The Game and the Governess (39 page)

“You want to go home?” Kevin had said, surprised. “Now? The night’s just getting started!”

“I am afraid Miss Baker doesn’t feel well,” Ned offered lamely as an excuse. Indeed, Phoebe did look pale and dazed.

She did not utter one word to him on the drive back.
To be fair, neither did he. He wouldn’t have known where to start. But neither did she touch him. She sat rigid, her form perfectly governessorial, her eyes forward. She refused to invite those affections that could have made the agony of the ride tolerable.

When they got back to the house, it was quiet and dark—only a few of the maids had not been sent to the Hollyhock assembly hall to clean or serve. A sleepy girl let them in, and then let them be. Ned walked beside Phoebe up the stairs, down the hall, to the third-floor staircase. She did not pause or slow, but marched up those rickety stairs with the same even stride. The same blank expression. When they reached her door at the far end of the hall, he took the only advantage he had left. Ned let his hand slide down her arm, take her hand, and bring it to his lips.

He held it there, longer than was proper, cherishing what of her he could. When he looked up, her eyes were on him for the first time since they had left his mother’s cottage. And there were so many questions there.

Questions he could not answer—not then. So he released her hand, and turned away as she shut the door behind her.

The short walk to his own room was not enough to wear off his feelings. But a short dip in the eel-infested pond certainly cooled his body down, which allowed his mind to settle. Settle on all those things that had come forward and stopped him from taking what Phoebe had offered so beautifully. All those things that had made this past fortnight so unaccountably strange and uncomfortable.

And amazing.

He lay in his bed, thinking on all of it. Listening as the rest of the inhabitants came back up the drive, finally home after a full evening of dancing and merriment. Feeling the house settle around them, every nerve in his body attuned to any sound that might emanate from the room at the far end of the hall.

Alas—or perhaps fortunately—there was none.

And when dawn breached the sky, Ned decided it was time to call a stop to it. He crawled out of bed and tiptoed his way to his destination.

He pushed the door open without knocking. Crept across the room, achingly quiet. Then he reached out and drew back the covers.

“What . . .” moaned Turner, who, it seemed, had fallen directly into his bed without even taking off his shoes after the night of dancing.

“It’s Ned,” he whispered, brooking no opposition. “We need to talk.”

THE MORNING AIR
was heavy with dew, clinging to them like wet linen. They walked through the field on the opposite side of the pond, quickly losing themselves in the woods surrounding Puffington Arms.

“This should be far enough,” Ned said, when they had reached a safe distance from which no early-morning ears might overhear.

“What the hell do you want?” groused Turner, trying to sound displeased, but to Ned’s ear it was nothing but a whine. “I’ve slept barely two hours.”

“Well, I’ve slept none, so we are in the same boat,” Ned quipped.

Turner’s bleary eyes grew hard. “Is that it? You dragged me out here to gloat?”

“Gloat?”

“About your lack of sleep and the reason for it. Or should I say the person for it?”

“What are you going on about?”

“Miss Baker!” he spat. “She is the reason you dragged me out here, isn’t she?”

“Well . . . yes,” Ned admitted, only to watch Turner’s face break into a disbelieving grimace.

“I offer my congratulations,” he finally said, stiffly. “I hope you enjoy your new equipment-less mill in Lincolnshire. And the mortgage on it.” He made to move past Ned, stalking back toward the house. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need my sleep. I vaguely remember agreeing to go hunting with Sir Nathan this morning, probably with the intention of discussing the terms of my supposed engagement.”

“Engagement?” Ned gaped, shocked.

“Apparently, when you kiss a woman in the middle of a crowded dance floor, people assume it is the sign of an engagement.”

Ned gave in to the desire to dig his thumb into his temple. “What happened to not doing what couldn’t be undone?”

“I don’t know, Ned.” Turner’s sarcasm dripped heavy from his tongue. “Do you have a way of spinning back time and
not
bedding the governess?”

“That’s just it—I didn’t,” Ned ground out.

Turner stilled. “You—”

“Did not,” Ned confirmed.

Turner visibly sagged in relief. Then a quirk of a
smile painted his face. “Came to her senses, did she?”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, I came to mine.”

Turner blinked in shock. And finally Ned asked what he had been wondering for what felt like ages.

“At dinner, about a week ago, you told the story of how . . . of how you got shot in battle and how I got my medal.”

Turner nodded silently.

“You told it differently than I do.”

“You called me fanciful. But I remember it differently,” Turner replied simply.

“The thing is . . . so do I. I remember it much more the way you told it than the way I had been.” Ned put his hands behind his back, starting a slow pace in the dirt and leaves of the forest. “But I had been telling it so long in
my
way that I had begun to believe it. I had begun to believe I was that person.”

“What person?”

“Lucky Ned.”

The name hung in the air between the two men, its creator and its bearer.

“And the thing is,” Ned continued, “Lucky Ned didn’t have anything to worry about in life. Everything just
happened
to him. I didn’t have to do anything for myself. Or anything for anyone else. That’s what I had you for.”

A rueful smile was the only answer Turner gave.

