Honor's Players

by Holly Newman

  Lady Helene Monweithe and her swain, the Honorable Frederick Shiperton, naively took it as their due. They were sadly mistaken, for society’s interest was grounded solely in their knowledge that the Shrew of London would be in attendance. Gossip concerning the new Viscountess St Ryne had risen to a fevered pitch since her return to the city. Those who had chanced to see her with her husband on the street or in the park rushed to others to speak of their observations and huddle together over tea or a glass of port to speculate on the exact meaning of their sighting.

  It could not be said that the Viscount and Viscountess St Ryne were oblivious to the speculation they raised or that they had not expected it; however, when they entered the drawing room to join the party forming there, they were amazed at the scope of the interest in their actions and the contrivances of society to be present. They exchanged brief stunned glances before they pulled the blank masks they'd practiced so well on each other into place and entered the swarming mass of curiosity.

  They, however, were not the only ones stunned. From that collective mass of bon ton there was a momentary sharp hiss of intake of breath, followed by an unnatural silence for a gathering of that size and scope. The universal surprise was not at seeing their prey, but in seeing their prey. The Viscountess St. Ryne was beautiful and almost unrecognizable save for the richness of her antique gold eyes and lustrous dark brown hair. Mme. Vaussard was truly either a witch or a fairy godmother, for the gown she conjured for her new client was gorgeous; it was designed to create the image of a living gold flame, a Phoenix risen from the ashes.

  When sound returned to the room, it swelled, softly a first, then gathered momentum and volume until it crashed upon the St. Rynes, buffeting them like an ocean wave. Steadily they entered the sea of humanity, standing all smiling, and nodding to their acquaintances as if nothing untoward had occurred. St. Ryne spied Freddy leaning against the mantle and gently guided Elizabeth in that direction, the sea inexorably parting in their path. The humor of their situation percolated up through Elizabeth, her eyes bubbling with suppressed laughter while her lips thinned over her teeth and curved upward as she strained to contain her mirth. She did, however, retain her regal stature as she glided through the room on her husband’s arm.

  With part of her mind Elizabeth conjured up a vision of herself attending such a party before she met Justin. Her eyes drifted to the right. She would most likely be standing there, by the windows and behind the chairs, her expression sullen, daunting and a trifle sad, her gown a ridiculously frilled white muslin creation, and her hair dressed in a tight coronet of braid. From there she would watch the dance of society, glaring at anyone who veered close to her, fearing they would speak and expect some answer in return. But that corner was empty; the imagined ghost of her past fading even as she thought of it.

  She turned her face toward her husband, a radiant love shining from her eyes. He must love her, he had to, else how could she love him so much? He was treating her gently, too, like an exotic fragile flower. She had to find a way to show him she was not made of glass but was a flesh and blood woman with, she admitted to herself, flesh and blood passions. She would make him proud this day and then claim her prize by her good intentions for she bore a fierce desire to be the Viscountess St. Ryne in more than just name.

  St. Ryne, feeling her luminous gaze upon him, cocked an eyebrow in teasing inquiry while he reached across to squeeze her hand resting on his other arm.

  “Justin!” Freddy exclaimed, uncrossing his lanky legs and straightening up to offer St. Ryne a hand in greeting. He gave Elizabeth a perfunctory bow, wary of her despite the rumors in society as to her new docility, then turned back to St. Ryne. “What do you say to all this? Shocking squeeze, ain’t it? Haven’t seen the like since Princess Charlotte’s wedding, but she being royalty and all, that’s expected.”

  St. Ryne gave a languid sweeping survey of the party before turning back to Freddy. “You are to be felicitated It appears you have kept half of London in town rather than decamping for the country for the remainder of the season for those intolerable holiday house parties.”

  “Talk about shocking squeezes,” Elizabeth murmured slanting a glance in his direction through sweeping dark lashes.

  “And sneezes,” St. Ryne responded adroitly, “spreading illness among one and all.”

  She laughed softly, enjoying their easy bantering. “Don't forget ill will.”

  He inclined his head toward the assemblage behind him “How could I?”

  They grinned like children exchanging a secret code, smugly content that their minds were in harmony.

