Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,84

for a while, my lord. I thought you might be too soft, listening to those women. Now I see the right of it though. Clever to get the magistrate to take Humphries away as he did, got that Geddy witch out of here right enough. Don’t worry about her in the future; I’ll see she doesn’t bother you again.”

“Mr. Tunning,” began St. Ryne.

“How dare you,” seethed Elizabeth interrupting him. Her fingers curled around the inkstand on the desk, her knuckles white. “Before you harm anyone in that family, I’ll see you in Hell!”

She picked up the inkstand to hurl at him.

“No, Bess!” St. Ryne yelled, rushing to wrest it from her grasp.

He turned to the estate agent. “I have had enough of you. For too long I’ve put up with your sly behavior and your unwarranted maligning of people thinking to uncover the problem. No longer will I do so. You’re fired! Clear your things out of the estate manager’s cottage and get off our property.”

Tunning’s face became mottled with rage. “You’ll regret this!” he stormed, clenching and unclenching his fists. “It’s your entire fault, you hell-spawned Jade!” he snarled, lunging for Elizabeth.

She screamed. St. Ryne grabbed Tunning by his coat, swung him around, and slammed his fist into his jaw. Tunning fell heavily. St. Ryne stood over him; his feet planted firmly apart, his hands still balled into fists. His breathing was ragged, the only sign of the violence he held in check.

“Consider yourself lucky to get away with your life. Now get out, and I don’t ever want to see your worthless carcass again.”

Tunning scrambled out of his reach and got up, glaring daggers at Elizabeth. He yanked open the library door revealing Atheridge standing there, his right hand raised to knock, his other holding a tray with coffee and rolls.

“Oh, Mr. Tunning,” began the startled Atheridge.

“Get out of my way,” snarled Tunning, shouldering him aside and almost upsetting the tray.

“What?” Atheridge uttered, glancing from the raging Tunning to St. Ryne’s implacable visage.

“Mr. Tunning is just leaving. He will not be back,” informed St. Ryne coldly.

Atheridge’s eyes became as big as saucers in his pinched face. He nodded once in deference to the Viscount then scurried to lay out the coffee. The Viscount and Viscountess stood immobile until he had completed his task and fled the room.

St. Ryne’s shoulders slumped and he ran a tired hand around to the back of his neck to ease tight muscles.

“Thank you, Justin,” Elizabeth said softly.

“For what? Did you think I could possibly stand there and let that idiot harm you? Oh, Bess, Bess,” he sighed, “what a low opinion you must truly have of me.”

“I believe I have just cause.”

“Yes, I know you believe that and I don’t know what to do to convince you otherwise.”

He was not up to dealing with justifications and recriminations. When he had found she’d left London, he’d been like a madman and like as not more shrewish than Elizabeth had ever been in her life. His only peace of mind came from the knowledge that Thomas had accompanied her despite her protests. He must remember to reward the young man for his diligence. For now, he would deal with the tumult he discovered on arriving at Larchside; time later to broach their estrangement.

“What is your summation of this poaching charge?” he asked tiredly, easing down into one of the wing chairs, his legs splayed out casually before him.

She came around the desk to pour coffee for the two of them. “I believe Tunning framed Gerry.”

“Why would he have cause to do that? For that matter, what is it Tunning's been up to anyway?”

She compressed her lips, shaking her head in bewilderment. “I don’t really know, at least with any certainty; however, I believe he was collecting some type of blood money from the tenants around here and collecting fees from the merchants and trades people who had business with the estate.”

“I can understand the payoffs from those who buy from or sell to the estate, but could he have gotten such control over the tenants?”

“I don’t know, but what I do think is that Humphries was not one of those from whom he was able to collect.”

St. Ryne shifted straighter in his chair, shaking his head dolefully. “It’s a bad business, Bess.”

“Yes, and nearly impossible to prove unless one of his victims comes forward, and then it’s his word against theirs.”

St. Ryne was silent a moment, then: “Do you think the Atheridges were in on