Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,47

I have to stomach many more of Mrs. Atheridge’s meals, I daresay I shall expire.”

“That I would believe.” She reached over to pat Elizabeth’s hand. “I should be that delighted to help out and I’m not afeered like some folks I know,” she said glaring at her son-in-law.

“Mother,” he said, “you know it is not a matter of fear, it is a question of what good could possibly come of it.”

“Would it help you to know, Mr. Humphries, that Larchside was deeded to me as part of my marriage settlement? While it is true Mr. Tunning handles the accounts, my husband directed Mr. Tunning to come to me in the event of there being any problem in the management of the estate during his absence. So you see,” she said with a smile, “even Mr. Tunning is subject to my authority.”

Elizabeth was pleased with the way she could use her husband's parting words to Tunning to her advantage. She only hoped these good folk did not hear the hollowness in her voice.

“That’s settled then,” Mrs. Geddy said. “And when would you like me to begin, milady?”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow morning it is. I’ll also see if we can’t find your ladyship some better servants.”

“That would be greatly appreciated.”

The two women exchanged looks of mutual satisfaction while Mr. Humphries, though not pleased, merely shook his head in resignation.

He that knows better how to tame a shrew, Now let him speak: 'tis charity to shew.

—Act III, Scene 3

A smile flickered on the Viscount St. Ryne’s lips as he approached the club. The bow window set had sighted him, and not all the gentlemen there managed to maintain the sanguine attitude deemed de rigueur for that location. He distinctly noted two viewing him with wide-open mouths rather resembling landed fish, he decided satisfactorily. He had judged his appearance would be tantamount to placing the cat among the pigeons; however, there was the little matter of a bet to collect. If truth be told, he was enjoying putting society on its ear by his inexplicable behavior. As blame had been assigned to the sun in Jamaica for his exploits, he doubted the island would be visited by many for a long while.

His smile broadened as he fairly skipped up the steps and clapped his hand on the shoulder of the Friday-faced porter who opened the door.

“What’s the long face for, my good man? A face like that could set a man off his drink,” he said over his shoulder, shrugging off his driving coat and handing it with his modish beaver to a hovering footman.

“Beg pardon, my lord,” the porter responded faintly. Was it just three weeks since his lordship had entered looking as black as a thundercloud? This new manner of his lordship was as alien to the porter’s mind as the black humor had been.

It was said his lordship recently tied the knot, so that might account. The porter shook his head mournfully. In his considerable experience, such action was not in keeping with a jovial countenance, as leg-shackled gentlemen were likely to be of morose or snappish demeanor.

“Well then, let’s see a smile.” St, Ryne turned to face him, his hands on his hips.

The porter was confused. Gentlemen were always taking queer starts. He viewed the Viscount’s request with a jaundiced eye; nevertheless he weakly opened his mouth in a carved wooden smile.

His endeavor was met with a shout of laughter. “A travesty! I can see I was mistaken. Resume your habitual frown; that smile would curdle milk.”

“Thank you, my lord,” murmured that worthy.

“Ah, St. Ryne, I thought that was you,” a measured, quiet voice floated down the stairs.

St. Ryne turned to the sound, his eyebrows raised in faint inquiry. A small laugh, like a rush of air escaped his lips on recognizing the gentleman at the top of the staircase. He mounted the stairs to his side.

“Well met, Branstoke.”

“Are we? I wonder,” he returned languidly, a speculative gleam in his eyes. “Questions are being raised as to the honesty of our bet.” They fell into step heading toward the card room. “I cannot tell you how boring it is to be the recipient of clumsy hints that we are in league. They sorely lack the proper subtlety and fineness to rise above the plebeian to be truly effective.”

St. Ryne’s lips twitched in appreciation. “How singular,” he murmured. “I imagined they would rather view me as being in league with the devil. Do they view you as one of her minions?”

“I am afraid