  “What are you two nattering about?” Freddy asked looking from one to the other in confusion.

  “Pardon, Freddy, a married folk habit,” St. Ryne explained.

  “Well, leave done,” he said petulantly.

  “What’s the matter, Freddy, feeling bereft? Where’s you lovely bride-to-be?”

  “Off somewhere on her father’s arm. Say, what occurred at your town house yesterday? Monweithe’s been deuced silent since his return. Not morose, you know, just quiet."

  Elizabeth blushed while St. Ryne laughed easily. “I guess you could say he learned the error of his ways.”

  Freddy scratched the back of his neck above his high neck cloth. “Dash it, Justin. Seems like I only understand one word in ten you say these days.”

  “I believe only a tenth of what anyone says is worth understanding,” Sir James Branstoke drawled softly, joining them.

  “Well met, Branstoke,” St. Ryne said warmly.

  “Yes, but I tell you straight out, I have come to pay my respects to the ravishing creature at your side.” He took Elizabeth’s hand in his and bestowed a kiss upon her fingertips. “My lady, you are a star to put stars to shame and I welcome the sight in this firmament.”

  Her eyes danced with mischief. “Delightfully said, sir, but I admit to confusion, for I do not know what tenth of your words are worth understanding.”

  “Hoisted on my own petard. Very good. St. Ryne, your wife possesses wit, beauty, and assurance. Beware, my friend, she is a woman to be reckoned with.”

  “I ain’t as dashed eloquent as Branstoke, but I guess I’ll be happy now to call you sister, even though I lost a bit of blunt.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Freddy!” St. Ryne exclaimed.

  A pained expression briefly crossed Sir James Branstoke’s face before he hooked his arm in Freddy’s. “Come, Shiperton, I have yet to pay my respects to your bride-to-be, and as a fallen suitor, it is only proper, wouldn’t you agree? Be a good fellow and conduct me to her side.” Bowing and murmuring polite apologies, Branstoke led Freddy away.

  “Justin, what did Freddy mean?”

  “Some of the young bucks placed small bets as to our marriage ever taking place,” St. Ryne said off-handedly. “I guess I did not inspire Freddy with confidence.”

  Mollified, Elizabeth let the subject drop, though part of her still worried over the idea for Tunning had said much the same thing. If Tunning knew of the bet or bets, could they be small and inconsequential'? And what of St. Ryne’s participation? She shivered slightly. How crass and demeaning to be the object of wager.

  St. Ryne noticed his wife’s distracted manner. In light of the promise of intimacy between them, it would have been churlish to fail to remark her disquiet. A stab of remorse for the wild machinations of his wooing cut through him. A play was merely that, a distortion of reality for entertainment and edification. He had treated The Taming of the Shrew like a lady’s household management journal containing a new recipe when he should have known characters in a play were puppets for the playwright. Elizabeth was no puppet; she was a living, breathing, vibrant woman. He was thankful he had the opportunity to repair the damage he caused with his conceit.

  He looked about the drawing room. It appeared all eyes were surreptitiously still upon them, and some guests were deciding to beard the lioness. He observed Lady Jersey quitting he
r circle of cohorts to make her way to their side. He did not think he was ready for Silence and her piercing questions. Adroitly he guided Elizabeth toward the door where her father stood.

  “There you are, Elizabeth!” To the surprise of the assemblage, the Earl of Rasthough leaned toward his daughter to bestow a chaste kiss upon her cheek. His bluff heartiness alone was sufficient to raise eyebrows, the public kiss, not often condoned in the best of instances, moved witnesses again to silence. The Earl, grinning complacently, remained oblivious to the company’s reaction.

  He tucked her arm in his and drew her close. “As Romella has gone and gotten herself leg-shackled today, I’d like you to be my hostess.”

  A delicate pink of pleasure flooded Elizabeth’s cheeks “I’d be honored.”

  “Sorry, St. Ryne,” Monweithe said, pointing a finger at St. Ryne’s stomach, “you’re to be sacrificed to the dowagers.”

