Honor's Players

by Holly Newman

  The butler returned swiftly. “Pardon, sir, but she says she is busy at the moment.”

  A shout of laughter sealed Tretherford’s discomfiture. He flung himself into his chair, murmuring imprecations upon his new wife’s character.

  “Now to you, Freddy.”

  “Jovis, entreat my lovely bride-to-be to join me now.”

  “Entreat, yet. Surely she will come,” St. Ryne teased.

  “Entreated or not, more than I can say for yours,” snapped Tretherford.

  Raucous laughter followed Tretherford’s denouncement with quips as evidence of ready wit traded among the gentlemen. It was several moments before anyone noticed the butler’s return.

  “I’m sorry, sir, she will not come as she is repairing a torn flounce.—"

  “A fair answer,” Freddy said.

  “—but demands—”

  “Demands? Oh worse and worse,” St. Ryne exclaimed. “My dear Freddy, how will you endure it? No matter, rest assured you will have things straightened by the nuptial event. Jovis! Tell my wife I desire her company.”

  “I know her answer,” claimed one of the gentlemen from the end of the table.

  “What?”

  “Save your desires for the sheets, she will not come.”

  Elizabeth observed the butler leaving the room for the second time. Why would he visit Aunt Romella and Helene? What did he want? Did someone send him?

  “Excuse me, Lady Jersey,” she said, “I must speak with my sister a moment.”

  “Yes, you do seem a bit preoccupied and no doubt find my chatter boring.”

  Elizabeth swiveled round to face Lady Sally Jersey again, realizing she was on the verge of making a tremendous social gaff with one of the lights of society. “Oh, no, I beg your pardon, it’s just that—you see I must—” a garbled explanation fell from her lips.

  “Oh, run along, my dear. My bark is often worse than my bite. I shall just go harass some of the matchmaking mamas who are here. I enjoy watching them maneuver to secure cards to Almack’s.”

  Elizabeth laughed, thanked Lady Jersey, and sped to her sister’s side. “Helene, what did Jovis want?”

  Helene was fingering a lace ruffle on her gown. “What? Oh, it was just some message from Freddy asking me to come to the dining room. Probably to receive a toast, but I just couldn’t go, what with this torn ruffle and for all times for it to occur.”

  “Well, run upstairs and have it repaired before the rest of the guests arrive instead of standing there moaning about it.”

  “I would expect you to say something heartless like that!”

  Elizabeth sighed. “I’m not heartless, just practical. Excuse me, I must speak with Aunt Romella.”

  Lady Helene pouted prettily at her sister’s retreating figure then swished her skirt back into place and headed for the stairs.

  “Aunt Romella, excuse me, please,” Elizabeth said breaking into a conversation between her aunt and a prominent widow who it was known was on the make for another husband. Fleetingly it occurred to Elizabeth that her aunt wasn’t above lording it over the poor woman for her success. “What did Jovis want?”

  “Really, Elizabeth, you’re no better than ever. Carlton merely requested my presence in the dining room. I of course declined, and mean to educate him on the impropriety of such a request.”

  “Of course. Thank you.” She turned in time to see Jovis once again enter the drawing room. For some reason, she knew she was the object of his visit this time and so stood patiently waiting for him to approach.

  Jovis cleared his throat. “Um-hum, my lady, your husband sent me to desire you to come to him in the dining room.”

  She smiled pleasantly at him. “All right,” she said starting for the door.

  “You’re coming?” All of the butler’s studied impassiveness failed him.

  “Yes, why not?” she replied, though truthfully she wasn’t as calm as she portrayed. The gentlemen were playing some game, that was obvious. She intended to get to the bottom of the matter. She admitted to a lively sense of curiosity as to the root of this queer start but knew conjecture to be worthless.

  The raucous noise emanating from the dining room could be heard in the hall. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow in question though she calmly waited for Jovis to open the dining room door. A sudden quiet descended upon the room.

  “The Viscountess St. Ryne!” announced Jovis stentorianly.

