Honor's Players (20 page)

“Now, what exactly is the nature of the charges?” Elizabeth asked the magistrate.

“Poaching, and it’s a serious crime, my lady. Just this year the government made it punishable by deportation to Australia.”

“Should still be a hanging offense,” muttered Tunning.

Elizabeth pointedly ignored him. “I would like to know the circumstances which prompted this charge.”

“Mr. Tunning claims he caught young Gerry Humphries here with a snare in one hand and a rabbit in the other.”

“I see. And when did this occur, Mr. Tunning?”

“At dawn.”

“You were up early. Why?”

“My actions aren’t in question; it’s this dog you should be asking.”

“You are being unaccountably difficult, Mr. Tunning. All right, maybe you’ll answer me this: did you see Gerry set the trap?”

“Well, no, I don’t know when he did that. Probably the night before when I was busy with the accounts.”

“So how can you say for certain he set the trap?”

“Makes no matter, he must a known it was there.”

“Why? Isn’t it possible he could have stumbled upon it?”

“Impossible, not in that part of the woods.”

“But you were there, too. If he hadn’t found it first, might not you have? And if you had freed the rabbit and someone saw you, should they call you poacher?”

’‘You’re forgetting one thing. There’s the matter of the poacher’s bag lying not far from the trap.”

“Poacher’s bag?” Elizabeth looked quizzically at Gerry who shrugged his bewilderment.

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Tunning took me to the scene of the crime this morning before we came here, and I found it under a bush with two traps and another rabbit.”

“Found this morning, you say, after Gerry was locked in my pantry?”

“Yes, just before we came here.”

She looked at Tunning and nodded thoughtfully. “Clever. You were certainly thorough when you constructed this crime. What puzzles me is why you are afraid of the Humphries.”

“What!” roared Tunning.

“You see, Mr. Pfoffler,” said Elizabeth, ignoring Tunning, “Gerry is well known in the neighborhood as an animal lover who often goes out early to view the animals in the woods. He would be the last person to set snares to capture rabbits. Someone who knew of his habit could easily frame him for poaching. It strikes me odd that Mr. Tunning should be about so early in the morning and just so happen to be in the proper location to view Gerry with snare and rabbit in hand, particularly when one knows Mr. Tunning has been encouraging the Viscount to turn the Humphries out of the Home farm. He claims they are a bad lot yet, inexplicably, the Home farm is in the best condition. I contend our estate agent has manufactured this incident as a means to destroy the Humphries.”

“My lady, that’s a serious accusation.”

“You Jade,” growled Tunning.

“Mr. Tunning, please!”

“Oh, his lordship has his hands full with this one, he does. Do you know, sir, what society calls her? The Shrew of London, I can see you’ve heard the title. It was bestowed on her for being the most unmanageable and contrary female. The Viscount deserves our sympathy. She will do whatever runs against his lordship’s best interests. He even gave me explicit orders when he was away to have charge of all monies. She wasn’t to have a farthing, that’s how much he don’t trust her.”

“That will be enough, Mr. Tunning,” ordered St. Ryne coldly.

All eyes turned in shocked surprise at the sound of his voice. He stood by the library door, his arms folded across his chest, his dark eyebrows furrowed to a straight bar above his eyes.

“Justin!” exclaimed Elizabeth.

His face softened slightly when he looked at her. “Poor Bess. Did you truly think I wouldn’t care if you left?”

“I—I—” she began in confusion.

“Later, my love. Thomas apprised me of the problem when I arrived.” He turned to Pfoffler. “You must be the magistrate.”

“Yes, the name’s Pfoffler, William Pfoffler.”

“Thank you for coming to investigate this sorry situation. It would not do at all for a miscarriage of justice to occur from undue haste.”

“Yes, yes, quite right, my lord.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll understand when I suggest you allow me to investigate the charges before we haul young Gerry here off to prison to stand trial. I’m sure later today or tomorrow will be just as timely.”

“In—investigate!” sputtered Tunning. “My lord, I don’t know what that groom told you, but I caught him with the goods in hand! There isn’t anything to investigate.”

St. Ryne eyed him coldly. “You seem overly anxious to prosecute, Mr. Tunning. May I remind you that the property from which he allegedly poached was mine, and on my property I decide if the law has been broken or not.”

“Of course, my lord, but I tell you—”

“Enough! We will discuss it later.” He turned back to the magistrate. “Now, sir, as we were discussing, I’d like a little time.”

“That’s all well and good, my lord, but what do we do with this miscreant? We can’t let him go, he may run off, and then where would I be? No, no, my lord, can’t have that. It would look bad in the county.”

St. Ryne smiled congenially. “You’re a shrewd magistrate. I can see we are lucky in your services. Why don’t you take him into temporary custody then. Yes, just the ticket, and, of course, anyone in temporary custody is well fed and cared for, to say nothing of dispensing with shackles.”

