Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,74
more than a miracle unless miracles are engendered with the judicious use of a riding crop to a fair backside,” sneered another from the other end of the table.
“Now hold there!” blustered Monweithe, rising slightly out of his seat.
He was forestalled by St. Ryne. “It is you who need the riding crop for you have the manners and mind of a cur.” He pinned the offender with a malevolent eye. “No, do not think to call me out while I am in my father’s house. In truth, you are the knave who gives insult,” he said softly. His gaze swept the party. “Be it known, gentlemen, I do not countenance slurs cast upon my wife.”
Carlton Tretherford sniffed and scratched the side of his nose. “Perhaps it is not she who has been tamed. More likely her calmness stems from satisfaction at training you to run tame like a cursed lap dog.” He picked up a nut to crack.
“And I must perforce call you Uncle,” murmured St. Ryne, watching him contrive a child’s trick of cracking the nut between his fingers. “Gentlemen, can none of you accept the concept of wedded bliss?” he asked expansively, waving his wineglass before him.
“Confound it, Justin,” complained Freddy, “you’re doing it too brown. We ain’t gudgeons and we all know Lady Elizabeth.”
St. Ryne took a sip of wine then shook his head in mock sadness. “Freddy, I find your lack of confidence appalling.”
Sir James Branstoke leaned back in his chair, elbows resting on its arms as his hands contemplatively formed a steeple. “Do not be hasty. I believe there is unexposed truth to Freddy’s words,” he mused.
Tretherford harrumphed and bent forward, strands of lank gray hair falling onto his face. “Talking don’t pay toll. I propose a test. The Viscount here is cocksure the demon’s been driven out of the woman.”
“Tretherford, I warn you!” thundered Monweithe, only to be over born by the roaring enthusiasm of the others at the table and the multiple exhortations for Tretherford to continue. St. Ryne crossed his arms over his chest and a dark scowl descended over his features though he nodded continuance.
Tretherford sneered at Monweithe then turned back to encompass the gentlemen at the table. The footman and butler standing by the door strained to hear.
“I propose a test of the Viscountess’s new docility. A simple test. Have him bid her come here. For surely if she is a dutiful wife and properly tamed, she’ll come.” He looked about the company, a smirching smile on his lips as gentleman after gentleman voiced approval.
“All right, we are agreed. And to make it sporting, I wager one hundred pounds she will not come when sent for.”
A clamor of agreement rose from the others at the table despite St. Ryne’s scowl.
Freddy jumped up onto his chair, holding his glass high. “And I’ll bet the same that my sweet Helene comes. What do you say, Tretherford, willing to put your money where your mouth is, too?”
Tretherford surged to his feet, shaking his fist at Freddy. “I’ll have you know, you arrogant jackanapes, a lady such as my Romella always knows her place and just what’s expected of her, too. To be sure I make the same bet.”
“Well, what do you say, Justin?” Freddy asked, teetering on the chair.
“A hundred pounds?” St. Ryne queried in low-voiced disgust. “Is that all you gentlemen are willing to wager on your wives? I make such bets on my dogs or horses, but on my wife? Nay gentlemen, I’ll wager you one thousand pounds she comes!” Looking triumphantly into their stunned faces he raised his wineglass and drained it.
“Don’t worry, I’ll cover you, lad,” Lord Monweithe assured St. Ryne.
“I’ll stand in no need of assistance, sir.”
Freddy called for pen and paper to record the bets and the other side bets made by the company. Branstoke came to St. Ryne’s side, laying a hand upon his shoulder. “Your play is over. In God’s name, man, have done!”
At first St. Ryne failed to comprehend Branstoke’s words, then as their meaning filtered through, a dark red suffused his face. “I had not thought—”
“This was not planned?”
“No, I’ve vouchsafed the play anytime this past week.”
“Does she know of the play?”
“To my knowledge, she has not fallen to it yet, though she is a bright woman and one who could.”
Branstoke squeezed his shoulder. “I pray she stays in ignorance a while longer.”
“You think it would matter?”
Branstoke eyed him pityingly. “I know it would.”
“Ready, Justin,” Freddy called out gaily as he sanded the