  Elizabeth, her head held high, the candlelight glowing on her like liquid gold, glided into the room. St. Ryne slowly rose from his chair, a mingled expression of disbelief, chagrin, and love all on his face. He slowly circled the table to her side.

  The cry “A hit! A hit!” swept the room.

  “You sent for me?” she asked softly, her heart touched by his expression.

  “Yes, my love, and I thank you. I am unworthy of you or your care.” He raised her hand up, turned it gently over, and planted a kiss on her palm. A flurry of catcalls and whistles greeted his gesture, but Elizabeth was deaf to their sound. She curled her fingers into her palm as if to hold on to his kiss. He put his arm around her waist. “Gentlemen,” he said, turning to the table, “enough jests and tests. It is time we joined the ladies.”

  With alacrity, Branstoke rose, encouraging the gentlemen to do so as well. “I think, St. Ryne,” he drawled, “we all could do much worse than to follow your lead. Gentlemen, the ladies await.”

  Elizabeth allowed herself to be conducted from the dining room while maintaining a gracious manner. This attitude was severely tested as one after another of the gentlemen made their way to Justin’s side to clap him on the shoulder and offer congratulations along with sly winks and thinly veiled innuendos. Question after question leapt to her mind, all crowding forward to be asked but she held her tongue, smiling graciously at all. Imagined answers also came forward with painful clarity, answers she wished to ignore for if they were the truth, then her fragile happiness would shatter, it being born into her that perhaps her entire marriage stemmed from bets made over cards and cups for sport.

  Valiantly she tried to deny her foreboding, her smile becoming brittle as she watched gentlemen approach knots of ladies, whisper in shell-like ears until their auditors turned to stare at her with snickers and swallowed laughter.

  Slowly, like grains of sand in an hourglass, Elizabeth’s euphoric happiness eroded to be replaced by a gripping fear. She thought she had been on the verge of ultimate happiness; still, she was no longer the impetuous, ill-mannered young woman determined to strike a blow first before one could be leveled at her. She would not overreact. She would uncover the truth.

  Somehow she made it gracefully through the interminable hour she stood by her sister and father in the receiving line before the ball. When she was excused, she fled to the refreshment table for a glass of punch and an opportunity to clear her head. Her temples throbbed slightly. She placed a cool hand on one side to massage away the pain. Her spirits rose as she saw St. Ryne leave a small contingent of his cronies to come to her side. She smiled wanly up at him.

  “Bess!” he cried, taking her hands in his and leading her to an empty alcove. “Are you feeling all right? You look pale.” He searched her white strained features, concern evident in his eyes.

  She settled onto the sofa with obvious relief. The mere thread of a laugh escaped her lips. “Too long standing, too many people, and stuffy air have all taken their toll on me. I shall recover directly,” she assured him, touched by his solicitude.

  “May I get you anything?”

  “I was intending to get something to drink. If you could—” she trailed off.

  “Of course, my love.” He strode away with purposeful strides.

  Freddy, standing at the edge of the dance floor while another lost suitor claimed a dance, wandered over to Elizabeth’s corner.

  “Saw St. Ryne hurrying off. Nothing wrong is there, ma’am?”

  She held out her hand. “Call me Elizabeth, please! It wouldn’t do for a brother
to be too formal, would it?”

  He laughed and, pushing the tails of his elegant coat back to avoid crushing them, sank down on the sofa beside her. “Stab me but you’ve got the right of it, and since I’m in the way of being a brother, you can tell me truthfully, did you and Justin plan that dining room coup?” He shook his head, chuckling. “If you did, I don’t begrudge the sum I dropped. Should have known Justin wouldn’t back a loser. Truth is, shouldn’t have doubted him that month and more past when the fellows all were bettin’ against the chances of any gent claiming you to clear the way for Helene. That Justin though, he’s something else. The only one who seemed to know what he was about was Branstoke, and he’s an odd nut to crack.”

