The Game and the Governess (24 page)

“YOU’RE WASTING YOUR
time,” John Turner said from the base of the stairs. Ned was not pleased, nor surprised,
that he had been there. Out of everyone in that drawing room, only Turner would have noticed or cared that he was gone.

“Hello there. My day was very interesting. I nearly got poisoned by a tart last night and spent today in the woods trying to wrangle rambunctious children. How was yours?” Ned began nonchalantly as he descended the stairs, hands in his pockets, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

“Less interesting than yours, I dare say,” Turner replied honestly. “You are wasting your time,” he repeated. “With the governess.”

“Am I? How?”

“She does not meet the standards laid out at the beginning of the wager.” Turner’s voice was a low rumble, but there was an edge to it.

“I believe the requirements boil down to someone gently reared, am I right?” On Turner’s slow nod, Ned shrugged with ill-contained relish. “Miss Baker was gently reared. So much so, in fact, she attended the exclusive Mrs. Beveridge’s School. Her circumstances may have changed, but that does not alter her background.”

Turner’s eyes narrowed. “But that doesn’t mean that—”

“Actually, I feel that Miss Baker is very much the type of woman that a secretary would court. Far more likely than, say, a fortune-hunting countess.”

Turner did not take that statement with his usual cynical silence. No, instead he closed the distance between them, leaning in to Ned’s face with a sneer.

“Don’t ever talk that way about Leticia,” he growled.

Ned blinked in shock. For Turner to talk to him that
way, either he had fallen too well into the role of the earl, or . . . or the Countess Churzy had really gotten under his skin.

To snap Turner out of it, Ned hardened his gaze and voice. “You forget yourself. Remember who you truly are. And who I truly am. And then take two steps back.”

Turner pulled a long breath in, which he apparently needed to bring himself back from acting like an earl with the actual earl. He took the requested steps backward, but kept his eyes on Ned.

“My apologies,” he said stiffly. “I am aware of what she is, you know. Her clothes, though stylish, have been turned out from an earlier season. She pointedly does not talk about her marriage or her recent past. And you could not have been so delightful a child that all she wants out of a connection to the earl is enjoyable reminiscences.”

“I am glad you are aware. She is a barnacle. Prettiest barnacle I’ve ever seen, of course,” Ned replied, his eyebrow inching up at Turner’s mutinous look. Bloody hell, the man was about to forget himself three seconds after remembering. He had the attention span of a fish. “And there is no reason not to bask in her attentions. I simply request that you don’t do anything I cannot undo.”

Turner shot him a look. “She is the only person here who does not make me feel the weight of her expectations.”

“Do any of those expectations include telling fanciful renditions of the Battle of Waterloo?” Ned grunted.

But Turner simply shook his head. “Fanciful? You thought my version fanciful?”

Ned hesitated. If he’d been Henry’s age, he would have simply crossed his arms over his chest and started staring at his toes. Made uncomfortable by a simple question. Instead, he did what he always did. Squashed the feeling down and returned to his normal, satisfied self.

“Fanciful or not, it matters little. But I wager those earlish expectations made your day ever so enjoyable.”

Turner’s mouth twitched in a rueful grimace as he glanced to the side. “Oh, yes, a glorious time. Mr. Fennick and the vicar from Hollyhock came to join us in our leisure today. It was too bad you were feeling unwell. I was treated to a long recitation of Mr. McLeavey’s hunting prowess. He apparently shot a buck when he was five years old, and hopes to inherit the family lodge one day. And Mr. Fennick kept edging forward, asking questions about how we found the cottage and . . .” Then, “There is an awful lot of attention paid to an earl.”

Ned nodded tentatively, unsure of what Turner was saying.

“And everyone looks to you for . . . things.”

Ned cracked a smile. “Things and things on top of things. But when we first arrived, you seemed to enjoy it.”

“Yes, well . . .” Turner coughed, his eyes drifting back to the dull cacophony floating from the drawing room beyond the door. “That was three days ago.”

Ned let his own attention drift to the stairs, and the echo of a conversation held there, not minutes ago. For the first time in a very, very long time, Ned would much rather go upstairs to his rooms instead of joining the fun at dinner. Would much rather spend time with one person than a dozen.

One particular person, who teased him when he deserved it, and had a braid of blond hair that went to her elbows when let down from her bun.

“And what a difference three days makes. For us both.”

Turner must have noticed the way Ned’s attention tended, because he snapped out of what could only be called his self-pitying reverie and again focused on Ned. And the competition at hand.

“I still say you are wasting your time with the governess. You won’t win that way.”

“And why do you think that?” Ned asked, again putting his hands in his pockets.

“Because, much like overburdened and debt-ridden secretaries, women in Miss Baker’s position do not have the luxury of indulging in romance.” Turner smirked, triumph written all over his face. “She may tolerate your company but she won’t encourage your attentions. She cannot afford to.”

Ned smiled, enjoying the feeling of having Turner on the defensive. Ever since this wager had been laid down—goodness, only, what, five days ago?—Ned had been the one spinning in circles. Now, for the first time, he was the one who felt like he had the advantage.

“Be that as it may, Miss Baker’s position didn’t stand in the way of her giving me this.”

He pulled his hand out of his pocket and flourished the little piece of linen with the tiny stitched
PB
in the corner, which had cleaned his shoes that morning. “Just now. She told me to keep it. And I believe it qualifies as a token, freely given—or, rather, the first of the required items I must gather.” He couldn’t help a ferocious smile at a wordless Turner’s stunned face. “Since
I’ll be teaching Rose to ride, I daresay I will be spending a great deal more time with Miss Baker. Thanks to you. And, with a dance at the end of the week, the second and third requirements won’t be far behind.” He let his smile drop. “I might be better at being you than you think.”

