Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,3
Egad, what manner of whimsy is this? The fellow’s gone mad!” he cried as he hurried after Stanley.
St. Ryne raised an eyebrow, a sardonic smile curling his lips as he looked toward Branstoke. That gentleman noted his attention and bowed slightly in his direction before he was recalled to those clustered about him. So, it appeared one Sir James Rudger Branstoke was a sapient gentleman behind his languid airs, St. Ryne thought grimly. Did he hope to flush out a Petruchio to do them service? Mayhap it behooved him to cultivate his acquaintance. He lightly drummed his fingertips on the arm of the chair for a moment then rose leisurely and, picking up his wineglass, sauntered toward the boisterous crowd surrounding Branstoke, all clamoring to bet against him with rude jests flying at the Lady Elizabeth’s expense. He frowned for a moment.
“St. Ryne?” someone called out, “What about you? How do you bet?”
His brow cleared and he smiled laconically. “Why, I agree with Sir James,” he said, saluting that gentleman with his glass. “She will be wed before the year is out.”
“Justin!” Freddy exclaimed, grabbing his coat sleeve. "You don’t even know her yet. How can you bet? Best not do so till you see what I’ve been telling you is true.”
St. Ryne gently removed himself from Freddy’s clasp. “Call it a sporting bet or intuition if you will,” he suggested. Bending over, he signed his name with a flourish, fleetingly considering that signing Petruchio would be more apropos. When he finished, he glanced up to find Branstoke regarding him closely, a slight smile playing upon his lips. Meeting St. Ryne’s eyes, Branstoke raised his wineglass in a salute.
“To Kate,” he said softly.
Justin Harth, the Viscount St. Ryne, met his gaze steadily as he tossed off the remainder of his glass of wine.
Katharine the curst!
A title for a maid of all titles the worst
—Act I, Scene 4
It was some two hours later, as the gray autumn dusk gave way to night, that the Viscount St. Ryne entered his house on Upper Brook Street, shaking fine raindrops off his multi-caped greatcoat and from the brim of his high crowned beaver. Handing the articles over to a waiting footman, he turned to his butler standing silently by the staircase, awaiting his lordship’s pleasure.
“Predmore, see that a fire is laid in the library. It is a damned cold night, and I vow I’m chilled to the bone.” Rubbing his hands together, he strode over to the silver tray on the table in the hall where the accumulated mail of several days lay.
Predmore motioned with the bare lift of his hand to a footman who immediately trotted down the hall to the nether reaches of the house for a coal scuttle while St. Ryne looked down at the pile of envelopes and smirked. Even though it was only the beginning of the little season, society was quick to note the return of a prodigal son with deep pockets. With a satisfied smile he discovered a heavy cream bond envelope bearing the Amblethorp crest. Picking that one up and ignoring the rest, he walked toward his library. Predmore opened the double doors. “Ask Cook to prepare a light repast,” St. Ryne said, pausing in the doorway, “and have it brought to me in here.” He tapped the envelope against his hand thoughtfully for a moment then continued into the room. The doors closed soundlessly behind him.
When the footman left after kindling a roaring blaze in the hearth and lighting branches of candles around the room, St. Ryne began prowling his shelves searching for one slim volume he knew to be there. It was, on a lower shelf next to a Prussian history. Smiling sardonically, he drew it out, his fingers smudging a fine layer of dust on the spine. He scowled as he saw the dust on the book and noted the condition on all the shelves. Absently he drew out a handkerchief to wipe the book and then his hands clean. Obviously he had been away too long or had been too lax.
Taking the slim volume in hand, he walked over to a large mahogany desk dominating the room. He pulled out paper, fresh quills, and ink from a drawer in the top, setting them on the gleaming dark surface. Opening the small book before him, he began to read, his quill dipping occasionally into the ink as from time to time he made note of passages. Smiles came and went, sometimes widening into