Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,49

in his mind, causing his good humor on arriving in London to dissolve slowly into studied politeness.

St. Ryne was not a man to easily admit to a mistake. These thoughts skittered in and out of his mind for days, played upon by the amused knowing glances cast his way by Sir James Branstoke. He would return his look with one of quelling hauteur that would only cause that gentleman to purse his lips slightly and nod. Afterward St. Ryne was left feeling the fool, a circumstance to which he was unaccustomed.

One evening at a select card party, after exchanging their dance of innuendos, St. Ryne approached Branstoke demanding to know what was plaguing his mind.

“My mind? My dear St. Ryne, what is in my mind would hardly plague a gnat,” he returned pleasantly, drawing his snuffbox out of his pocket. He studied its intricate design as he went on: “It is your mind which bears contagion.” He looked up at St. Ryne, flicking open the snuffbox with his thumb as he did so. “Would you care for a pinch?” he asked, extending the box in St. Ryne’s direction.

St. Ryne waved it away. “I find your meaning obscure.”

“And here I thought you such a downey fellow.” He shook his head doubtfully before taking a pinch of snuff himself. “Look to yourself.” He brushed a speck of snuff from his sleeve. “You are a man away from his new wife, yet I’d venture to wager she is not away from your thoughts. You have shown no notice of the lovelies who have thrown their kerchiefs your way and are becoming increasingly surly the longer you’re from her side. I understand it to be a serious disease, one perhaps best treated gently,” he suggested, replacing his snuffbox in his pocket.

St. Ryne laughed curtly. “There is much to what you say and don’t say. Unfortunately, the die has been cast.”

“Don’t be a fool, St. Ryne,” grated Branstoke, for the first time revealing any emotion besides boredom.

St. Ryne studied the man before him carefully. “You may be correct.”

Branstoke shrugged elegantly, his famous equanimity restored. “But permit me to divert your mind to another aspect of your play unfolding. First, I have a thirst which needs quenching. Will you join me?”

“Gladly.”

Branstoke led St. Ryne to a side table. “Have you noted where Tretherford’s interests lie now?”

St. Ryne shrugged. “He is not one I honor with my attention.”

“Ah, but you should take note, for it is delightfully in keeping with your play. I believe he and Lady Romella Wisgart, the widow of our piece, appear destined to wed. Now who do you suppose will get the fair Helene’s hand? Freddy, mayhap? They have been seen, you know, reciting poetry to one another.”

“Really? I once accused Freddy of turning poetic; however, that is doing it rather too brown.”

“Be thankful you have not been within earshot of their renditions,” Branstoke said drily. “It is like listening to a young debutante with a tin ear pushed to singing before company.”

“You know, Branstoke, you have a way with words that makes me laugh.”

“I’m glad, for such was my endeavor, my friend, such was my endeavor.”

St. Ryne looked at him quizzically then laughed again, causing several heads to turn inquiringly in their direction. Branstoke, as always, met the world with a bland smile.

Though irritated by Branstoke’s blithe words concerning his feelings for Elizabeth, being a basically honest man, St. Ryne was eventually forced to admit his reaction was part and parcel of his own growing attraction for his wife, an attraction which, quite curiously, appeared to be growing the longer he stayed away from her. After considerable thinking, he decided to return to Larchside on the morrow, determined to change the course of his wooing. The Taming of the Shrew was after all only a play, its characters little more than paper dolls and, as such, woefully deprived of the complexities of flesh-and-blood individuals.

He excused himself early from the select gathering so as to make arrangements for his departure. This time he would bring his valet, horses, and head groom. He wondered how well Elizabeth rode, already anticipating a few enjoyable canters across the fields.

To his surprise, his town house was ablaze with light. That was not like his butler. St. Ryne quickened his pace, taking the steps in front two at a time.

Predmore had been on the lookout for him, agitation plainly written across his features.

“Good God, man, what is it?” he asked, tearing off his greatcoat and flinging it on