Honor's Players Read online

  Taking the slim volume in hand, he walked over to a large mahogany desk dominating the room. He pulled out paper, fresh quills, and ink from a drawer in the top, setting them on the gleaming dark surface. Opening the small book before him, he began to read, his quill dipping occasionally into the ink as from time to time he made note of passages. Smiles came and went, sometimes widening into a grin or erupting into a short bark of laughter.

  A little more than an hour later his butler entered and quietly set a small table by the fireplace. St. Ryne ignored him until he’d finished, stood aside, and cleared his throat respectfully.

  “Thank you, Predmore,” he acknowledged, his eyes intent on the lines before him. “Be so kind as to have Cranston lay out my evening dress.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “That is all. No, wait,” St. Ryne said, glancing up briefly as that worthy turned to leave. “There is dust on top of my books.”

  Predmore blanched. “My apologies, my lord. It will be attended to.”

  The Viscount nodded absently and resumed his writing. “You may go.”

  Predmore bowed and left the room to search for Mr. Cranston, milord’s valet, and afterward to have a few choice words with a certain footman whose duties included maintaining milord’s library. Predmore had been with St. Ryne for nine years, ever since the young man had set himself up in London, much to the Countess’s annoyance. Predmore enjoyed working for his lordship but knew he brooked no difference for the rules he set.

  As heir to the Earldom of Seaverness, St Ryne had been immediately feted and courted when he came to London. Too much so, to Predmore’s mind. He’d witnessed an open and curious young man with a ready wit and dry humor slowly jaded by a fawning society. The cynical man who remained drifted seemingly untouchable. His one refuge, his library, which if he so chose, was inviolate to the outside world, off limits even to his mother, the formidable Countess of Seaverness. She, to give her her due, respected his independence, if only for a short while.

  Predmore shook his head as he mounted the stairs. It did not appear his lordship’s sojourn to the heathen lands had been auspicious. He, at least, he decided righteously, could be certain the Viscount would find nothing further to disturb his comforts at home.

  Sometime later, the Viscount St. Ryne sat sprawled in a large dark blue wing chair by the fire, the substantial remains of the stuffed game hen offered by his household to tempt his appetite pushed negligently away from the place set before him. He idly twirled his wineglass between strong tapering fingers. He gazed with heavily lidded eyes out the window of his library into the street below. It was dark and the wind was driving rain against the glass. There was little activity besides the occasional closely shuttered carriage with wildly swinging lanterns and hunched coachmen. The Viscount scarcely noticed the rain and wind; he was lost in his own brooding thoughts and stared unseeing at the vista before him.

  Dressed soberly in a chocolate-brown jacket and dove pantaloons, someone passing him by when he walked in town might mistake him for a clerk unless they chanced to glance at his face or note his bearing. No clerk ever strode with such arrogance and pride in every step. His visage was not remarkable; he was neither excessively handsome nor ill-favored. His expression was arresting, however, and if one happened to be favored with a smile, one would note how it lit his face and how his eyes danced with some secret mirth. In form he was of average height and weight. This did not dissuade the dandies from envying him, for his coats needed none of the padding currently in vogue to minimize physical shortcomings. The Viscount’s hair was disheveled, though not due to the careful artifice of the windswept look currently popular with young aspirants to fashion. A couple of dark locks fell forward to curl over his brow and catch the light from the tall candelabrum at his elbow. His arresting features were now marred by a pronounced scowl that drew his thick brown brows together creating deep furrows in his forehead and turning down the corners of his mouth.

  Back only a sennight after a year away, and already his mother was haranguing him to choose a bride. It had been her efforts to put one or another of her new protégées before him as perspective brides that had driven him away. That, and the ceaseless fawning he received from debutantes and matchmaking mothers. He should have realized his return would herald renewed activity on the Countess’s part, particularly as she was flush with success from marrying off his cousins last season. She now considered herself a triumphant matchmaker. Thankfully his parents were leaving within the week for a protracted stay in Paris, and not scheduled to return until the holidays. At that time, no doubt, she would fill the estate with nubile eligibles and expect him to do the pretty.

