Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,85

it with him?”

“I’ve wondered, but they could just as easily have been among his victims or merely sycophantic for their own protection.”

He grunted in agreement.

“But what about Gerry, Justin?”

He stretched. “I think it would be best if he were left in Mr. Pfoffler’s care until tomorrow. I know Mrs. Geddy won’t like it, but I don’t trust Tunning not to plan some sort of revenge action, and Gerry would be a likely target since indirectly he caused Tunning's downfall.”

“You may be right.”

“And what about us?” he asked, then cursed his wretched tongue. It was too soon. He saw her stiffen, the liquid light in her eyes hardening to gold metal. Inwardly he moaned her name as she visibly retreated into herself.

“There is no us, just the shell of a comic play that’s over.”

“Please, Bess, don’t do this.’’

She blinked at him. “It’s done.”

“No!” he implored, but she turned her head away from him to take another cup of coffee. He could see that she intended to ignore his presence.

A slow anger flared within him, feeding upon itself as it grew. He surged out of his chair to stand over her. She studiously kept her eyes averted.

“You are a hypocrite, my love, you who claim to hate plays, for you are playing now and with your willful play are throwing away our chance for happiness. Go on, punish me, I admit I deserve it, but as you do so, admit you are also punishing yourself. Please forgive me if I quit your presence and return to London. I see no gain in remaining to be continually flogged by your wretched pride!” He turned on his heel, his face a study of anger and misery, and rapidly quitted the room.

Elizabeth looked up as he left, part of her not really believing he would. She rose from her chair and started for the door, her hand outstretched. Then she heard him open the front door and shout for Thomas to saddle his horse, and her hand fell to her side. With heavy steps she walked to the window and watched him mount then gallop down the drive as if all the dogs of hell were nipping at his heels. Her mouth silently formed the words “I’m sorry,” but there was no one to hear.

The fouler fortune mine, and there an end.

—Act V, Scene 1

“Tunning! What are you doing here?” Atheridge softy screeched, looking about nervously. He hated these woods at night when every shadow held imagined menace and terror. He wrapped his arms around himself as much to ward off fear as cold.

“I’ve come to settle a score with that trollop,” Tunning ground out, his dark presence looming like some monster of the night.

“The Viscountess?”

“Yes.”

“No, no, Tunning, I can’t let you do that!” Atheridge backed away.

Tunning grabbed him by his coat lapels and hauled Atheridge’s face within inches of his own. “Listen, you maw worm, you’ll help me or St. Ryne will know you were active in bilking the servants of wages and taking payments from merchants for buying shoddy wares at premium prices.”

“But that was you,” protested the quaking butler.

“Yes, with you turning a blind eye at first then taking your own cut. You want the fine Viscount to know that? I have a ledger that details it all, and if it were to come into his hands...” he trailed off, dropping his hands from Atheridge’s coat.

“No! No,” he faltered weakly. “What is it you want?” His shoulders drooped.

Tunning laughed crudely. “You’re going to help me kidnap her. I’ll make that hoyden whimper while I await a handsome ransom from her husband. Who knows, he may consider himself well rid of her, and then I’ll just have her for my own bit of fun. Either way, she’ll pay for her disrespect towards ol’ Tom Tunning.”

Atheridge licked his lips nervously. “W—When are you going to do this?”

“Tonight. You’ll leave the front entrance open and signal an hour after everyone’s abed by waving a lit taper from the gallery windows.”

“And that’s all?”

“You will of course help me tie up our dear Viscountess and carry her out. I’ll have a carriage waiting. That is unless you would like to have a turn with her, too,” Tunning suggested, leering.

Atheridge shuddered.

“I thought not,” he said with another laugh, “but you’ll be missing a prime bit of fun. I’m looking forward to riding that one and taming her to my bridle.”

“Where will you take her?” Atheridge asked timorously.

“The old Havelock Manor.”

“I thought that was gutted by fire.”

“The west wing’s