The Game and the Governess (4 page)

Turner remained still. So still. A stillness he’d learned in battle, perhaps. Then he thrust his hand across the table.

“I accept.”

“No! No, this is madness,” Rhys declared as he stood. “I will not be a party to it.”

“I am afraid you have to be,” Turner drawled. “You are not only our witness, but you will have to serve as our judge.”

“Judge?” Rhys cried, retaking his seat as he hung his head in his hands.

“Yes—you can be the only person impartial enough to do it.” He turned to Ned. “Is that agreeable to you,
my lord
?”

“Yes. That will suit me,” he answered back sharply, stung by Turner’s tone.

“So we are agreed, then? It is a wager?” Turner asked, his hand still in the air, waiting to be shook.

“It is.” Ned took the hand and pumped it once, firmly. “Good luck,” he wished his old friend. “Out of the two of us, you are the one that will need it.”

      2

The rules are laid out.

I
’ve decided this is not only going to be easy—it’s going to be fun.”

Ned and Turner had been riding for the better part of the morning, side by side. Silent. They had left the day before from London with Rhys, making their way to Smithfield and the Great North Road before the sun had breached the sky. They had taken the wearying part of the trip on the first day, riding hard all the way to Peterborough on horseback, a carriage with luggage and Ned’s valet, Danson, following behind.

But for this second leg of the journey, it was just the two of them.

After the deal had been struck, the wager made, it still had not been easy to convince Rhys to play his part in it.

“First of all, this is a horrific idea and you both will come to regret it,” Rhys had argued, crossing his arms
petulantly. “Secondly, I do not have the time to come all the way to Leicestershire with the two of you—I have
work
to do. I’m only passing through London on my way to Peterborough—a chemist resides there who has some amazing experiments that we may adapt in our own laboratory—”

“Peterborough!” Turner interrupted. “Perfect. It’s only a few hours from Hollyhock. You can go work with your chemist, and then come to us after a fortnight.”

“Yes,” Ned agreed. “A much better plan, especially if we get to avoid listening to your predictions of doom the entire time. Merely come in at the end, and act as judge.”

Rhys had swung his gaze between the two of them, judging, analyzing.

But it had been Turner’s seriousness that had forced Rhys’s hand.

“Are you willing to risk destroying a friendship,” Rhys asked Turner, “that has survived the better part of a decade?”

“What are you talking about?” Ned threw his head back in laughter. “It’s meant to be a lark! A bit of fun!”

“No one wagers their entire lives on a lark, Ashby,” Rhys intoned darkly. All Ned could do was throw up his hands at his friend’s pragmatic approach to the game.

“Do you see another way?” Turner asked quietly, his eyes intent on Rhys.

Something unspoken passed between the two men, something that made Ned feel left out of the joke. Although neither was laughing.

Then Rhys threw up his hands. “Fine, I will be your judge.”

Thus it was that Rhys set about penning a letter to
the chemist in Peterborough, which through a number of very fast riders, gave the man a few hours’ notice of the auspicious arrival of the Earl of Ashby and his party.

That night, they had readied themselves to switch lives. It turned out the most important thing was limiting the number of people who knew the truth. It was decided that Danson, Ned’s valet, was the only servant who could come with them. In fact, if they traveled with any fewer, Danson had been quick to point out, it would be unlikely that
either
of them would be recognized as the Earl of Ashby.

“Fellows, you’ll be staying with Dr. Gray here.” Ned had addressed his carriage driver and his liveried groom—whom it would pain Abandon, his stallion, to be without. “Danson will hire a carriage in Peterborough to take him to Hollyhock tomorrow. It’s not that we don’t trust you, but . . . we don’t trust you.”

Oddly, both the driver and the groom seemed at peace with this decision.

It had been the last night that Ned would be himself for two solid weeks. For when he woke in the morning, he and Turner traded clothes, traded horses, and traded lives.

They had a leisurely breakfast, delaying the inevitable, then waved good-bye to Rhys and their chemist host—a kind, learned man whose hearing had been compromised by his gleeful enjoyment in making things explode in his laboratory.

And now, the sun was high in the sky, they were only a few miles from their destination, and they had not spoken one word to each other since mounting their horses.

Until now.

“I said, I think it will be fun,” Ned repeated. “Being you.”

“What will be so fun about it?” Turner replied, his tone neutral.

“Simply that I won’t have to worry about anything. Not about my clothes, or about paying proper attention to my hostess, all those little annoyances that make up an earldom.”

Turner made a noncommittal noise.

“Thus,” Ned continued, “I will get to spend all my time wooing any young woman I please.”

Turner pulled up on his reins, slowing his—actually Ned’s—beautiful black stallion. The horse whinnied in displeasure. Apparently, Turner had not learned the nuances of riding a Thoroughbred like Abandon, who responded to the lightest touch. Unlike the mare Turner usually rode, which was as stubborn as a mule.

“Perhaps we need to establish some rules,” Turner murmured. “About the wager.”

“Oh?” Ned said. “What kind of rules?”

“Basic things. Such as, if either of us reveals our true selves, that man loses.”

“That makes complete sense.” Ned nodded. “However, since this is a wager where I bear the brunt of the work,” he said reasonably, “I think it should be established that you are expressly forbidden from interfering.”

“How could I possibly interfere?” Turner replied, trying his best to keep Abandon from dancing as he came to a stop.

“You could spread lies to any lady who shows inter
est in me, you could—oh, here, let me.” Ned reached over and took Abandon’s reins, loosening Turner’s grip. “Don’t choke up so high on the reins. He will think there is something to fear.”

Turner moved his hands farther down the reins, letting them go a bit more slack. Abandon calmed down immediately.

