile becoming brittle as she watched gentlemen approach knots of ladies, whisper in shell-like ears until their auditors turned to stare at her with snickers and swallowed laughter.

Slowly, like grains of sand in an hourglass, Elizabeth’s euphoric happiness eroded to be replaced by a gripping fear. She thought she had been on the verge of ultimate happiness; still, she was no longer the impetuous, ill-mannered young woman determined to strike a blow first before one could be leveled at her. She would not overreact. She would uncover the truth.

Somehow she made it gracefully through the interminable hour she stood by her sister and father in the receiving line before the ball. When she was excused, she fled to the refreshment table for a glass of punch and an opportunity to clear her head. Her temples throbbed slightly. She placed a cool hand on one side to massage away the pain. Her spirits rose as she saw St. Ryne leave a small contingent of his cronies to come to her side. She smiled wanly up at him.

“Bess!” he cried, taking her hands in his and leading her to an empty alcove. “Are you feeling all right? You look pale.” He searched her white strained features, concern evident in his eyes.

She settled onto the sofa with obvious relief. The mere thread of a laugh escaped her lips. “Too long standing, too many people, and stuffy air have all taken their toll on me. I shall recover directly,” she assured him, touched by his solicitude.

“May I get you anything?”

“I was intending to get something to drink. If you could—” she trailed off.

“Of course, my love.” He strode away with purposeful strides.

Freddy, standing at the edge of the dance floor while another lost suitor claimed a dance, wandered over to Elizabeth’s corner.

“Saw St. Ryne hurrying off. Nothing wrong is there, ma’am?”

She held out her hand. “Call me Elizabeth, please! It wouldn’t do for a brother to be too formal, would it?”

He laughed and, pushing the tails of his elegant coat back to avoid crushing them, sank down on the sofa beside her. “Stab me but you’ve got the right of it, and since I’m in the way of being a brother, you can tell me truthfully, did you and Justin plan that dining room coup?” He shook his head, chuckling. “If you did, I don’t begrudge the sum I dropped. Should have known Justin wouldn’t back a loser. Truth is, shouldn’t have doubted him that month and more past when the fellows all were bettin’ against the chances of any gent claiming you to clear the way for Helene. That Justin though, he’s something else. The only one who seemed to know what he was about was Branstoke, and he’s an odd nut to crack.”