The Game and the Governess (14 page)

And then, suddenly, the overgrown oaks that lined the walk gave way and . . . there it was.

His mother’s cottage. The Granville cottage.

It sat back from the road, in its own world. Small—smaller than most of the other houses in the neighborhood—but it had been perfect for a young widow and her son. They had moved there after the death of his father, when Ned was two, which therefore, blessedly, he did not remember. The little house had been their whole world. And the woods surrounding it that were attached to the property had been a young boy’s playground.

Now it floated in front of him, a memory made real.

It still stood, although that was the best he could say for it. The stone of the chimney was almost entirely covered in thick vines, and the shrubbery around the front threatened to overtake the house. And, most alarming, there was a large hole in the thatched roof that exposed most of the sitting room to the elements. Luckily, some
one had covered the hole in the roof with a large piece of canvas, but . . .

How could this have happened? Why had Turner allowed the house to fall into such disrepair? His mother would never have . . .

No. No, he had put all this away long, long ago. He refused to care. He was the Earl of Ashby. Not a scampering child growing up half wild in the woods of Leicestershire.

As if answering the question that he could not ask, Turner spoke low to Ned. “There were tenants up until last year. I had hoped to get more this summer, but the roof collapse a few months ago put a stop to that.”

“And it wasn’t fixed?” Ned asked, more vehemently than he’d intended.

“So much snow this winter made fixing the roof difficult. The canvas kept the weather and animals out, and since there were no tenants, you told me not to bother about it.”

“I did?” His eyes flew to Turner’s.

“Yes. You did,” Turner said. “And then shortly thereafter came the proposal for the property from Mr. Fennick and the town. Adding variables to the decision to repair.”

Had he told him not to worry overly about it? It was possible, of course—whenever Turner got some correspondence about one of his holdings, Ned’s eyes tended to glaze over in boredom. Perhaps he should have taken better care to pay attention. Perhaps seeing his mother’s house in this sorry state was his penance for that.

A pang echoed through his chest. A shudder—as if someone walked over a grave. He violently shook it
off. This melancholy reflective state was so unnatural to him. He would conquer it, until it was dust. Lucky Ned did not engage in sentimentality or in this wretched feeling of . . . something. He was happy. He was game.

“Shall we?”

The question came from the carriage, pulling up alongside them. Sir Nathan and Mr. Fennick disembarked, and Turner dismounted without hesitation. But Ned . . .

That pang echoed through his chest again, forcing its way back up. If just looking at the house from the lane did this to him, what was a tour inside going to do?

“Um . . . if you don’t mind, my, er, lord, I will stay out here. Watch the horses.” This came as something of a surprise to the groom who drove Sir Nathan’s carriage—but the man simply shrugged.

“The house is small,” Ned continued, “and I am sure Sir Nathan and Mr. Fennick can give you a better estimation of the town’s plans without me in the way.”

If it was odd for the earl’s secretary not to accompany them into his childhood home, no one said anything. Indeed, Turner met eyes with Ned for a moment, considering. And for once, it was Ned who turned away first.

As Mr. Fennick and Sir Nathan led Turner up to the front door of the cottage, Ned let himself exhale. And then he walked Turner’s mare around the bend until the oak trees shaded his mother’s cottage, and he could sit still and calm, out of its sight.

“YOU DON’T HAVE
to care about this business proposal, but since you are taking up my mantle, you should at
least pretend,” Turner said to him on the way back to Puffington Arms.

They had left the vicarage after being plied with small sandwiches and too-sweet tea for much longer than Ned had anticipated. Sir Nathan, apparently having been familiar with the foodstuffs of Mr. McLeavey’s wife and the stories of Mr. Dunlap, begged off, saying he was expected back at home, and that his lordship and Mr. Turner would easily be able to find the way back after luncheon.

They had had to endure the pleasantries of the rest of the eager consortium also for much longer than anticipated, but they managed to escape before it got too far into the afternoon.

Ned had waited until the church spire was in the distance before lobbing his accusation at Turner.

“And, as you are taking up my mantle, it would help if you could at least pretend graciousness with the townspeople.” That had been something that had been drilled into him by his great-uncle. With the distance of rank must come unerring politeness.

“I did not expect to be
mobbed
. And can I help it if Mrs. Whatshername’s petits fours had actual dust on them?”

No, he supposed Mrs. Whatshername’s dusty petits fours could not be helped.

“You didn’t mind being mobbed yesterday,” Ned pointed out.

“That was . . . different. And I did mind. Until . . .”

But Turner did not allow that thought its full account.

They walked along in silence for a little while, until
they came to the field where they had run into the children and the governess . . . goodness, had it really only been yesterday? It had seemed centuries ago that they’d been in Leicestershire.

“So, tell me about this business proposal for my mother’s house,” he finally said, breaking the tension in the air.

Turner let out a breath. “It’s less for the house and more for the land it sits on. There is an inordinate amount of acreage that goes with the cottage. And it seems like the ideal place for the town to build their bathing retreat. Close enough for visitors to walk in and enjoy the town, but removed enough that it offers seclusion for those coming to seek a respite. It is also directly in the path of the pipeline being built from Midville.”

“So, they want to . . . what? Buy the property?”

