Honor's Players (3 page)

“Oh, there you are. Wondering if you’d show. Shocking squeeze, you know,” Freddy said over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving the object of his adoration.

St. Ryne objectively studied Lady Helene Monweithe for a moment. He granted she was a diamond of the first water and deserving the sobriquet La Belle; yet every season saw another more lustrous than the last. These jewels had never engendered interest by him in all his years on the town. It was as if in having beauty, they suffered some deficit of character, and whereas character lasts while beauty fades, he’d come to value its coin above beauty. He was amused to note that like the jewels before her, she had the requisite harridan by her side.

“Who’s the chaperone?” he asked Freddy, pulling him out of his worshipful reverie.

“Huh? Oh, Lady Romella Wisgart, her mama’s sister. A very starchy sort.”

“She seems to favor Tretherford,” St. Ryne observed, watching a small by-play of words and smiles.

Freddy snorted. “Tretherford’s a toady, though I think Lady Wisgart’s got her eye on him for herself.”

“That seems apropos,” St. Ryne murmured.

“Ain’t it just,” Freddy agreed, rocking back on his heels, grinning from ear to ear.

Dismissing the play before him from his mind, St. Ryne looked about for the woman he presumed to be Lady Elizabeth. She continued to stand by the vase, as still as a statue, her eyes wide.

“Freddy,” St. Ryne said softly, dragging him away from La Belle Helene, “is that young woman standing there Lady Elizabeth Monweithe?”

Freddy looked in the direction St. Ryne indicated and shuddered slightly.

“Yes, but do come over here and I’ll introduce you to the sweetest woman in the world.”

St. Ryne looked at the group surrounding Freddy’s paragon with a jaundiced eye then shook his head. “I’d rather meet Lady Elizabeth.”

“Not by me!” Freddy said, shaking his head and backing up a step. “I don’t go near that hellcat!”

St. Ryne’s face became dark and shuttered as he raised a mocking eyebrow at his friend. Without a word he bowed stiffly and turned on his heel to walk away, leaving behind a bewildered Freddy.

Sir James Branstoke, standing a step apart from those surrounding the sought after beauty, noted the exchange through his raised quizzing glass and smiled. He watched St. Ryne make his way to the punch table, procure two glasses, and turn to approach the shrew. He rubbed the rim of his quizzing glass thoughtfully against his cheek, and then turned to the crowd surrounding La Belle. As entertaining as the Viscount may be, he did have other sport, particularly as it appeared the Viscount was determined to take up the bet and spoil the game. It was as well. He stood to win a hefty sum of money and only lose a dalliance. But for the nonce, the dalliance would suffice. He smiled and held out his hand to Lady Helene. Her eyelashes fluttered down as she placed her hand demurely in his. A murmured uproar rose from her coterie at such effrontery.

St. Ryne stood behind the screen of white roses and studied the profile of his chosen wife. The messages his eyes were receiving warred with his knowledge of Lady Elizabeth Monweithe. This fragile, delicate woman must draw her strength from her shrewishness, he decided. That was a strength he wanted to see and tap. He found within himself a desire to rouse the golden fire in her eyes of which Freddy spoke so eloquently and discover if they would sear his soul. He approached her silently.

“Excuse me, my lady, but I have brought you a glass of punch. I thought it thirsty work to be standing alone in a corner,” he said softly in her ear.

Lady Elizabeth Monweithe turned toward him, startled. No one other than her father, aunt, or sister dared approach her at an affair. Bright color flew up to stain her cheeks. She stood speechless as she gathered her wits and continued to stare at the stranger standing before her. He was tall with strong unforgettable features, yet she had no idea who he could be. In the sea of brightly colored fish, he stood out for his austerity of attire. Though no one talked to her she was a constant watcher of society, liking the obscureness of her side-stage existence. She thought she knew by sight every member of society. It occurred to her he might be a younger son recently sold out of the military. She did not know how she should treat him or, indeed, how or what he may know of her.

The Viscount smiled at the startled expression on her face, placed the punch cup in her automatically outstretched hand and continued: “I know we have not been properly introduced, and therefore it is the height of impertinence for me to approach you, but I had a problem. No one would approach you to avail me of the introduction I so devoutly desired. I was in a quandary; however, as such dictates of society bore me, I felt, my lady, at least your reputation would save us from interruption.” He smiled broadly as he watched the gathering storm of emotions play upon her face and saw the fires Freddy mentioned light her eyes.

Egad but she's beautiful! He thought as he studied her high color. Perhaps he should be careful how he played his role. Still, Petruchio won the day with abrasive handling of his Kate. Once begun, he would go on.