Mr. Pfoffler scratched his head. “I suppose I could do that-”

St. Ryne drew the magistrate aside to whisper in his ear. “Between us, Mr. Pfoffler, I would appreciate it. I will admit I was in my cups last night and this morning have a devil of a head. I plead time to recover before I can think property.”

Mr. Pfoffler laughed heartily and clapped St. Ryne on the back. “In that case, I’m happy to oblige. It’s nice to see we have people who care to see justice properly executed. Under the circumstances a little time will be all right.” He leaned closer to the Viscount. “I tell you, my lord, it’s not a pretty coil, and I’m obliged in your interest. In truth, I don’t know who to believe.” He crossed to Gerry standing by his grandmother. “Come along, Humphries.”

Mary grabbed Gerry’s hand to hold him to her. “Oh, no, please,” she pleaded, looking from the magistrate to the Viscount.

Embarrassed, the magistrate gruffly cleared his throat. “Here, here, now. None of that.”

Mary dropped her grandson’s hand and fled to the Viscount’s side, dropping down on her knees before him. “Please, milord, please don’t let him take my Gerry.”

St. Ryne pulled her to her feet. “It’s all right, Mrs. Geddy. The magistrate will take good care of Gerry. I do not mean to seem unfeeling; we just need time to sort everything out. Now run along to the kitchen and see if you can get me some coffee. I would like to begin to sort through the situation.”

Mary looked anxiously at Elizabeth who, after casting a speculative glance at her husband, nodded her reassurance.

Mary murmured acquiescence and thanks then bobbed a little curtsy before dejectedly leaving for the kitchen. The magistrate and Gerry followed behind her.

When the door closed on them, Tunning harrumphed and turned to St. Ryne. “You had me worried there for a while, my lord. I thought you might be too soft, listening to those women. Now I see the right of it though. Clever to get the magistrate to take Humphries away as he did, got that Geddy witch out of here right enough. Don’t worry about her in the future; I’ll see she doesn’t bother you again.”

“Mr. Tunning,” began St. Ryne.

“How dare you,” seethed Elizabeth interrupting him. Her fingers curled around the inkstand on the desk, her knuckles white. “Before you harm anyone in that family, I’ll see you in Hell!”

She picked up the inkstand to hurl at him.

“No, Bess!” St. Ryne yelled, rushing to wrest it from her grasp.

He turned to the estate agent. “I have had enough of you. For too long I’ve put up with your sly behavior and your unwarranted maligning of people thinking to uncover the problem. No longer will I do so. You’re fired! Clear your things out of the estate manager’s cottage and get off our property.”

Tunning’s face became mottled with rage. “You’ll regret this!” he stormed, clenching and unclenching his fists. “It’s your entire fault, you hell-spawned Jade!” he snarled, lunging for Elizabeth.

She screamed. St. Ryne grabbed Tunning by his coat, swung him around, and slammed his fist 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 trades people 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.”

“Please, Bess, don’t do this.’’

She blinked at him. “It’s done.”

“No!” he implored, but she turned her head away from him to take another cup of coffee. He could see that she intended to ignore his presence.

A slow anger flared within him, feeding upon itself as it grew. He surged out of his chair to stand over her. She studiously kept her eyes averted.

“You are a hypocrite, my love, you who claim to hate plays, for you are playing now and with your willful play are throwing away our chance for happiness. Go on, punish me, I admit I deserve it, but as you do so, admit you are also punishing yourself. Please forgive me if I quit your presence and return to London. I see no gain in remaining to be continually flogged by your wretched pride!” He turned on his heel, his face a study of anger and misery, and rapidly quitted the room.

Elizabeth looked up as he left, part of her not really believing he would. She rose from her chair and started for the door, her hand outstretched. Then she heard him open the front door and shout for Thomas to saddle his horse, and her hand fell to her side. With heavy steps she walked to the window and watched him mount then gallop down the drive as if all the dogs of hell were nipping at his heels. Her mouth silently formed the words “I’m sorry,” but there was no one to hear.

The fouler fortune mine, and there an end.

—Act V, Scene 1

“Tunning! What are you doing here?” Atheridge softy screeched, looking about nervously. He hated these woods at night when every shadow held imagined menace and terror. He wrapped his arms around himself as much to ward off fear as cold.

“I’ve come to settle a score with that trollop,” Tunning ground out, his dark presence looming like some monster of the night.

“The Viscountess?”

“Yes.”

“No, no, Tunning, I can’t let you do that!” Atheridge backed away.