  As the wealthy heir to the Earl of Seaverness, he was considered a catch on the marriage market. He dragged his hand through his thick dark hair. Tired of false attentions, he often idly thought it preferable to choose for a wife a woman who did not consider him as a prospective bridegroom, one who in fact disliked him and whom he could woo to favor. He sank deeper into his chair as he sipped his wine. He knew he was at heart a romantic, a trait he was almost ashamed of and hid behind a cynical front.

  St. Ryne glanced toward his desk where lay the book he had been reading along with the notes he’d taken. He smiled wryly, and wondered what his mother’s reaction would be to his chosen bride, for that afternoon at Whites he had decided he would marry Elizabeth Monweithe. He laughed out loud when he realized he had not yet met the woman. It was best that he settle with her rather than one of the whey-faced young paragons of virtue his mother found suitable for the position of Countess of Seaverness. He tossed off the last of the wine and rising from his chair, gathered the book and papers from the desk. Atop them all he placed the cream-colored invitation to the Amblethorp rout. Still chuckling to himself, he left the library to change for the evening’s entertainment.

  It was late, after eleven o’clock before St. Ryne arrived at Lady Amblethorp's. Inasmuch as the receiving line in the hall before the ballroom had long since dispersed, his entrance went unheralded—to his great relief. Pulling on the sleeves of his evening coat, he found himself glancing into a pier glass between tall windows in the ornate rococo styled hall. Now, as the play was about to unfold in earnest, he wondered at his audacity. Sir James Branstoke had given impetus to this wild idea by his bet. For his own part, he knew he could do no worse. He smiled grimly at his reflection before turning toward the ballroom. The die was cast, he thought, walking forward.

  Stopping at the ballroom doorway, St. Ryne glanced around. He grimaced at the hothouse effect Lady Amblethorp made of the room; flowers, probably the last of summer’s bounty, were everywhere and the room, already quite warm and denied by the rain the respite of doors opened onto the terrace, was heavy with a floral scent. To the right he noted a crowd of gentlemen around a honey-haired beauty. Recognizing a few of her entourage, St. Ryne concluded she must be La Belle Helene. Descending the steps into the room, he moved toward the beauty and her entourage. If Freddy was correct, the shrew would not be far away.

  He made his way slowly, stopping to talk with various acquaintances, most of whom he had not seen since his return. Lady Amblethorp scurried forward with one of her daughters.

  “Viscount St. Ryne! We are honored by your appearance. Isn’t this the first social function that has been graced with your presence since your return?” she cooed. Inwardly crowing at her success in snaring that parti, she gleefully thought of a few hostesses she would enjoy advising of his lordship’s attendance.

  St. Ryne murmured all the proper phrases: delighted himself; yes, this was the first; and Lady Amblethorp was an accomplished hostess.

  Lady Amblethorp smiled delightedly, tapping him playfully on his arm while the puce plume in her turban swayed wildly. “But please, though you’ve known her since she was a child, let me officially present you to my third daughter, Janine, who made her debut while you were out of the country,” she enthused, pulling her shy youngest daughter forward.

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bsp; St. Ryne grimaced at Lady Amblethorp’s flirtatious forwardness, gauche in any woman, let alone a woman of her years. As the poor girl couldn’t help her parents, however, he turned to smile at Janine. “I didn’t realize, Miss Amblethorp, this was to be your year. Sometime you must tell me how you have enjoyed your first season,” he said smoothly. Then, before her mother could interrupt, “As I told Lady Amblethorp, this is my first function since my return, and I am delighted to see so many familiar faces. If you’ll excuse me, I must continue my reacquaintance.” Bowing low to the Amblethorp ladies, he turned to continue toward his goal; thankful to have made his escape without having to stand up with the young debutante and knowing he left behind a pleased yet exasperated Lady Amblethorp.

  “Adroit, as usual,” a dry voice at his side murmured in the wake of a rustle of silk and a waft of French Musk perfume.

  “Sally! Your humble servant.” St. Ryne bowed to Lady Sally Jersey. As one of the vaunted patronesses of Almack’s, there was not much going on in town she missed. It was on his tongue to inquire of his prey, desiring a woman’s summation on the situation, but her nickname of Silence—for everything she was not—gave him pause.