Swiftly a shuttered expression descended over Lady Elizabeth’s face. “You pompous, conceited, braying ass!” she ground out. Inwardly she mourned. For a moment she had loped he knew nothing of her wretched reputation. It was all too clear he was aware of the on-dits and was indeed one to take up the knife and twist it further. “How dare you approach me! You are correct when you say it is the highest piece of impertinence, and I’ll thank you to quit my sight.”

She quivered with anger while the Viscount laughed delightedly. Lady Elizabeth was aware that they had become the subject of many inquisitive eyes and whisperings about the room. She ground her teeth in irritation. Though her reputation had again preceded her, her own wretched tongue gave purchase to the gossip. In all fairness, never had she met a gentleman such as this stranger. She wished she knew his purpose. His laughter made her rage burn hotter. She raised her arm to fling the contents of the punch glass she held into his face.

The stranger was faster than she. He caught her arm, his hand a steel trap, heavily bearing her hand down until the cup emptied its rose-colored contents onto the floor, some splashing to stain the flounce of her gown. She did not say a word as she watched the last drops fall. She raised her eyes to the gentleman before her, trying desperately to still her rapid breathing. There was whispered silence throughout the room.

The Viscount watched her with a strange, twisted smile upon his lips. She was glorious, a seductive blend of fire and ice. It was no wonder the staid and simpering society he knew was appalled, for this woman was no mealy-mouthed miss to follow meekly the dictates of society. To be sure, she was an uncut diamond. The breath in his chest tightened at the thought he was to be her gem cutter. In the background, he was dimly aware of activity by the orchestra where Lord Amblethorp was ordering them to strike up some music, anything to end the awful silence. The orchestra in a flurry played the next piece on their stands. It was a waltz.

“You know, my dear,” St. Ryne began conversationally, “you almost disappointed me by your speechlessness when I first approached. You lived up to my expectations, however—and your reputation I might add—and came through like a storm on the isle of Jamaica with its wind, lightning, and giant raindrops. One may hate the storms, but afterward the world is beautiful; clean and refreshed. They are playing a waltz. Come, let us join.”

Lady Elizabeth was taken aback by his reaction and more than a little ashamed of her actions but she clenched her teeth and stood rigidly. “I do not waltz. Not now, not ever, and particularly, not with you.”

“I applaud your reticence,” he commended affably. “It is still considered by some to be a fast dance; nevertheless, on this occasion you will, and with me.” So saying, he grabbed her arm, propelling her to the dance floor.

Lady Elizabeth walked like a broken doll but soon threw up her head in defiance as she heard the whispered gasps about the room. She went readily then into Justin’s arms though she scowled up at him. St. Ryne laughed yet did not say anything else as he tightened his grasp on her waist and began to twirl her around the room.

“You dance very prettily,” he remarked some moments later, “for someone who hasn’t had the practice. Which is fine with me since I do not dance much myself. Only please don’t step on my feet.”

Lady Elizabeth gasped and tried to pull away from him, but he only held her more firmly.

“I do not care to dance,” she declared, glaring her challenge at him as she stopped in the middle of the dance floor causing other couples to misstep as they tried to dance around them. She was amazed at her own audacity; such behavior on her part would set the cat among the pigeons for sure. Inwardly she cringed at the possible repercussions this incident might cause; however, she defiantly stood her ground.

St. Ryne, a dangerous glint in his eye, bent over to whisper in her ear “If you knew me better, you would not try such antics and if you don’t care to be ignominiously carried off the dance floor on my shoulder, you will dance again.”

Looking into his eyes, Lady Elizabeth saw the truth in his statement and with ill grace allowed herself to rejoin the dance. As she did so, she dug her nails into the back of his coat.

St. Ryne laughed down at her. “If you wish to scratch me, you had best wait until we are married and you will have real flesh to touch there.”

Lady Elizabeth blushed, her mind in a whirl. “Marry you!” she fairly shrieked, then glanced around swiftly to see if any had heard. “Nothing would prevail upon me to marry you!”

“Your father will.”

She bit her lip in exasperation for there was no denying the truth of his comment. She had been a thorn in the side of her father ever since the death of her mother. She was also painfully aware of the buzzing speculation in the ballroom. She lifted her head high and assumed her haughtiest manner.

St. Ryne was entranced. “Good girl!”

As the music ended, he led her back to her corner, amused that people gave them a wide berth.

“I shall wait upon you on the morrow, my lady,” he promised, bowing over her hand. He was well pleased with his encounter with Lady Elizabeth, and schemes and stratagems for her taming and wooing were beginning to formulate in his mind.