  “I trust you didn’t lose excessively,” Elizabeth said faintly, her mind in a whirl.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t be visiting the gull gropers, but I’ll have to abstain on wagers till quarter day,” he said heartily. He frowned, suddenly serious. “About time I laid back from gambling. Going to be a married man now and can’t have my wife denied her little fripperies because I’ve gambled away the blunt, you know.”

  “How commendable. Helene is truly to be felicitated at securing such a caring husband. But tell me, in what way was the little dining room bet proposed—only curiosity you understand.”

  A puzzled expression captured his fair features. “Well, I don’t quite know what you’d call it except maybe in the manner of taming a shrew—sorry, you know, but you did ask. Say, you won’t take any offense, perhaps I shouldn’t have said—”

  “No, no, Freddy, you did perfectly right. Oh, the dance has ended and I do believe I see Helene looking for you.”

  “Really? Where? So sorry to rush off, really must go, she hates it if I wander too far, you know,” he said, laughing again.

  Elizabeth was glad to be quit of him, for now her mind churned with the implications of what Freddy had so glibly let fell from his lips. So, the bets she feared were real and in the manner of taming a shrew. She shuddered. She knew she was referred to as the Shrew of London. But taming sounded so much like breaking a horse to bridle or—

  Another instance in which that particular phrase was used came to mind, and she froze. No, it couldn’t be, she silently wailed. It was all there, however, clear for any to see. Had anyone? What a fool she had been! Her entire courtship, marriage, and now this blasted ball—nearly straight from Shakespeare’s famous play and she an unwitting player since he had come to ask for her hand and had turned everything she said to compliments. The wedding should have truly tipped his hand, what with his late arrival, slovenly dress, and refusal to stay for the wedding breakfast. She wondered how hard he had worked to find a suitable property, to say nothing of his behavior at the dressmakers when he’d vetoed the purchase of a cap such as married women wore.

  Her eyes misted, and she fought the threat of tears with an angry shake of her head. What she saw as love in him was no doubt satisfaction at his accomplishment: a calm, dutiful and worshiping wife. Faugh! He had much to learn. Her heart was breaking; however, she was well used to disappointments in life and would weather this as well.

  She looked up to see him approaching her, carrying two glasses of punch. Her lips twisted cynically; so he’d thought to tame a shrew, she mused, a hard metal glitter in her yellow eyes. She rose and swished the gold material of her skirt back, a tight smile turning up one corner of her mouth in the enigmatic manner of Mona Lisa. Two bright spots of color flared on her cheeks, and she raised her chin bravely.

  “Here, my love,” he said handing her a punch glass, his attention on watching Freddy circle the room with Helene on his arm. He slowly turned his head back to her. “That was good of Freddy to keep you company while I—” he broke off, too late noting her expression to anticipate her actions. This time the punch hit him full in the face.

  “Perhaps if I had been successful last time I would have been spared this marital farce!” she exclaimed shrilly, watching with satisfaction as the punch dripped down his suddenly implacable features to stain his neck cloth and waistcoat. “You have had your fun, Justin. Now you’ll rue the day you studied to be a shrew tamer and took a character in a play for your model.” She tossed her head grimly to fight the tears that threatened to overflow. Through the blur she saw him reach for her and murmur her name. She evaded his touch, her control held in place only by a silken thread.

  She turned away from him to run from the ballroom, pushing aside those who did not move readily from her path. Dancers faltered in mid-step, and the orchestra screeched wrong notes then fell silent. A shocked hush filled the ballroom.

  “Elizabeth, no!” shouted St. Ryne, then his head swung around to pin Freddy where he stood, his face black as thunder. Slowly he took a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his face, and then he stalked over to Freddy.

  “What did you say to her?” he gritted.

  “Easy, St. Ryne,” Sir James Branstoke murmured, coming up to lay a hand on his arm.

  He shook the hand off, continuing to glare at Freddy. “Damn it, man, what did you say?”

  Freddy gaped at him a moment before words could tumble out of his mouth. “Nothing! I—I mean we were just discussing bets.”

  “What?!”

  “She-she acted like she knew, commiserated with me on my losses and just asked what type bets they were.”

  “And?”

