Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,1

coat, his guinea-gold hair waved back off his narrow countenance.

Branstoke sighed. “Well, we must work together to effect one thing in all events,” he said, removing a small gold-enameled snuffbox from his vest pocket, flicking it open with a practiced one-handed motion and delicately taking a pinch of its contents.

“What’s that?” Tretherford asked querulously, his ruddy face beginning to take on a choleric hue as the Viscount joined the group.

“Justin!” Freddy exclaimed, breaking in before Branstoke could speak. Grinning broadly, he pumped St. Ryne’s hand vigorously, oblivious to Tretherford’s scowls at the interruption.

“Well met, Freddy,” St. Ryne said smiling warmly in return, at last banishing the black thundercloud that had so captured his features. Freddy was just the nostrum needed to restore his spirits. He turned to Freddy’s companions, inclining his head slightly. “Servant, Tretherford, Branstoke.”

“When did you return, St. Ryne? I heard you were in the Caribbean somewhere,” Branstoke drawled as he gave St. Ryne two fingers.

“I was, in Jamaica to be exact. Been in the country a sennight.”

“Mother wrote to say she saw you at Harth. I was wondering when you’d make it to town. Or should I say, wondering when you could get away?” Freddy amended jovially, clapping him on the back.

“Drove in this afternoon. But excuse the, I. hope I am not interrupting a private conversation?” he asked, his eyebrows arching quizzically.

“Nonsense,” Freddy assured, still grinning. “We were merely bemoaning a common problem.” He shook his head dolefully, leaning his lanky body against an empty green baize table, crossing his ankles.

“Oh?” St. Ryne inquired politely as he looked around the small group.

“You’ve been away a bit, so daresay you’ve never met Lord George Monweithe, the Earl of Rasthough. He lived pretty much in the country until last season.”

“Monweithe—Monweithe, the name’s familiar. I believe he’s an old hunting crony of my father’s. Has a place out in Devon, I think.”

“Ay! That’s the one,” Freddy said eagerly, straightening up. “He also has an angel personified for a daughter, La Belle Helene.”

“Ah,” St. Ryne acknowledged, sneering slightly.

“The sweetest, gentlest lady one could ever hope to meet,” Freddy went on, sighing.

“And one of Lucifer’s angels for an eldest daughter,” Branstoke observed drily.

“Indeed?” St. Ryne said, raising his wineglass to his lips.

“Yes. And old Monweithe has decreed no one may court Helene until Elizabeth, the elder, is wed,” Freddy moaned, his face falling.

Thinking at once of The Taming of the Shrew, one of the few Shakespearean plays he had enjoyed, St. Ryne was intrigued. He cocked an eyebrow and said, “I didn’t realize Monweithe was of a theatrical bent.”

“What? No, he ain’t, sporting man, rides to the hounds,” Tretherford said irritably, raking a knobby hand through his stringy hair. He turned to eye Branstoke. “You was saying we should do something and you had an idea. I’d like to hear it,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other.

Branstoke regarded Tretherford’s hopeful visage through hooded eyes, a sneering smile curling his thin lips. “It’s very simple, my good man. We need to find a husband for her sister.”

“Bah, I thought you had an idea,” Tretherford scoffed, his hopes dashed. He turned to stump back and forth between the tables. “What we’d need is a devil. Monweithe may be rolling in the ready and given her a handsome dowry, but I ask you, is any man fool enough to be married to Hell?”

Branstoke shrugged. “We may not be, but there are gentlemen around who would take her with all her faults for a dowry like that at her back.”

Tretherford snorted. “I’d as lief take her dowry with the condition I be horsewhipped every day!”

St. Ryne, who had been listening to the conversation as he sipped his wine, took a sharp intake of breath at hearing Tretherford’s comment and started to choke. The Taming of the Shrew complete to the characters and lines! It was outside of enough for the Earl of Rasthough to set his daughters up as Katharine and Bianca, but to hear Tretherford and Branstoke mouth words akin to Gremio and Hortensio was outside of enough!

Freddy thumped him heartily on the back. “Easy, Justin ol’ boy.”

Branstoke appeared mildly amused and looked speculatively at St. Ryne as he brushed a speck of lint from his coat of blue superfine.

“Thank you, Freddy. I’m all right now. I merely was reminded of a line from Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare! In the middle of the afternoon?” Tretherford exclaimed sourly. “I always said too much sun was harmful.”

Freddy sputtered indignantly at the implied slur; however, St. Ryne