Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,59

considerably larger than Larchside.” St. Ryne rose and began prowling the small room as he talked. He peered at the dates on the ledgers in the bookcase.

“Then, begging your pardon, my lord, why are you fixin’ the place up? To sell?”

“I can’t do that, Tunning. You see I settled Larchside on my wife when we married.” He turned back to the table. “So, I will be depending on you to turn this property around and make it more than marginally profitable.”

“I understand.” Tunning's thoughts chased around in his head. Perhaps if he could show periodic improvement in the revenues and property condition, he would still be left to run Larchside and could easily arrange to continue his side earnings. It may well be that the faster repairs and improvements were made, the faster would he see the backs of the Viscount and his interfering wife.

Atheridge coughed from the doorway. “Excuse me, my lord.”

St. Ryne swung around. “Yes, where is the Viscountess, my wife?”

“She says, my lord, as the estate room has been locked to her the entire time you’ve been gone, she takes that to mean it is a room she’s not to enter and therefore begs you’ll come to her.”

“Locked! Didn’t you give her all the keys, Atheridge?”

Atheridge looked nervously to Tunning for support.

“Now, my lord, with all the strangers coming in and out, I weren’t sure we could trust them all so I kept the door locked,” Tunning explained easily.

“I suppose there is merit is that,” the Viscount allowed grudgingly. He could see he would have to lay down new ground rules as to how the estate business would be handled in the future. It appeared this man had controlled the estate like a ruling despot. It probably worked fine under Sir Jeremy Redfin, but he did business differently. Two changes he would institute quickly were the practice of locking the estate door from the inside and the maintaining of a port bottle.

“Then, too, my lord,” Tunning went on, failing to note the Viscount’s pensive attitude, “women really don’t need to bother their pretty little heads with numbers.”

St. Ryne raised an eyebrow. “I begin to see why you and the Viscountess do not get along. Enough for this evening. We will talk again tomorrow.” St. Ryne rose from his chair, anxious to return to the library. He now knew all his suppositions as to what exactly had transpired during his absence to be worthless. It gave him an uneasy feeling he couldn’t quite capture.

Elizabeth forced herself to continue her needlework and refrain from looking up when St. Ryne entered the library. She knew it was merely a fit of pique that caused her to respond to his summons as she did. Almost the moment the words were out of her mouth she’d regretted them. Only an overwhelming desire to deny herself Tunning's company kept her in her seat.

When her husband didn’t address her, she risked a quick peek up through her lashes to see him refilling his port glass. Her pulse suddenly throbbed as he settled himself in the chair next to her.

“Why haven’t you been willing to follow Mr. Tunning's advice?” His tone was neutral.

“If he gave good advice, I’d have followed it,” she said, copying his tone.

“How do you know his advice is bad?” St. Ryne probed, attempting to understand.

Elizabeth sighed and leveled an intent stare at him. “Have you approved of the servants I engaged? The improvements I’ve made?”

“Of course! I told you when I arrived that you have worked miracles here and the last few hours have only confirmed that observation. But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Doesn’t it? None of the changes I’ve made have met with Mr. Tunning’s approval,” Elizabeth said disgustedly. She stuffed her needlework into its tapestry bag; she was no longer calm enough to work.

“What? But Tunning says—”

“Oo-oo!” Elizabeth surged to her feet, unwilling to hear words she felt certain would be said in Tunning's defense. “Your precious Tunning is a scoundrel and a thief. If you bothered to open your eyes, you’d see that for yourself. He may have been successful in keeping me from seeing the books, but I know what he is up to! Now if you’ll excuse me, my lord,” she said, the honorarium dripping acid, “I will go to bed for I suddenly find myself bored beyond measure. Good night!” she said, slamming the door shut behind her.

St. Ryne dolefully shook his head. He was somehow managing, quite nicely, to muff his good intentions.

Pluck up