She jerked her hand away. “Weil, you can wait all you want for you won’t find me available,” she ground out waspishly.

St. Ryne merely laughed again and turned to take his leave. He made his way over to Lady Amblethorp, thanked that flustered lady for her invitation, saying he had enjoyed himself immensely, and quickly departed.

Lady Elizabeth Monweithe sullenly watched him leave. She saw him nod, shake hands, and speak nonchalantly with various people in the room as if he were totally unaware of having created one of the biggest stirs of the season, even going so far as to laugh when Lady Jersey wagged a finger at him. As Elizabeth watched him, she was crushingly aware of the fact that she still did not know who he was. When her father came up some moments later demanding an explanation, for once she refused to cut up her sire and only glared at him in cold-eyed silence.

“Speak, gal! Never had trouble with that cutting tongue of yours before. What happened between you and St. Ryne? Don’t you know, you foolish wretch, he is one of the biggest matrimonial prizes in London! You’ve embarrassed me and your dear little sister by your antics tonight,” he blustered. “Bad enough you’re only welcome anywhere for the scenes you create, but this was the outside of enough! Don’t know why he spent such an unconscionable amount of time with the likes of you, but they say he’s been out of the country for a year.” His face was flushed and perspired profusely. He drew a large handkerchief from his pocket to blot his brow as he dragged her into a small antechamber.

Lady Elizabeth was shocked at hearing the identity of the stranger. She had heard of him. All London had buzzed for the past week about his return, and Helene had vowed to make him another of her admirers.

Elizabeth drew every inch of her tiny frame erect as she stared coldly at her father. “What we talked of is none of your concern,” she said austerely. Inwardly, however, a surge of excitement pulsed through her, a surge she could not dampen.

Lord Monweithe stared hard at his daughter, knowing there was no threatening this one into submission. Throwing up his hands, he turned to stalk out of the room, mopping his brow again as he left.

Lady Elizabeth stood stiffly until he departed then sank wearily into a large, red brocade chair. As she did she caught sight of the stain on the flounce of her dress. She stared at it mistily, her eyes filling with unshed tears. She gulped and sniffed loudly, angry at herself. Leaning back in the chair, she closed her eyes as one lone tear spilled, sliding slowly down her cheek.

... And where two raging fires meet together
They do consume the thing that feeds their fury.

—Act II, Scene 1

During the next four days, Lady Elizabeth Monweithe made a concerted effort to be absent from her home for the greater part of the day. She shopped at Harding, Howell and Company in Schomberg House, resting to partake of tea and sweetmeats in their first floor restaurant; patronized the new Soho Square shopping bazaar where the stalls were run by female relatives of soldiers lost in the Napoleonic wars as a means of income; browsed through Hatchard’s bookshop in Piccadilly; duly admired the artifacts to be found in the Egyptian Hall; visited the Royal Menagerie at Exeter Exchange; strolled through the Botanic Gardens; and spoke of an intent to visit an exhibition at the Royal Society of Arts in Somerset House only to be told the exhibitions would not begin again until May.

For the first two days, when she returned to her home feeling tired, dirty, foot-sore, and irritated, her casual question of callers was met with the usual list of her fair sister’s coterie. By the third day, she had begun to wonder if the Viscount had set spies after her and so knew not to call. By the evening of the fourth day, her temper was very uncertain and there existed an unfamiliar pain around the region of her heart. Her explorations of the city’s shopping haunts and marvels would, on another occasion, have filled her with delight and awe. But such was the determinedness of her efforts that her maid was sadly heard to say to her peers below stairs (as she soaked her feet), that her mistress had taken leave of her senses and muttered darkly as to the causes for her mistress’s queer start.

On the morning of the fifth day, Lady Elizabeth remained at home—her manner pugnacious, her attire elegant—half willing half defying the Viscount to make an appearance. He did not. For once, Lady Elizabeth acknowledged as she stared broodingly out her bedroom window into the small garden at the back of the house that gave way onto the mews, someone had fought against her infamously rigid guard and had managed to score a hit. She knew from the first moment she saw St. Ryne standing before her that he personified the embodiment of her closely held and jealously guarded dreams. Sadly she wished she could have returned his comments with gay and witty sallies designed to entrance. But she could not. She could only cut because it was safer to strike the first blow than to leave oneself open for the populace to destroy.

He told her he would come to call and to ask her papa for his consent to marry. Lady Elizabeth twisted uncomfortably in her seat. He had not. She leaned her face against the cool glass, her breath misting before her. She frowned heavily as her temper mounted. She’d show him, she thought. She’d show him she didn’t care a jot whether he claimed her.