“But these past two weeks, I have been doing nothing but work for myself or other people. Poring over Hollyhock’s business proposition or teaching the children to ride, making my own arrangements for a carriage or—hell, carrying my own water up and down
from the kitchens.” He threw his arms wide, building up to something, but not entirely certain what. “And I would not trade any of it! Well, perhaps the water carrying, and the bathing after everyone, but that’s it. And do you know why?”

“I hope you do.” Turner blinked at him.

“I think it’s because for the first time since . . . damn, since I became the earl, I wasn’t
bored
. I was forced to do for myself and it was—well, if not fun, then certainly worthwhile. And if I hadn’t been doing for myself, I would have been stuck up there with you, in the tower—”

“There’s a tower?” Turner interrupted, seemingly confused.

“A proverbial tower,” Ned replied immediately. “A tower where everything exists only on the surface. A shining place of manners and ambition, and I would have never met
her
.”

“Your Miss Baker.”

“I would not have met her—but more important, I would not have known her. And I think . . . I think I kept you with me as secretary for so long because we knew each other. Not in the surface way that seems de rigueur for the upper classes. We were friends. And I didn’t want that to go away. It’s hard for someone in my position to know anyone.” That was one truth drilled into him by his great-uncle. “You are always suspicious of motive. But she does not have any.” Ned sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Turner nodded slowly. “You’re in love with her.”

“Yes.” He realized it was true. “Yes, I am. She makes
me want to be better, John. She makes me want to do things with what has been given to me, and not just let things happen. She deserves that someone better, but she’s not going to take me as I am—when she knows who I really am.”

“I see,” Turner said solemnly. Then, “Although, just to be clear, you are not in love with
me
. We just happen to be friends.”

Ned caught the smirk on his friend’s face, and smirked in return. “Very astute of you, jackass.”

“So . . . what are you going to do?” Turner asked after a moment, all contentiousness gone. “You cannot be Mr. Turner forever.”

Ned started pacing again. “When you proposed this bet, you thought I wouldn’t make it a day, did you? That’s how you justified this. In my mind, I thought it was a harmless joke to play on silly people. But it’s neither. They are not silly and this . . . isn’t harmless.”

“No. They are not, and it isn’t,” Turner replied gruffly. “But by the time I figured that out, we were too far into it. I’ve hated myself for days.”

“As have I. I have spent all last night racking my brain, trying to think of a way to make this right. And there is no easy or simple way to do it. Any way it comes out, someone gets hurt, and most often it is Phoebe.”

“And Leticia,” Turner murmured.

“Yes. So—I have no idea how I am going to fix that. But I can fix something else.”

Turner’s head came up from his musings. Ned stopped pacing.

“You have long since chafed against the role of secretary. It was never your ambition, but you did it for
me. You should have left ages ago, but I kept making it harder for you to do so.”

“My own bad luck had something to do with making it harder,” Turner noted dryly. “It’s not as if you made storms happen and shipments get lost, or any of my other problems.”

“I know that. But I could have been a help, not a hindrance.” Ned cleared his throat. “So, in my first act of being better, you win.”

Turner quirked up a brow. “What?”

“You win the wager, Turner,” Ned said clearly. “You win, and you’re dismissed from my employ.”

Turner opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out.

Instead, the only answer was the report of a gunshot, echoing from the trees.

      24

Never forget, when stakes are high, any game can be deadly.

H
elp me!” Ned cried as he lumbered through the front door of Puffington Arms, a limp Turner hanging from his side. He crashed into the drawing room, just off the main foyer, throwing Turner as gently as he could (damn, the man was solid) onto the settee.

“Graeahhh!” Turner screamed through gritted teeth as he landed on the couch, the shift causing the bullet wound in his left shoulder to move and twist painfully.

“I’m sorry,” Ned said quickly, grabbing some lace throws from the table and pressing them into the wound.

“GRAEAHHH!”

“You have to keep pressure on the wound, you know that,” Ned admonished. “Keep your hand here, understand?” He transferred Turner’s right hand to his shoulder, making him press, trying to keep as much blood in him as possible. It had already been a long
tumble back from the woods, and red liberally streaked not only Turner’s clothes but his own.

Ned spun around looking for something, anything that could help him. Luckily, his rumpus upon entering and Turner’s screams of pain had attracted some attention from the household, and there were two maids standing in the doorway.

“Wake up your masters,” Ned told them. “Bring me clean linens, scissors, some water, and brandy. And get Kevin the groom in here, now!”

While they had stunned expressions, the maids responded to the voice of authority with speed and professionalism. Thus it was only moments before Sir Nathan and Lady Widcoate came plunging through the drawing room door, dressed in their nightgowns and sleep in their eyes.

The sleep went away quickly enough.

“What the devil!” Sir Nathan boomed, rushing over to the prone form on the couch.

“Is that the earl? Oh! Lord Ashby! You have murdered Lord Ashby!” This from Lady Widcoate, who began fluttering the instant she saw the color red. “What have you done, you monstrous brute!”

It took a moment for Ned to realize that her accusatory eyes were on him, and he should likely answer the accusation of murder. “I did nothing,” he said, his voice turned stony with authority. “We were walking in the woods, talking, and a shot rang out. And he’s not dead.”

Lady Widcoate was mollified by either his words or his commanding stature, but in any case, it had the desired effect. She shrunk back, gaping like a fish. “But then, who—?”