The Game and the Governess (18 page)

Turner shrugged, pasting a smile on his face, eerily similar to one of Ned’s happy-go-lucky expressions.

“After the battle was over, Captain Turner put me up for a medal, and christened me Lucky Ned. The rest is in the history books.” Turner took another sip of his wine, but this time the room took the opportunity to exhale.

“Well,” the countess finally said, breathlessly breaking the silence. “I fear you give the earl too much credit, Mr. Turner. It seems to me that you saved each other.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Ned finally managed, his mouth dry.

“Well, it is the case, if the earl is telling the truth,” the countess countered.

“Is he?” Miss Clara asked, in her small but rapt voice.

“Yes, Mr. Turner,” his friend said from the other end of the table. “Do you remember it differently? Or was my retelling accurate?”

Every eye in the room looked at him. Ned wanted to scream. He wanted the floor to swallow him up. He wanted to point at Turner and call him a liar, expose him as a fraud, a manipulator. The difficulty was . . . he couldn’t.

“Yes. You have it right, I believe.”

“Then you are both to be commended,” Sir Nathan said gruffly. He teetered to his feet, holding his glass out to be refilled. A servant moved swiftly to top it off.

“To Lord Ashby, and Mr. Turner. And surviving the war.”

“Hear, hear!” came the subdued cry around the table, the ladies lifting their glasses to their lips.

But Ned couldn’t drink. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t do anything, other than give in to that hollow feeling that had plagued him all day.

That sadness.

“If you would excuse me,” he said by way of no explanation, rising to his feet and leaving the room with the shortest of bows. Leaving his new glass of wine and his blackberry tart untouched.

      11

The rules don’t change in a game of chance. Until they do.

T
he knock on the door was a surprise.

Ned hadn’t known what to do after he left the dining room. He thought about wandering outside, sitting by the pond, and watching the stars come out, but the chances that he would run into the rest of the party upon reentry were too high. He didn’t want to see anyone. He didn’t want to be around anyone. He
wanted
to be left alone with his thoughts.

So he went up to the third floor, and back to his cramped room without a fire. Alone with his ruminations.

In many ways, he supposed he should thank God for the knock on his door.

“Who is it?”

“Danson, sir,” came the forlorn voice of his valet.

Ned opened the door to find that, yes indeed, it was Danson. Bearing, of all things, a blackberry tart.

“I am told you left the dining room abruptly this evening?” Danson said as he stepped into the room. His tone was distinctly disapproving . . . more so than usual.

“I didn’t feel . . .” Ned sighed, “like playing along.”

Danson’s harrumph was familiar and comforting. He put the tart down on the small table next to the papers from Mr. Fennick that outlined the proposal for the bathing retreat and Ned’s mother’s property. Ned had glanced at it yesterday when he returned to the room after the evening and then had promptly fallen asleep. He’d actively avoided looking at it tonight, fearful that it would make that hollow feeling in his gut grow wider.

“Lady Widcoate was particularly distressed that you left before you even tasted her blackberry tarts, which were made as a specialty of the cook’s. She directed that this one be delivered to you, in the hope that your, er, willingness to play along is restored.”

Danson turned and stood directly in front of him. His withering gaze took in Ned’s appearance, from the tops of his boots to the self-tied neckcloth.

His expression said it all.

“Come, now, Danson, do I really look that bad?” Ned sighed, giving in to the impulse to run his hand through his hair.

“You look as if you have fleas. Sir.”

Ned immediately pulled his hand out of his hair, putting it back at his side.

“Brilliant. Marvelous. And here I thought you had had my suit of clothes cleaned!”

Danson didn’t bother to deny it. “And apparently, it did little good.” But then his expression relented, and he met his master’s eye. “It is not so much in your
attire—however untailored and unappealing—as it is in your expression.”

“My expression?”

“You may have a talent for reading people,” Danson allowed. “But you do not realize how easily read you are yourself. In this game, you need to learn not to let your countenance betray the workings of your mind.”

Ned didn’t know what to say. First the hollow feeling began in town, and then at dinner, listening to Turner give his account of a story that Ned told so often, he could hardly recognize the truth of another man’s version. Now Danson was telling him his disappointment was on display for all to see.

“How do you think he does it?” he asked suddenly.

“Sir?”

“Turner. How does he hide his true feelings?”

Danson gave the question some consideration.

“Some men are not made for service. They do not appreciate the precision and glory of tradition.” He sniffed derisively. “Some are made to be their own masters, as unruly as they may be. And to place the latter type of man in the role of the former . . . it would take a great deal of fortitude to last, say five years, with one’s ambitions intact. Personally, I believe he bites the inside of his cheek.”

“Bites the inside of . . . ?”

“If nothing else, it would keep your mind off other things. Perhaps it will help you not seem so flea-ridden.” He let his eyes flick over his employer’s appearance again. “Although I will take your suit for tomorrow and make certain it gets laundered tonight, if you please, sir.”

“Need I remind you that you are under direct orders to do nothing to give our wager away? And if you do, I lose?” Ned crossed his arms over his chest.

“You will have no chance of winning if you are not presentable,” Danson replied coolly. “And I will be damned if any wardrobe
I
am in charge of is less than perfect. Sir.”