  “And you are an impertinent pup!” she said rapping his hand with her fan. “Sally indeed.”

  “A thousand pardons,” St. Ryne raised her hand to kiss it. “I have been told I received a surfeit of sun on my trip to Jamaica, and it has left me with an addled mind,” he explained lightly.

  Lady Jersey pulled her hand away quickly though a little smile lifted the corners of her thin aristocratic lips. “Trip! A euphemism for escape. I know. But who trifled with his health by that remark?”

  He laughed. “The day of the duel for such stupidity is past. I’ll save that for the young bucks and old goats. If you must know, and I can tell by that gleam in your eye you’ll have it out of me, it was Carlton Tretherford.”

  “Bah!” she snorted, waving her arm in dismissal. “The man has more hair than wit. That’s one randy old goat who thinks to stay amongst the bucks. Look at him over there after this year’s jewel of the Marriage Mart.”

  “La Belle Helene.”

  She eyed him shrewdly. “Do you seek to join the ranks?” she asked, slowly unfurling her fan and waving it languidly before her.

  “Acquit me, madam. I choose more sprightly game.”

  Lady Jersey laughed. “You would or else you'd have one of Lady Alicia’s protégés. Do you have someone in mind?” she asked archly.

  He merely smiled.

  “Oh! I know you’ll not say and I’m wasting my breath ask.” She closed her fan with a snap. “Be off, you arrogant jackanapes,” she commanded petulantly.

  St. Ryne bowed again, leaving an amused and exasperated Lady Jersey staring after him.

  He had almost made his way to La Belle Helene and her tail when out of the corner of his eye he saw the older girl. She was standing between a pillar and a tall vase filled with large white roses. He recognized her immediately from Freddy’s description but was surprised she did not appear the glittering shrew of his imagination. She was dressed all white in a ridiculously childish muslin gown trimmed with pink rosettes. By its appearance it was a gown more suited to her sister. Lady Elizabeth would appear to better advantage in dark, vibrant colors. She was turned toward her sister’s coterie, her face related, almost devoid of all expression, yet St. Ryne felt sure he noted an odd trace of sadness in the fine set of her mouth and the expression of her golden eyes fringed with coal-dark lashes. He knew then she was not one of Lucifer’s angels as Branstoke had described her; more like a lost and confused child lashing out to protect herself, her temper giving her the strength not to shatter into a thousand pieces. Child? Nay, young woman for that was not the figure of a child, he thought, looking her over with a practiced eye.

  Coming up on Freddy Shiperton, St. Ryne hooked his arm in his.

  “Oh, there you are. Wondering if you’d show. Shocking squeeze, you know,” Freddy said over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving the object of his adoration.

  St. Ryne objectively studied Lady Helene Monweithe for a moment. He granted she was a diamond of the first water and deserving the sobriquet La Belle; yet every season saw another more lustrous than the last. These jewels had never engendered interest by him in all his years on the town. It was as if in having beauty, they suffered some deficit of character, and whereas character lasts while beauty fades, he’d come to value its coin above beauty. He was amused to note that like the jewels before her, she had the requisite harridan by her side.

  “Who’s the chaperone?” he asked Freddy, pulling him out of his worshipful reverie.

  “Huh? Oh, Lady Romella Wisgart, her mama’s sister. A very starchy sort.”

  “She seems to favor Tretherford,” St. Ryne observed, watching a small by-play of words and smiles.

  Freddy snorted. “Tretherford’s a toady, though I think Lady Wisgart’s got her eye on him for herself.”

  “That seems apropos,” St. Ryne murmured.

  “Ain’t it just,” Freddy agreed, rocking back on his heels, grinning from ear to ear.

  Dismissing the play before him from his mind, St. Ryne looked about for the woman he presumed to be Lady Elizabeth. She continued to stand by the vase, as still as a statue, her eyes wide.

  “Freddy,” St. Ryne said softly, dragging him away from La Belle Helene, “is that young woman standing there Lady Elizabeth Monweithe?”