  “I—I said they were bets on taming the Shrew of London.”

  St. Ryne clenched his fists to his side and closed his eyes briefly. “Oh, no,” he whispered.

  “I warned you, St. Ryne,” reminded Branstoke. “What are you going to do?”

  St. Ryne turned empty eyes on him. “Get down on my knees and beg forgiveness,” he said simply. His face was bleak as he crossed the ballroom. The guests, catching sight of his face, slid out of his way without a word. At the doorway Lord Monweithe stopped him. St. Ryne looked into the tortured expression of the other man and laid a hand upon his shoulder for some small measure of reassurance. “I know,” he murmured, “I love her, too.”

  In the hall Jovis confirmed his fears. She had demanded her cloak and had fled without waiting for her carriage to be called. Grimly he set off after her, praying the cold weather kept those who would prey on the unwary off the streets. He remained alert, his eyes darting down alleys and streets, his ears sensitive to sounds of struggle, though his mind continually recited a litany of self-condemnation. It was with relief he saw his town house. The door opened before he could mount the steps and a white-faced Predmore stood in the lighted opening.

  “Oh, my lord, I’m so relieved to see you. Her ladyship, she’s in a dreadful temper,” he said, hurriedly closing the door after he entered. “She near cuffed poor Willy here senseless when he reached to take her cloak.” He waved his hand toward the unfortunate footman who stood in the hall nursing a sore jaw. “Then she tore up the stairs shouting for her maid. They’re up there now, sir, and I don’t like to think how that little maid is faring for we’ve heard two crashes.”

  “Fear not, she won’t hurt the maid. Her anger is well directed,” he said wryly. “I will talk to her.” He slowly mounted the stairs, his steps measured and apprehensive. From her room he heard sharp murmurings, rending of fabric, thumps, and small crashes. He winced, then tentatively raised his hand to knock on the door.

  “Go away, I do not want anything,” came her voice sternly through the closed door

  “Bess, I have to talk to you.” He inclined his head toward the door listening for her response.

  “You! What happened, did I cause you to lose a bet, or are you upset I failed to know my lines?”

  “Listen to me. It’s true, at first I was enacting Petruchio’s role and thought to treat you like Katharine. I studied the play carefully and even went so far as to make notes.”

  “You have done a masterful work. I’m sure someone will commend you for it,” she ground out.

  “My family had been importuning me for the past year t
o marry and fulfill my obligations yet all they would recommend for wives were meek little paragons while I desired a woman of personality. If I wanted a meek wife to mouth words of duty to her husband and would call him lord and master, I would have married one of the women my family put forth.”

  “There would be no sport in that and no monetary gain save for a dowry,” she snapped back.

  He sighed and ran a distracted hand through his hair. “I would have done it without the bets. Please let me in so I can explain and won’t have to stand here baring my soul to the entire household.”

  “It will do you good, perhaps even give you a bit of character, if you’re lucky.”

  “Bess!”

  “No!” Her voice turned low and harsh. “I have played the fool and thought to grab a chance at love. Love, ha! A cat’s satisfaction at catching its prey. This prey is prey no longer, and I’ll see you the fool before I play jester for your cronies’ entertainment again.”

  “Bess, I love you too. That’s the damnable thing about this entire mess. I love you to distraction and was hoping to show you this night the proof of my affections.”

  “That you have done full well, thank you. I don’t need your kind of affection.”

  “Bess, please!”

  Inside the bedroom Elizabeth cringed at his call. He was such a good actor. He should have trod the boards. She had waited so long to hear him say he loved her that even now, even with the knowledge of his deceit, his manipulation, and falseness of his feelings, she was still moved by his words. The silken thread of her control snapped, allowing the tears she’d bottled inside her to flow. With a strangled sob she threw herself on her bed to muffle the sound as copious tears fell.

  St. Ryne strained to hear her answer, wondering if that was a sob he heard. He banged on the door impatiently and shook the lock, yet the door remained closed to him. In disgust he flung himself away and stumbled back down the stairs to his library and a brandy bottle.