Tunning grabbed him by his coat lapels and hauled Atheridge’s face within inches of his own. “Listen, you maw worm, you’ll help me or St. Ryne will know you were active in bilking the servants of wages and taking payments from merchants for buying shoddy wares at premium prices.”

“But that was you,” protested the quaking butler.

“Yes, with you turning a blind eye at first then taking your own cut. You want the fine Viscount to know that? I have a ledger that details it all, and if it were to come into his hands...” he trailed off, dropping his hands from Atheridge’s coat.

“No! No,” he faltered weakly. “What is it you want?” His shoulders drooped.

Tunning laughed crudely. “You’re going to help me kidnap her. I’ll make that hoyden whimper while I await a handsome ransom from her husband. Who knows, he may consider himself well rid of her, and then I’ll just have her for my own bit of fun. Either way, she’ll pay for her disrespect towards ol’ Tom Tunning.”

Atheridge licked his lips nervously. “W—When are you going to do this?”

“Tonight. You’ll leave the front entrance open and signal an hour after everyone’s abed by waving a lit taper from the gallery windows.”

“And that’s all?”

“You will of course help me tie up our dear Viscountess and carry her out. I’ll have a carriage waiting. That is unless you would like to have a turn with her, too,” Tunning suggested, leering.

Atheridge shuddered.

“I thought not,” he said with another laugh, “but you’ll be missing a prime bit of fun. I’m looking forward to riding that one and taming her to my bridle.”

“Where will you take her?” Atheridge asked timorously.

“The old Havelock Manor.”

“I thought that was gutted by fire.”

“The west wing’s still intact and has its own entrance.”

Atheridge nodded in understanding. Suddenly an owl hooted from somewhere deep in the woods, and he jerked spasmodically. “I must get back before I’m missed.” His words came out in a rush, his eyes darting.

“Yes, do that,” drawled Tunning, amused at his cohort’s apprehension. “But remember, one hour after all is quiet or the ledger goes to St. Ryne.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll remember,” he vowed, casting one last fearful glance around before scurrying back toward the lights of Larchside.

“Oh, mistress, the Lunnon staff were all at sixes and sevens this morning, running around, tripping over each other to get out of my lord’s way. And he, my, he was bellowing like a stuck pig, then holding his head in his hands.” Ivy lifted a dress out of the trunk and shook it out, clucking her tongue at its wrinkled condition before hanging it in the wardrobe.

“Mr. Cranston,” she continued, turning back to the trunk, “he tried to lay a cool cloth on his head, but he wouldn’t have none of it and fair knocked Mr. Cranston senseless. It were all truly comical.”

She scratched her head through her mobcap a moment and sobered. “You know, it occurred to me, and please don’t get angry, because people is people, rich or poor, anyway, it did seem to me that his lordship was truly aggrieved to find you’d gone and very worrit, too.” Ivy placed her hands on her hips and sternly eyed Elizabeth sitting on the daybed indulging in a fit of sullens. “Fact is, he seemed like a man with a broken heart, he did.”

“Ha!” Elizabeth bit out. “The only thing broken was his head.”

Her maid went back to work, her voice airy. “Kept mumbling on, saying things like, ‘oh, my love, where are you?’ and ‘love, forgive me.’ ”

“I’m sure his word stemmed merely from habit.”

“Strange habit for a man to develop, I say, unless he meant it. Most men find the words just sticks in their gullet and most nearly needs to be pried out.”

Elizabeth laughed mirthlessly. “His is a glib and well-oiled tongue.”

Her maid shrugged. “He weren’t too happy with me for not telling him you’d up and left, but he were relieved to find Thomas accompanied you, saying at least someone in his household showed sense.” She shook out another dress.

“You know, beggin’ your pardon, my lady, but I think you’re being just a mite too hard on his lordship. Oh, I’m not saying he didn’t do wrong, he did you mortal wrong. It’s just that that’s the way of men. They gets a bee in their bonnet like and hangs on to it for no reason. And truthfully, ma’am, they’re all like babes and need to be led by us and just as tykes do mischief and need punishing, they also need forgiveness or the misdeeds just get worse.”

Elizabeth lifted her head, carefully regarding her maid. “What did you just say?”

“About what, ma’am?”

“That last bit, about children doing mischief,” she said impatiently.

Ivy looked bewildered. “I just said as how children that’s been bad need love as much as punishing.”

“Yes, or the misdeeds just get worse,” Elizabeth finished for her, trailing off. She closed her eyes, remembering her own childhood with her struggles for love, how she’d turned to misdeeds and adopted a vinegary tongue to try to gain some form of attention. Were she and St. Ryne doomed to repeat the errors of her youth? No! They were a grown man and woman with the intelligence to rise above such pettiness, they had to be.

“Ivy!” she cried, bounding off the bed to hug her maid. “Repack everything. We’re returning to London tomorrow!”

