Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,32

than for coin.”

St. Ryne’s eyes flew to Thomas poised on the ladder, listening intently to their conversation.

Elizabeth caught his glance and flushed anew.

“Thomas,” she said carefully, drawing herself to her fullest height, her hands placed primly before her. “I fear it is too dark to do more today. We may cause the chandelier to fall if we work in fading light. Will you come tomorrow?”

“Certainly, my lady.” Thomas scampered down the ladder, his inquisitive eyes capering between the Viscountess and Viscount.

“Thank you. Please convey my thanks to the others and ask that they return tomorrow as well, if they please.”

“Yes, my lady.”

After Thomas left, Elizabeth smiled, recalling her day’s labors. St. Ryne, seeing her secret smile, wished he knew her thoughts and fleetingly regretted she did not smile so for him.

“They worked hard today,” she said softly. She glanced ruefully down at the soiled apron covering her dress. “I could not begin to direct their labors without knowing what must needs be done myself.”

St. Ryne raised an eyebrow. “To judge what must be done requires doing?”

“To judge what will stay and go, to examine long-closed rooms and shut-away items, in short answer, yes.” She rounded on him, tiring of the smirks and innuendos she perceived. He would not again get the best of her in a verbal duel. “Lest you would desire to live in a sty or stable. If that is the case, I can in good conscience recommend the stable. I haven’t sent anyone to clean there.”

“Pray, don’t.”

“Why ever not?”

“In truth, I am debating the merits of removing the structure entirely and building anew.”

“Ah, I comprehend the matter,” she said, nodding sagely. “The best for one’s horse, forsake the rest. Or am I to remove there when it is completed? No, forgive me, my tongue runs away with me. I am not a mount you choose to ride.”

Appalled at her words, Elizabeth turned hastily from St. Ryne, missing entirely that gentleman’s wide-eyed surprise and delight. His bride’s words suggested an agitation of spirit and perhaps chagrin as well. He was not ill-pleased. It would appear Petruchio’s formula drew merit.

In a flurry of embarrassment, Elizabeth opened the dining room doors and hurried down the hall to the library where she had assigned Mrs. Atheridge to work. St. Ryne followed at her heels.

“Mrs. Atheridge!” she called out in a cracking, flustered voice. “Mrs. Atheridge, have the villagers all left?”

“Yes, my lady,” she grudgingly acknowledged.

“Will they return tomorrow?”

“Yes, though you should have relayed that request through me, not through that snip of a lad!”

“Mrs. Atheridge,” Elizabeth began quellingly.

St. Ryne laid a hand upon her arm. “She was in conference with me and it was expeditiously done. As we lack proper retainers, form, my dear Mrs. Atheridge, bears no form.”

Mrs. Atheridge sniffed and sketched a curtsy. “Beg pardon, my lord.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed upon her. She was incensed at St. Ryne’s drawing her fire. Mrs. Atheridge was well due for a dressing down. Her eye ran over the housekeeper’s figure; her dress hung limply about her stocky frame, the silk petticoats dispensed. A measure of self-satisfaction filled Elizabeth and she found herself speaking with a quiet tongue. “Bring tea to the library, please. Afterward you may begin the dinner preparations.”

Elizabeth continued into the library, without sparing the housekeeper a glance to see if her orders were obeyed. For all her obstructionist tactics of the day, Elizabeth felt sure she would not dare a blatant disregard for a command, particularly with St. Ryne present. She could not say, however, that she envisioned an appetizing dinner. Replacing Mrs. Atheridge in the kitchen would be one of her first concerns.

She moved gracefully into the room to stand by the fireplace and critically scan the room. It would do. All traces of grime had been removed from the wainscoting and furniture and some pieces had already received a fresh coating of wax or oil. Half of the books were cleaned and replaced in their shelves, the rest stood in stacks upon the floor. There remained a musty smell about the room, but with time and care she felt it could be banished. She studied the chairs and drapes, contemplating replacement fabric. She entirely forgot St. Ryne’s presence until the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor roused her from her reverie.

St. Ryne placed one of the wing chairs by the fireplace, gesturing that she should sit. He then drew up the other for himself. A nervous flutter traveled through Elizabeth.

“Am I amiss in setting to