“It’s not one of your entailed estates. Sir Nathan—well, really, Mr. Fennick—formed the consortium to purchase the property, but what they would really like to do is lease the property and build their bathing retreat upon it, pulling you in as a sort of benefactor,” Turner said. “It would cost them less. Less risk on their part too.”

“But also less reward if successful.”

“True,” Turner agreed. “But in either case, your mother’s cottage would be torn down to make way for a new building.”

The queer hollow feeling that he had successfully avoided giving sway to earlier flared up again with a vengeance.

“Torn down?” he asked.

But Turner simply shrugged. “Or you could leave
the house as is, repair the roof, and rent it out to tenants again, forcing the consortium to look elsewhere for their bathing retreat. Those are the options before you.”

The options before him. Sell the estate, lease it, or keep it as is.

“Seems simple enough,” Ned replied, breezily. “What I don’t understand was why you forced me to the country for two weeks to make a decision that could easily be made in two days.”

“Lady Brimley’s ball was part of the reason, if you recall,” Turner said dryly. “But if the decision is so easily made, then make it. And we can go back to London now.”

Yes, his options seemed simple enough, Ned thought. But the matter was so far from simple.

But instead, he puffed out his chest and gave Turner his most charming cutthroat grin.

“If we go back to London now, I would be conceding the wager, wouldn’t I? And I never throw in my cards, Turner. I play the game to the bitter end.”

“Given the slim pickings in Hollyhock and your status at Puffington Arms, the bitter end may be sooner than you think.” Turner pulled to a halt. They were in sight of the house now, and much like yesterday, a beruffled and beribboned crowd was gathering to welcome “the earl” back from Hollyhock.

Braggadocio aside, Ned knew he couldn’t play the game right now. He couldn’t smile and try like hell to get the ladies to forget his performance at dinner last night. That queer, unsettled feeling in his gut wouldn’t let him.

“I’ll take the horses round to the stables,” he offered, earning a surprised look from Turner. Which then transformed into suspicion.

“You want to miss an opportunity to ingratiate yourself with the ladies?” Turner said, basically reading Ned’s mind. But then he met Ned’s eyes. Whatever he read there made any and all suspicion drop away from his face.

“Well . . . far be it from me to stop an earl from playing my groom,” Turner said gruffly, and then dismounted from Abandon.

Ned followed suit and took the reins of both horses. The last thing he saw before disappearing around the side of the house toward the stables was Turner reaching the side of the Countess Churzy and taking her arm before he was swallowed by a chorus of pastel gowns and young female attention.

All the better, he told himself. For the first time in ages, Ned needed to be alone with his thoughts.

      9

Sometimes even a middling card can take the trick.

C
areful,” Phoebe called out, as Rose and Henry clamored to pull themselves up to see over the gates. It was her general refrain whenever they were in the stables.

Or near the stables, she realized. Or outside. Or inside. Anytime they were awake, the most oft-used word in Phoebe’s governess repertoire was
careful
. She had really better begin thinking of some synonyms, she mused, else the children end up with limited vocabularies.

“Caution!” she tried, as Rose bounded her way up the gate and reached a hand over to pet the tail of the butterscotch gelding in its stall. The patient horse was old and slow, only used to pull the cart. However, regardless of the horse’s temperament, no one liked having their tail pulled.

“Miss Rose, stroking Sunshine’s mane has very little
to do with her tail,” Phoebe warned. But as the inattentive young girl’s hand still reached toward the horse’s rear, she had to reach out and grab it. “Or should we go back inside and begin a lesson in biology and anatomy?”

“I’m just trying to get him to turn around,” Rose said mournfully, withdrawing her hand.

“Well, he would turn around, and likely unhappily, too,” Phoebe remarked dryly.

“You told us we didn’t have to learn inside today, because it’s our reward,” Henry piped up, his interest in staring into the dark brown eyes of one of Sir Nathan’s matched chestnuts in the next stall momentarily interrupted by the threat of going indoors.

“Really?” came a surprised voice at the end of the corridor. “What are you being rewarded for?”

Phoebe whipped her head around. There, in the entrance to the stable, stood a dark-haired man holding two horses by their reins. For the briefest moment she panicked, thinking it was the Earl of Ashby, and she would actually have to
talk
to him. But then he stepped farther into the stable, and the light adjusted around him.

“Oh, Mr. Turner,” she said stiffly, choking down any visible sign of relief. Even if he wasn’t the earl, he still didn’t need to see the governess acting loose with the children.

“Henry, look! It’s the pretty one!” Rose’s interest in Sunshine’s tail disappeared as she ran up to Mr. Turner to gaze raptly at the impressive stallion, so dark a brown he was almost black. The horse danced for a moment in front of the girl, but a steady hand from Mr. Turner settled him.

“They are not being rewarded,” Phoebe began quickly. “We are having a lesson on basic physiology.”

“We are?” Henry asked.

“What’s physiology?” Rose turned her head.

“Physiology is the study of living things. And how they work,” Phoebe answered with pointed patience. “And today we are studying the horses. The, uh . . . the foreleg is connected to the . . . well, on a human it would be the shoulder . . .”

“It’s the humerus bone,” Mr. Turner answered for her.

“Really?” Her eyes shot up to his. Unconsciously, her hand moved to her own upper arm. “But on humans, the humerus is up here.”