  “Such is the fate of the married man,” groaned St. Ryne theatrically. In truth, he did not care where he sat, for this was his wife’s night to shine. He was moved by his father-in-law’s gesture to make her his hostess. It was certain to go far in establishing her credit with society.

  Elizabeth was about to twit her husband on his marital fate when the butler announced dinner. The words died on her lips though a mischievous twinkle lurked in her eyes as she allowed her father to conduct her to the dining room.

  Dinner was a lively affair as far as formal dinners went. Discourse was loud and freewheeling as the company came to accept Elizabeth. Protocol notwithstanding, she found herself answering questions put to her by people other than those seated to the right and left of her. Even those known to be the highest sticklers were seen conversing volubly with others two or three removed from them.

  When the last of the plates was removed, Elizabeth gracefully rose from her chair to lead the ladies back to the drawing room while the gentlemen enjoyed their port. To her surprise, her aunt walked with her.

  “Lovely gown, my dear. You have carried yourself well this evening.”

  Elizabeth’s lips twitched. “Thank you, Aunt Romella.”

  “I always said you merely suffered from a deplorable want of management. It appears the Viscount is to be commended,” her aunt went on austerely.

  “So kind,” Elizabeth murmured though her brows rose at Lady Romella’s effrontery.

  “Nonsense. He has done a fine job with you. I trust I shall be equally successful with Carlton.”

  “I wish you joy.” The words were nearly strangled in her throat. “Please excuse me now, Aunt. In my duty as hostess I must see to the other guests.”

  It amazed Elizabeth to consider how she could have ever been hurt by Lady Romella Wisgart, or the Honorable Mrs. Tretherford, as she must now consider her. The woman was no more than a comedy and as such deserved pity. Elizabeth wished her well in her marriage and gave her credit for realizing she should contrive to ensnare a husband. With both Helene and herself married, her father would have no use for her, and she would most likely be given a small cottage somewhere with a small but adequate pension to add to her widow’s jointure and would thus be thrust out of society.

  Nodding and smiling politely to those she passed, Elizabeth made her way to a sofa where a small group was aiding two old harridans in the disposal of their voluminous shawls and the positioning of fire screens. To her amusement she soon learned that the old considered themselves above the conventions of society. There was nothing mealy-mouthed about her two elderly guests for they lighted on her like hawks to their prey, asking questions and making observations that put those around them to blush. As little time as three weeks ago she would have flared white hot and retorted with some remark in kind. That evening she took their words with forbearance, for truthfully her mind was not on the guests or the party, but on the unspoken promise she had seen in St. Ryne’s eyes. She listened to the women with only half an ear to catch the verbal clues that warned her some remark or answer was expected, but blithely took no insult from their callous words.

  All her life Elizabeth had felt apart from society, never sure of her existence within its framework. Now she felt beyond society, capable of laughing fondly at its foibles and loving it warts and all. That her new attitude stemmed from her love for her husband and her confidence in his love for her was inconsequential. She felt right with the world and glowed with an inner contentment.

  The gentlemen remaining behind in the dining room were also wont to spare no bones with their comments. No sooner had the last skirt swished from sight and the doors closed following the ladies’ exit, than they felt free to loosen their tongues.

  It was a circumstance St. Ryne grudgingly accepted in his mind but was uncertain as to his course. Casually he signaled for his glass to be refilled and leaned back in his chair.

  “Amazing,” drawled one sprig of fashion, absently dropping the quizzing glass he held up to observe the ladies’ departure. Several gentlemen echoed his sentiments, emboldening him to preen and continue. “St. Ryne, I admit to myself I am nonplussed. Miracles do occur.”

  “Ha! With that one, I vow it took 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 document he’d contrived.

  “After you, gentlemen,” he said suavely.

  “As you proposed the bet, Mr. Tretherford, I suggest it is only right you issue the first summons,” Branstoke suggested as he settled back in his seat.

  “Done.” Tretherford turned to the door where the butler was stationed, hooking his thumbs in the small pockets of his waistcoat while throwing his shoulders back. “You, sir, bid my wife, the Honorable Mrs. Carlton Tretherford, to come here.” He turned back to the company, a smile on his face and a slight swagger in his step.