Ned made sure that Turner got an eyeful before he neatly folded the little square and gently placed it back in his pocket. Then, with the swagger of a man without a care in the world, he moved past Turner and toward the drawing room door.

“Shall we head in? I fear they are waiting on us.”

But Turner was lost in thought, staring at the spot where Ned had stood, his posture unchanged from the moment of seeing that handkerchief.

“Miss Baker . . . you say she went to Mrs. Beveridge’s School?”

“Yes,” Ned replied, slightly impatient. Now that he had figuratively rubbed Turner’s nose in the handkerchief, his stomach was beginning to growl. He was hungry, damn it.

“And her first name starts with a
P
?”

“I assume so, given her initials.”

“Then this is going to be a more difficult campaign than you know.” Turner faced him, a knowing grin spreading across his features. “You’ve chosen the worst possible person to woo.”

“Why?”

“You should likely be asking Miss Baker that.” The grin grew sharklike, ferocious. “Ask Miss Baker why she despises the Earl of Ashby.”

      15

Knowing what is in another person’s hand can be a boon—or destroy one’s strategy.

Y
ou said something the other day.”

“Did I?” Miss Baker didn’t look at him. She was staring off into the distance, her eyes following Rose and Henry while their eyes followed the horse being led around the field.

It was Abandon and, as it was the earl’s horse, the children were allowed only to watch from a safe distance as Kevin the groom led him in circles around the field, giving him a bit of exercise. Again, Turner had decided that the earl and his party would stay at Puffington Arms for a day of relaxation, and therefore Abandon, a very finely tuned Thoroughbred, was again not ridden. Kevin might be overworked, but he knew where his bread was buttered. And therefore the earl’s horse got some fresh air, and Rose—having earned points with her father the other night for her forthrightness—got to
watch without fear of recrimination from her mother, and under the eye of her new riding master.

“Mr. Turner, are you ever going to let Rose sit on a horse?” she asked.

“Eventually,” he replied to the abrupt change of subject. “When my heart can take the fear.”

It had been two full days since their meeting on the stairs. Ned had wanted to approach Miss Baker earlier with his questions, but he needed to ease into it. Recent events having been so overwhelming and dramatic, forcing his questions on Miss Baker might make her back away. No—he needed her to see him as nonthreatening. An equal.

And he wanted to make certain she had fully recovered from her bout of blackberry tart first.

This was made easier by the fact that she now had more time in the afternoon to herself, as—after their morning schoolroom lessons—Rose and Henry were left in Ned’s care for their riding lessons.

Which were terrifying.

“Now, when you first touch a horse, make sure he can see you,” Ned told them at their first lesson. Kevin was lending assistance, holding the reins of Turner’s sturdy, gentle mare and nodding at appropriate intervals. “Otherwise you’ll startle him. Touch him on the neck or the flank. Don’t come up on him from behind . . . and no pulling on the tail, Rose!”

Rose seemed to have no ability to concentrate and just wanted to rush forward and do everything
now
, while Henry hung back, watching wide-eyed. He spent the first lesson just telling them how to properly touch a horse. He spent the second lesson making sure they
knew the names and correct use of all a horse’s equipment.

Each day, Miss Baker had brought the children out to him in the afternoon, and then returned a couple of hours later to take them inside for their baths. These few moments were all that he allowed himself to see Miss Baker during those days. Except for a time or two he’d stolen a few minutes with Miss Baker, and those moments he found . . . illuminating.

Such as the day after their conversation on the stairs, when they had first made the exchange of children. Rose and Henry took off for the stables, eager to see the horses, leaving Ned and Miss Baker some precious moments alone.

“Do you have any advice for me on my first day?” he’d asked her, trying not to sound nervous.

“Never let them see your fear,” she replied dryly.

He smiled at that, and made to lean on the stable door frame, which was so overcome with curlicues and embellishment that it was a miracle Kevin the groom was able to shut the door. As it was, a piece of the plaster broke off in Ned’s hand as he put his weight on it.

“Oh, Lord!” he cried, trying to fit the piece back into its spot and watching it fall to the ground each time. “Lady Widcoate is certain to blame this on me.”

“To be fair, it is your doing.” Miss Baker laughed.

“Well, at least I gave you your moment of absurdity for the day.” He stuck the piece of plaster behind a bit of hay, hoping no one would notice. “Or Lady Widcoate did. Honestly, I do not know why Sir Nathan allowed her passion for decoration to travel all the way to the stables.”

But Miss Baker had simply turned thoughtful. “I do not find Lady Widcoate as bad as all that.”

Ned’s brow went up. “This is a woman who tried to poison you.”

“No, she tried to poison
you
,” Miss Baker corrected. Then, “Do you know why Lady Widcoate became so enthusiastic about decoration?”

He shook his head.

“I was told by the old butler, before his son began earning enough in the Midville mine that he could retire. It was a long time, and a great deal of struggle, for Lady Widcoate to bring her children into the world.” She looked off in the distance for a moment. “She’d had no one to talk to, her sister already gone and married. And she turned to decoration to fill her life.”

Ned thought about it for a moment. Yes, Lady Widcoate would have been married nearly a decade before Rose was born. For a young wife, it must have been a devastating wait. It would also explain why she was overly protective of them, not wanting them to traipse through the woods or learn to ride or do anything that could hurt them.

“Why did you tell me that?” Ned asked quietly.

Miss Baker gave a slight sad smile. “Because I have found that when someone irks you, it is best to remember that they are human.” Then she dropped a small curtsy and turned to go. “And it’s also useful to remember with small children.”

He had spent all that day thinking about what she had said—a circumstance that Miss Baker had, in an astonishingly short period of time, made a habit with him.