She groaned. Why was she even thinking such thoughts? Marriage was not for her. It left one too vulnerable and—and out of control. The whole situation was entirely too ridiculous. She was merely being made the butt of some joke, most likely spurred by a bet in one club or another. At that sickening thought, her anger soared once more and with a very unladylike oath she sprang to her feet, twirled, and flounced out of the room with a swish of her skirts.

The upstairs maid saw her and shook her mob capped head slightly as she resumed dusting the picture frames in the hall.

The Viscount St. Ryne had not made an appearance at the Monweithe residence the next day, nor in the succeeding days, because he was not in London to do so.

Early the next morning, following that fateful rout at the Amblethorps’, he directed a couple of portmanteaux be packed for a visit of indeterminate duration, horrifying his valet with his expressed wish of traveling alone and dispensing with that gentleman’s daily service. He ordered his horses put to his carriage and while waiting told his people, quite casually, that he was off to tour his holdings. In truth he was, but with an express purpose in mind. He was looking for a particular type of holding.

His perusal of William Shakespeare’s famous play had sparked a commitment and determinedness every bit as strong as Elizabeth’s avoidance, yet his approach was with casual excitement, in the spirit of attending a particularly rousing sporting event. Though he could not envision himself wreaking havoc at table or in the bedchamber, as Petruchio had, he could attempt to find as disreputable a holding as possible to carry his bride to. This proved no easy task; he soon discovered his personal wealth and the loyalty of those he employed precluded shabbiness and dirt and he came to realize the condition of his library in London to be an exception. It was in his mind, after an exhausting whirlwind tour of his holdings flung throughout the southern portion of England, to perhaps purchase a suitable property from some impoverished member of society, when fortuitously he found his choice honeymoon home for Elizabeth. Furthermore, it was, to his delight, located a scant two hours outside London.

It was called Larchside, a prosaic enough name for what was a minor property in his holdings. It had passed—heretofore unwanted—into his hands shortly before his departure for Jamaica. The estate had been willed to him by Sir Jeremy Redfin, a distant relative, who ignominiously departed the world after falling down the main staircase in a drunken stupor, breaking his neck.

Sir Jeremy had lived as a recluse the last five years of his life after his youngest son and only surviving offspring died fighting a duel in Ireland over an accusation of tampering with a horse’s saddle by placing burrs under it prior to a race. This was an accusation that St. Ryne, remembering his cousin, could readily believe. Consequently, the estate which before had generated the tidy sum of 10,000 pounds per annum, had been allowed to go into ruin due to repair deferments. The greater portion of the estate was tied up with the banks; therefore, when St. Ryne drove up to the red brick, higgledy-piggledy styled manor house covered with ivy, he saw ill-tended grounds, lack of paint, and even a broken window on the second floor.

When no groom or stable hand came running to take his horses, St. Ryne tethered his team to a scraggly bush, glad it wasn’t his fractious grays yet wondering how this job team would deal with a stray paper or dead branch blown across their path. He frowned, and for the first time a small chink appeared in his confidence in his chosen course. He turned from his team to study the house before him just as the badly weathered oak door creaked open on rusty hinges. A skeletal apparition of a man with drawn tight skin stood in the doorway.

“This is private property, so you’d best get back in that fancy rig and be off with you.”

St. Ryne raised his eyebrows in a haughty manner designed to depress pretension. He drew off his driving gloves, slowly mounting the steps before the house. His unknown employee stepped backward nervously, his hand on the heavy door as if to slam it in St. Ryne’s face.

“And just whose property might this be?” he inquired silkily, slapping his gloves in his left hand.

“This here’s the property of the Viscount St. Ryne,” he said shrilly.

“Precisely, and I do not tolerate disrespect from any of my employees.” He smiled wolfishly as the man stumbled backward into the hall and he followed.

“Beg pardon, your lordship!” the man gasped. “I meant no disrespect! We do at times get strangers coming by trying to make trouble and we’ve had no word of your coming.”

The man would have babbled on, but St. Ryne silenced him with an impatient wave of his hand as he surveyed the hall. Most of the furniture was draped with Holland covers on which dust was thick. The walls showed scorch and soot marks from cheap candles, and the drapes looked as if a mere touch could shred them. On the whole, everything was drab and gray, and St. Ryne couldn’t have been more pleased. A boyish grin split his lips as he turned back to his employee.

“Your name, please,” he commanded.

“William Atheridge, if it pleases your lordship. My wife and I, we were butler and housekeeper to Sir Jeremy, milord.” He scurried to a doorway under the stairs. “Mae! Mae, come here!” he called then scurried back to St. Ryne. He bobbed again. “She’ll be here presently, she will.”

