Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,39
more than the others and, as you so noted, my lord, the Home farm is in much better condition.” Tunning had hit his stride now and his words trotted out easily. “Now, I do take the blame for not keeping a tighter rein on things here and of course, if your lordship thinks I should be replaced, I understand.” He spread his hands deprecatingly. “My only defense is the lack of interest exhibited by Sir Jeremy. I guess I slid into assuming that was a common attitude with the gentry. But now I have your measure, my lord, and I guarantee I’ll not be so remiss again!”
Elizabeth laughed silently and turned to St. Ryne to share the joke with him only to find him frowning. Surely he saw through this man!
“I don’t blame you, Tunning. This estate has been mismanaged for quite some time, and I expect it is galling to a man such as yourself to lack the authority to rectify the situation. Nonetheless, the Home farm is paying more than the others, and I’d hate to lose the revenues. This is not a matter to be decided lightly.”
“I concede that, my lord,” Tunning returned grudgingly.
“I am returning to London on the morrow. When I return, we may discuss the situation further.”
“Oh, are you, my lord?”
Elizabeth thought she detected a note of eagerness in Tunning's voice.
“Yes, though the Viscountess will be staying on to oversee the restoration of the manor house. Oh, blast, I forgot to ring for Atheridge. Would you care for a glass of port, Tunning?”
“Aye, that I would.”
“Well, pull up a chair over here.”
Tunning scuttled to obey, his mind churning over the Viscount’s attitude. He was certainly a cautious young buck, more than he’d anticipated, albeit one he remained confident he could manipulate to advantage.
A soft rap on the door preceded Atheridge’s entrance.
“Bring us some port, Atheridge, and some Madeira for the Viscountess,” requested St. Ryne.
“Very good, my lord.”
“Oh, and Atheridge,” St. Ryne added, studiously avoiding trading looks with Elizabeth, “this room is a bit drafty, please have the Viscountess’s shawl fetched.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Elizabeth cast St. Ryne a fulminating glance though truly she did feel chilled, but not, she suspected, from the air. Tunning, now sitting at ease by the desk had cast more than one assessing look in her direction, and she did not care for his intense consideration.
“Now, Tunning, as I said, I will be returning to London tomorrow. While I am gone, various tradesmen and craftsmen will be coming to Larchside. The Viscountess will be directing these worthies in the decorating and restoration of the manor. It will be your responsibility to keep an accounting and see these tradesmen are paid. It will also be yours to see that the estate is not unduly charged for the services received. In fact all bills, whether for Larchside or for the Viscountess’s personal fripperies, shall be directed to you.”
His words set Elizabeth’s teeth on edge. Yes, he had threatened to take such an action, but Elizabeth had taken it for only that, a threat. She looked over at St. Ryne to note him regarding her steadily, a smug smile on his face.
“Surely, St. Ryne, you would not wish to burden Mr. Tunning with such trivialities. I take it from your conversation there are several farms that need his close attention if they are to be made profitable. I should be quite desolate if I hampered his efforts in that direction.”
Atheridge’s return with the refreshments, followed by Mrs. Atheridge bearing her shawl, interrupted her. Elizabeth accepted the shawl with ill grace and draped it around her loosely. She rose to pour, nodding a dismissal to the Atheridges.
St. Ryne had difficulty deciding which shone more brightly in the light of the candelabrum by the tray: the cleaned crystal wineglasses or Elizabeth. He sucked in his breath as she bent to pick up another glass. The hussy was near to falling out of her dress and refused to adequately cover herself with the shawl. He watched through hooded eyes as she first served Tunning then handed him a glass.
Elizabeth smiled sardonically at him then turned to find Tunning devouring her silhouette with avid eyes. A shuttered expression descended over her features. She returned to the serving tray to pick up her glass, casually drawing the end of the shawl over her shoulder and tossing it across her front to drape the other shoulder. She turned to face St. Ryne, the light of the candles haloing her hair. She