Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,60

spirits; look cheerfully upon me.

—Act IV, Scene 1

St. Ryne frowned. Blast it! Would the accursed man never grant him a moment’s peace? For the past three days, everywhere he turned, there was Tunning. His shadowed presence was rapidly giving credence to Elizabeth’s negative impressions of the man, to say nothing of his own nagging disquiet.

His weight shifted and his leather saddle creaked as his mount sidled. He leaned forward to pat the horse’s neck reassuringly, trying to decide if he should wait for Tunning to catch up or pretend he never saw him and canter off along the ridge. The latter was tempting but with a sigh he stood his ground. This coil was of his own making and withal Tunning was a part, he could not slip away. Still, he did wish it was Elizabeth riding so determinedly in his direction.

Elizabeth. Lovely Bess. Now just thinking of her brought a light of humor and affection to his eyes, a light she did not deign to recognize. With awe inspiring tenacity she persisted in the role of the proper chatelaine and, to his annoyance, treated him with great deference.

At first he had devoted his time to being available to her should she need anything. He quickly discovered she was self-reliant and stood in no need of his assistance. He tried then to initiate conversation, and albeit she answered civilly enough, he could neither raise a smile nor spark a fire. For a while he searched his mind for ruses to shock her out of her bloodless attitude only to discard them all; for ruses and games had precipitated his current dilemma. In truth, he was a stranger living on sufferance within his own home, except with Tunning. He did not yet know what Tunning’s game was, but it made him deuced uncomfortable. As he was drawing a bad hand in his efforts with Elizabeth, perhaps it was time to study Tunning and unwind the coil from the nether end.

Tunning was drawing closer, his hat jammed tight on his balding head while his brown coattails flapped in the wind. St. Ryne deliberately turned his eyes away to look out across the valley. From the windswept ridge he could see all of Larchside. It was no rare find; however, it had a certain practicality and comfortable feel. His brow furrowed in thought as he studied the tenant farms from his high vantage point. The differences in condition between the Home farm and the other farms were marked, yet from here one could see they shared the same type of lands. None appeared to suffer from marshy pastures or rock-strewn fields. Why was the Home farm in so much better condition?

He would like to have some time alone with that Humphries fellow, if he could ever get Tunning off his tail. When he was about, all his people were morose and uncommunicative, allowing Tunning to butt in and answer any question he posed. Although the man knew his business, it did begin to appear there was havey-cavey business afoot.

He turned in his saddle toward Tunning as the man rode up the hill to his side. His horse’s sides were heaving, and St. Ryne wondered how long Tunning had ridden about before spotting him on the ridge.

“Did you want something?” St. Ryne did not bother to keep the disgust from his voice.

“Thought you might like some company, my lord,” Tunning said heartily.

St. Ryne turned away from him to look out over the property. “Did you indeed? I wonder.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I’m thinking I shall go have a talk with Humphries. For all that you say, the man is obviously doing something right. Such a fellow could be exemplary to all.”

“But, my lord—”

The Viscount held up his hand to cut him off. “Personally, Tunning, I don’t care what the man’s politics are and if his oratory could cause the others to do as well, then I say, so much the better.” He cast an eye in his estate agent’s direction. “Frankly, I have not seen any great communicative powers displayed. When one considers it, it is very singular,” he went on musingly.

“Oh, no, hardly that, my lord,” Tunning replied bluffly. "These people know their place better than to try to hobnob with the gentry.”

A cold anger swept through St. Ryne, and for a moment he did not trust himself to speak. The man was an insufferable snob, positively medieval. If that was his attitude, it explained the problems plaguing the estate. “Is that what you impart to