“Thank you,” Turner grumbled. He took a moment to resettle himself on Abandon’s back. “I agree to your rule. This is a gentlemen’s wager, and I will act as a gentleman throughout.”

“In fact, I don’t think you should be permitted to say anything bad about me,” Ned decided. “Not even a minor slight. You can only sing my praises.”

“Since you will be wearing my name, if I slight you, I will be slighting myself,” Turner reasoned, but at a look from Ned, he held up his hand. “All right. I shall only sing your praises. But—I have a condition as well.”

“Of course.”

“The object of your affection has to be a lady of good breeding. Someone gently raised. No chambermaids, no cooks.”

Ned’s brow came down.
How did he guess
 . . .
?
But Turner just smirked.

“The premise of this wager is that you, as me, could make a lady fall in love with you. Thus, it would have to be someone I would court. And while I may be your secretary, I am still a man of property—”

“For a few more weeks at least.”

Turner shot him a glare. “—and was an officer in the army.” Although he had not purchased his commission. So many officers had died during the wars and left
vacancies, available to anyone wanting to take them. Turner had gotten a non-purchase vacancy as a lieutenant, and was promoted to captain on merit in the field.

“And these qualifications make you as snobbish as the highest lord,” Ned replied dryly. Having to limit himself to only ladies would be slightly more difficult, but . . . “Fine, I agree to your stipulation. Besides, I have found that, regardless of social standing, the fairer sex does not differ much when it comes to matters of the heart. If you confess your love, chances are they will confess it back.”

“Oh, and that’s another stipulation,” Turner added, nudging Abandon forward, making their way up the road again. “You cannot declare your feelings. Her declaration must be spontaneous.”

“What?” Ned cried, kicking his stubborn steed into moving, catching up to Turner. “That is ridiculous!”

And it thoroughly destroyed Ned’s plan. He would meet a girl (although chambermaids and cooks were now out of the question, it seemed), woo her for a se’nnight, then he would declare his love. Then he would have a whole week for her to declare it back, to wear her down. And if, on the off chance he received a firm “no,” he would use that extra week to secure his interest with someone else.

“Why is that ridiculous?” Turner countered. “You mean to prove that your good humor wins the day—not your ardent declarations.”

“I don’t think you understand how this works. No young lady—not of good breeding, anyway, which is
your
stipulation—will make a declaration of love without first hearing one from her object.” Ned shook his head. “It simply isn’t done.”

Turner seemed to consider it for a moment. “Well, then, perhaps we revise what constitutes a declaration of love.”

Ned smiled. Finally, a rule that would work in
his
favor.

“All right. What constitutes a declaration?”

“Well, obviously, if you can get the girl to express her feelings, either written or publicly, then that will carry the day.”

“But if she doesn’t? If she is too well bred for that?”

“Then . . .” He thought for a moment. “If you can collect three things from a lady, it will serve as proof enough.”

“And what are these three things?” Ned asked suspiciously.

He ticked them off on his fingers. “A dance, in public.”

“Easy enough.” Ned conceded.

“Second, a token of affection. A glove, a pressed flower, or some such nonsense. Freely given, not taken without her knowledge.”

“Turner, if these are your qualifications, I will not only have one lady in love with me within a fortnight, I will have them all,” Ned scoffed.

“And third: an . . . intimate knowledge of the lady.”

Ned pulled up short. “An
intimate
knowledge?”

“Yes—the location of a mole on a concealed part of her body, a personal secret from her youth—something to that effect. All women have these little things.” Turner grinned like a cat of prey again—his tiger smile. “How you find out the information is up to you.”

“Now hold on,” Ned said sternly. “You are requiring that I
seduce
someone. That could have longer-reaching consequences than a fortnight.”

Turner shrugged. “Only if you cannot get her to declare her love openly. There is still that option. Besides, seduction is not a requirement—only a possible method of obtaining what you require.”

A possible method? Hell, it was the only method Ned could think of. Suddenly, he felt as if he had no grounding anymore. He swayed in his seat, grasping hard to keep upright.

“Have you grown uneasy?”

“Not at all,” Ned shot back immediately. “I simply prefer to avoid doing things that cannot be undone. But if that’s what it takes . . .”

But his bravado masked a strange sensation in his gut. Could it be a . . . a qualm? A hint of guilt?

“If you feel unequal to the task . . . you could always forfeit,” Turner said, his voice gruff.

“Before the game’s even begun?” Ned’s head shot up. “No, of course not.”

So this was Turner’s tactic, was it? Make more and more ridiculous qualifications in the hopes he would call the whole thing off. Well, he didn’t take into account Ned’s luck.

His eyes fell to the signet ring he wore on his right hand. The Earl of Ashby’s crest. And he could hear his great-uncle’s voice echoing in his head, as if he were still twelve years old: “
You’re lucky to be here, don’t you realize? If you were out there, people would want something from you. And without my protection, you might be foolish enough to give it to them.”

His eyes narrowed. Yes, Turner, his old friend, wanted something from him. He wanted to be right, and he wanted Ned to be wrong.

Well, as long as he was the Earl of Ashby, he would not be taken advantage of. He would not be cowed by something as mundane as guilt. He would prove Turner the fool, show him the truth of his good nature, his luck . . .

And he was right. This was going to be fun.

“What has you grinning so?” Turner asked suspiciously.

Ned looked up, surprised to find himself smirking. “Oh, nothing,” he said, unable to quell his newfound righteous conviction. “Here, take this—to finalize the transformation.” He held out his signet ring. Turner took it, shoving it onto his finger, none too gently.

“Fingers too fat for it?” Ned teased.

“I would argue that your hands are too slim and feminine,” Turner threw back, a wry smirk breaking over his features.