As much as he wanted to protest, to demand that his orders be respected and insist that he could do for himself . . . right now, he was grateful for this small bit of caretaking.

“Brilliant, Danson. Marvelous. Take whatever clothes you see fit.” He waved his hand over to the rickety wardrobe, where he had placed Turner’s bag.

Danson opened the wardrobe and made a sound akin to a Pekingese being strangled. “You didn’t even
hang
anything!” he wailed. Then, with a quick, bracing inhale, Danson gathered a pile of offensive clothing, then straightened and turned, heading for the door to the small room. “Sir, if I may,” he said, his hand on the doorknob.

“Why stop now?” Ned said under his breath, but with a bit of a smile.

“I think it would be in everyone’s best interest if you were to hurry up and win this wager. Then we can all go home.”

Ned nodded, and Danson took that as the dismissal it was. But, as he opened the door and and turned toward the spindly stairs, Ned caught sight of something interesting.

At the other end of the corridor, a door was shutting. The governess’s door. He caught a glimpse of warm
candlelight falling on the stiff gray wool of skirts. A braid of hair, coming out of a tight coil.

Of course—he and the governess were on the same floor! Here he’d been worried about finding the time for wooing her, sneaking in a moment here and there between her lessons and his duties as the earl’s secretary . . . but luck had given him all the nights.

“Yes, Danson,” he said under his breath to the long-departed valet. “I think it is high time I started winning this wager.”

THE KNOCK ON
the door was a surprise.

Phoebe had just finally allowed herself the luxury of the rest of the evening to herself. The children had long since retired to bed, but she had stayed in the schoolroom preparing her lessons for tomorrow.

Making an excuse to get out of the Questioning had been risky, and she had to be certain that Henry and Rose were prepared when they faced their parents tomorrow. Not a single answer or fact could be wrong. She had a feeling her employment counted on it.

She had never seen Lady Widcoate this fractious. Not even the countess soothed her entirely. Sir Nathan, too, was trying overly hard to impress their guests at this strangest of house parties, and their nerves were contagious.

Phoebe just couldn’t face the earl, or his secretary. Not with what she had given away this afternoon in the stables. She was scared to death that she would see recognition on their faces. They would remember the name from her letter and tie it to the girl who had been left behind in the scandal.

A scandal the earl himself had caused, no matter what anyone else thought.

So, she had been late coming up to her rooms, and late relaxing into herself. If it was either of the Widcoates or Nanny at the door, she would likely not get the opportunity to be herself tonight at all.

“Who is it?” she asked, threading the narrow field between wary and deferential.

“It’s Mr. Turner, Miss Baker,” came the mellifluous tenor.

Oh, heavens! Why on earth was
he
at her door?

She hesitated, uncertain if she should open the door or send him off without a word.

He sounded more cheerful than he had that afternoon—did that mean that he had found something out? Or perhaps that he had found nothing out and just had a good dinner?

Her stomach grumbled at the thought. She herself had not had dinner at all.

“Er . . . Miss Baker?” Mr. Turner’s voice was tentative now. She could almost hear his smile faltering, causing her to have to squash her own. “I know this might be considered inappropriate, but I was . . . I was given this blackberry tart and thought you might enjoy it.”

There was a pause.

“Miss Baker?”

Another pause.

“All right, then. Have a good night, Miss Baker.”

Her stomach gave a protesting gurgle. What harm could there be in facing him now? After all, there was no way for her to get out of facing him or his employer
tomorrow. And she was hungry enough to ignore any qualms that might be roiling in her gut.

“Just a moment!” she called out. Phoebe took the few seconds to hastily straighten her bedcovers and the books and papers on her little desk and to light her second candle, providing more—if not decent—illumination.

She ran a hand over her hair, the braid no longer pinned up in its bun at the nape of her neck, but falling over her shoulder. Oh, well, it would have to do. She did not have the time or the patience for pins.

One last hand running over her skirts, straightening the shawl on her shoulders, and she opened the door.

Just a crack. Just enough to peer out. There she saw Mr. Turner straightening his dark locks with one hand, holding a plate in the other.

Bearing the blackberry tart.

Her stomach gurgled again.

“Mr. Turner.” She forced herself to meet his eyes.

“Miss Baker,” he replied in kind, with a short bow.

And they stood there. Neither one knowing what to do or say next.

“Er . . . how was your day?” Mr. Turner began, standing in the hall, oddly formal with that plate in his hand.

“Fine,” she replied, unable to think of any other reply.

“I heard that young Henry had taken ill,” he continued.

“Oh, yes!” she replied, remembering the story she had given Lady Widcoate. “He was feeling better by the time he went to sleep. I have every expectation he will be right as rain in the morning.”

“Let us hope so,” Mr. Turner replied.

“And how was your day, Mr. Turner?” she tried, hoping at least to keep the scales of awkward conversation balanced. “Or, ah . . . your dinner?”

“Fine, as well.” He coughed. “I was not feeling very well myself, so I left before eating dessert.”

He indicated the tart in his hand.

“I do hope it is nothing serious.”

“No. Likely the same affliction as poor Henry. I will no doubt be fine in the morning.”