“What are you fratch’n about now?” came a high, gravelly voice from the direction of the stairs.

Both men turned toward her voice, and St. Ryne found himself facing a dour-faced woman with deep lines bracketing her mouth who was as stout as her husband was thin. Her eyes narrowed slightly when she saw an unknown gentleman in the hall, then her mouth stretched out into a travesty of a smile.

“Milord, this is my wife, Mae. My dear, this is the Viscount St. Ryne," he said, stressing the name.

Mae Atheridge approached them and bobbed a curtsy, her eyes sliding sideways to meet her husband’s.

“How do you do,” St. Ryne said absently, giving her only a cursory glance before dismissing her from his mind, his attention centering once again on the house. “So, Atheridge, as I’m here, what do you say to a tour of this holding of mine?”

Atheridge blinked rapidly. “Of course, your lordship. This way, please,” he said, gesturing his hand forward.

Atheridge, his pasty complexion as gray as the dust on all surfaces, quavered and shook like a leaf in the wind as he conducted St. Ryne around. Mae Atheridge followed silently behind save for the swish of her long black skirts. Wringing his hands nervously, Atheridge begged pardon for the condition of the house, saying they received money only for their wages from Mr. Tunning, the estate manager. The lines around Mae’s mouth deepened, her brows sinking over deep-set eyes.

St. Ryne merely laughed. “This place is splendid! Better than I had hoped to find.”

Atheridge looked at him bemused. “B-beg pardon, your lordship?” he stammered.

“Do not change a thing. Do not clean anything. I dare swear the chimneys will smoke if lit. Best have the master bedroom chimney swept. The estate agent, what did you say his name was? Tonning?”

“Tunning, my lord.”

“Yes, tell this Tunning fellow I said to have it done and he’s to see it’s paid for. Oh, best have the library done, too. No other rooms mind you. I want it just as it is,” the Viscount said, grinning broadly as he looked about him. He began to laugh. “Yes, just as it is.”

The Viscount hurriedly declined their offer to ready a room for him, saying he would stay at the inn in the village and left, still grinning as he wiped a trace of cobweb off his coat sleeve.

“Well, that’s done it for us,” Atheridge said heavily to his wife.

“Hush, Tom Tunning will cover for us or it’s his neck, too,” Mae said sternly, her mouth set in a straight line and her hands clasped primly before her ample form. Silently they stood together on the front steps and watched the Viscount bowl down the avenue, turn the corner, and disappear from sight behind wildly overgrown hedges at the front gate.

St. Ryne returned to London early the next day and immediately began a round of meetings with his solicitors and bankers. These worthies had served the Earl of Seaverness’s family for many years and had heard many an unusual request. Though they were delighted to receive news of St. Ryne’s planned nuptials, they were aghast at his settlement requests; yet they drew up the paperwork and opened the accounts as he requested, each silently bemoaning their tasks and wondering, as others had before them, if the tropical sun hadn’t indeed affected his lordship.

St. Ryne’s friends quizzed him unmercifully concerning his week long absence, coming as it did hard on the heels of his encounter with Lady Elizabeth Monweithe. He only laughed but admitted the events were not unrelated; more they could not wrest from him.

“Pray, cease!” he implored when he was particularly besieged one afternoon at White’s.

“Well, old fellow,” Freddy said laying a companionable hand on his shoulder, “what is the story?”

“Freddy, Freddy, not you too?” St. Ryne asked looking over his shoulder. “All right, though I find this sudden interest amusing,” he said turning back to take in all those gathered around. “I tell you all, I merely went on a tour of my holdings. I have been away a year and I need hardly tell you the necessity of looking after my own.”

“Particularly if one has specific goals they wish to achieve,” Sir Branstoke drawled.

St. Ryne turned to look quizzically at him, but Branstoke only smiled as he bowed his way out of the group. Watching that enigmatic peer withdraw, St. Ryne’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Shrugging slightly, he turned back to the group before him and suggested a game of faro in order to bend their inquisitive minds elsewhere.

One crisp bright morning shortly thereafter, Freddy Shiperton paid a morning call on his friend to request his company on an excursion to Tattersall’s. There was a good looking gray there that he had his eye on and wanted St. Ryne’s opinion for he was a known connoisseur of good horseflesh. He arrived at St. Ryne’s home to learn from his butler that the Viscount was still dressing and had not yet descended. Freddy’s brows rose. It was not like St. Ryne to be so late about. Entrusting his hat and greatcoat to the footman, he informed Predmore he would announce himself.