“Oh, my lady, are you sure? Yes, yes, at once!” the little maid happily exclaimed. She didn’t rightly know what she said to turn about her mistress’s expression, but happy she was to see it. “And afterwards, I’ll tell Thomas to have the carriage ready first thing.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Good, but don’t tarry too long, for you’ll have to be up be’times in the morning.”

“My lady, as if I would!” Ivy disclaimed, though she blushed furiously.

Elizabeth lay on her bed, nestled among soft pillows, her eyes open, though staring unseeing at the gray and black forms and shadows of the room in the night. Idly her left hand stretched out across the expanse of empty bed next to her and a small smile curved her lips. Her eyes drifted shut, imagining, as she had in the past, the wonders to be learned from sharing the bed with her husband. The difference now was her intention, for she vowed to herself she’d be the Viscountess St. Ryne in more than name even if she had to seduce Justin. A blush, lost in the dark yet warming her skin, crept up her neck and cheeks.

Tomorrow she would return to London to forgive and cry quit to the comedy they played, and perhaps to ask for a drama instead, a drama of their making together without secrets and subplots. She would not repeat the errors of her childhood nor willingly throw away a chance for happiness, no matter how tenuous the chance. How many chances was a person given in life? Too few, to judge by those she saw in society. If she turned her back on St. Ryne in pique, then she was no better than those she would disdain. Worse, she could be called a fool for only the fool denied the heart for hollow pride. It was cold comfort, not a warm bedfellow.

Sighing, she pulled the covers higher then turned on her side, curling to hold in the heat of her body. Her mind clear, her plans made, she drifted to sleep while a small smile hovered on her lips.

An odd, high-pitched creaking woke her. In the night stillness it raked her nerves. She listened, noting that it bore an almost measured cadence.

Puzzled, she rose from her bed and shrugged on a wrapper, pulling it close about her, then slipped on thin slippers. She rounded the bed, stopping again to listen. It was getting louder, and with it could be heard a faint clump; then whispering, indistinct and rapidly hushed. Someone was creeping through the manor.

Elizabeth’s hands reflexively clenched in anger. The Atheridges, she thought with disgust. No telling what manner of mischief they could be about. She grabbed a candlestick from the bedside table, taking it over to light by the fireplace, and then glided to the door. The furtive sounds were getting louder, like they were nearly outside. She yanked open the door.

“Atheridge!” she scolded, spotting his spindly frame by the light of her wildly wavering taper. “What are you doing about?”

He gaped at her then stuttered soundlessly, looking back over his shoulder.

A hulking black shadow, like a feral animal, separated itself from the shadows by the wall to come toward her and the circle of light she held.

“You.” The single word pushed past her lips on an expelled breath. “What do you want? What are you doing here?” Her words were high, strident—and superfluous, for with gut wrenching clarity, she knew why he was here. Her eyes opened wide with knowledge. She turned to flee.

He lunged, knocking her to the ground, the candle spinning out of her grasp, its light dying, plunging them into darkness. But not before she saw his leer, a demon with revenge reflected in his eyes. She twisted wildly under his weight, her nails seeking skin to gouge. A scream died in her throat and she choked and gagged when he stuffed a handkerchief into her open mouth.

She bucked, thrashing at him with her arms. He grunted and grabbed her hands, holding them out from her sides. He lowered his face to within inches of her own.

“I shall enjoy taming you as we wait and see if that fine husband of yours is willing to pay for your return.” His breath was redolent of porter and overripe cheese. Elizabeth turned her head away from the smell. He laughed, pressing the outline of his swollen member tightly against her body.

He looked up at Atheridge. “The rope, you idiot! Help me tie her up. ”

Quaking, Atheridge dropped to his knees, handing him the rope. “D—did you get a carriage?”

He knotted the rope about her wrists, pulling it cruelly tight when she attempted to flail at him. “From the stable,” he answered shortly.

“Here? Her own carriage? If Thomas finds it missing—” he trailed off miserably.

“That’s why you’ll have to come with me to see it’s brought back before he’s about.” Tunning grunted as he deflected a kick.

“Me!”

“Know anyone else whose neck threatens to be stretched if he don’t?” He quickly captured the errant leg and bound the two together. He sat back on his heels and studied her bound figure. “Are you sure you don’t want a tumble?” he asked Atheridge.

He laughed at Atheridge’s choked denial. “Well, help me get her out of here.”

Elizabeth shuddered as they grabbed her, squeezing her eyes shut to close out his gloating image. She was terrified but knew she must master her terror if she was to have a chance to escape.

“Oh, Thomas, quit now. Mind your manners,” Ivy said, playfully batting at the grinning youth nuzzling her neck.

“It’s you I’d rather mind, in all manner,” he mumbled into her soft skin.