  Freddy looked in the direction St. Ryne indicated and shuddered slightly.

  “Yes, but do come over here and I’ll introduce you to the sweetest woman in the world.”

  St. Ryne looked at the group surrounding Freddy’s paragon with a jaundiced eye then shook his head. “I’d rather meet Lady Elizabeth.”

  “Not by me!” Freddy said, shaking his head and backing up a step. “I don’t go near that hellcat!”

  St. Ryne’s face became dark and shuttered as he raised a mocking eyebrow at his friend. Without a word he bowed stiffly and turned on his heel to walk away, leaving behind a bewildered Freddy.

  Sir James Branstoke, standing a step apart from those surrounding the sought after beauty, noted the exchange through his raised quizzing glass and smiled. He watched St. Ryne make his way to the punch table, procure two glasses, and turn to approach the shrew. He rubbed the rim of his quizzing glass thoughtfully against his cheek, and then turned to the crowd surrounding La Belle. As entertaining as the Viscount may be, he did have other sport, particularly as it appeared the Viscount was determined to take up the bet and spoil the game. It was as well. He stood to win a hefty sum of money and only lose a dalliance. But for the nonce, the dalliance would suffice. He smiled and held out his hand to Lady Helene. Her eyelashes fluttered down as she placed her hand demurely in his. A murmured uproar rose from her coterie at such effrontery.

  St. Ryne stood behind the screen of white roses and studied the profile of his chosen wife. The messages his eyes were receiving warred with his knowledge of Lady Elizabeth Monweithe. This fragile, delicate woman must draw her strength from her shrewishness, he decided. That was a strength he wanted to see and tap. He found within himself a desire to rouse the golden fire in her eyes of which Freddy spoke so eloquently and discover if they would sear his soul. He approached her silently.

  “Excuse me, my lady, but I have brought you a glass of punch. I thought it thirsty work to be standing alone in a corner,” he said softly in her ear.

  Lady Elizabeth Monweithe turned toward him, startled. No one other than her father, aunt, or sister dared approach her at an affair. Bright color flew up to stain her cheeks. She stood speechless as she gathered her wits and continued to stare at the stranger standing before her. He was tall with strong unforgettable features, yet she had no idea who he could be. In the sea of brightly colored fish, he stood out for his austerity of attire. Though no one talked to her she was a constant watcher of society, liking the obscureness of her side-stage existence. She thought she knew by si
ght every member of society. It occurred to her he might be a younger son recently sold out of the military. She did not know how she should treat him or, indeed, how or what he may know of her.

  The Viscount smiled at the startled expression on her face, placed the punch cup in her automatically outstretched hand and continued: “I know we have not been properly introduced, and therefore it is the height of impertinence for me to approach you, but I had a problem. No one would approach you to avail me of the introduction I so devoutly desired. I was in a quandary; however, as such dictates of society bore me, I felt, my lady, at least your reputation would save us from interruption.” He smiled broadly as he watched the gathering storm of emotions play upon her face and saw the fires Freddy mentioned light her eyes.

  Egad but she's beautiful! He thought as he studied her high color. Perhaps he should be careful how he played his role. Still, Petruchio won the day with abrasive handling of his Kate. Once begun, he would go on.

  Swiftly a shuttered expression descended over Lady Elizabeth’s face. “You pompous, conceited, braying ass!” she ground out. Inwardly she mourned. For a moment she had loped he knew nothing of her wretched reputation. It was all too clear he was aware of the on-dits and was indeed one to take up the knife and twist it further. “How dare you approach me! You are correct when you say it is the highest piece of impertinence, and I’ll thank you to quit my sight.”

  She quivered with anger while the Viscount laughed delightedly. Lady Elizabeth was aware that they had become the subject of many inquisitive eyes and whisperings about the room. She ground her teeth in irritation. Though her reputation had again preceded her, her own wretched tongue gave purchase to the gossip. In all fairness, never had she met a gentleman such as this stranger. She wished she knew his purpose. His laughter made her rage burn hotter. She raised her arm to fling the contents of the punch glass she held into his face.