The Game and the Governess (40 page)

That question was cut off by the door flying open and admitting Mrs. Rye and her charges.

“He’s bleeding!” Minnie declared with morbid fascination.

“Oh, my goodness!” Henrietta squeaked, trying to see over Mrs. Rye’s shoulder.

“I think I need to sit down,” Clara added meekly, turning white as her mother’s frilly bed cap.

“Girls! Do not look!” Mrs. Rye said sternly. Then, turning an accusatory glare on Ned, she began
her
interrogation. “What did you . . . how did you . . . how
dare
you . . .”

To which Ned let his eyes flash with fury as he replied succinctly, “Madam. I did nothing except bring him here and try to save his life. Now, kindly get out of the doorway.”

Mrs. Rye’s eyes widened in shock, but she complied—which allowed Kevin the groom to rush in.

“Gor—what happened?” Kevin said, looking at the pale, groaning form on the couch. “The girl said someone was dead, and—”

“He’s not dead. Kevin, there’s no time,” Ned said, grabbing a piece of paper and a quill off the writing desk. He hastily scrawled an address on it. “You have to go to this address in Peterborough. Take Abandon, there is no time to lose. If you fly fast you should be back in a few hours. Ask for Dr. Rhys Gray.”

“You’re sending to Peterborough for a doctor?” Sir Nathan piped up. “There is an apothecary in Midville, he took my tooth out—”

“The bullet is still in his shoulder. Dr. Gray is not only a surgeon but a physician. He is our friend from
the war, he is experienced, and I am not trusting his life to anyone else—especially not a tooth-extracting apothecary,” Ned replied firmly. Then he turned his attention to Kevin, who was standing still. “What are you waiting for? Go!”

Kevin started, and quickly ducked his way out of the room, saying, “Pardon me, miss,” to the newly arrived—and stock-still with shock—Leticia.

“Ashby?” Her voice became small and broke as she unfroze and came to his side. She kneeled at the sofa’s edge and brushed an errant lock of hair out of Turner’s eyes. “Darling, what have they done to you?”

“It’s . . . all right,” Turner said, his eyes locked on hers. “Don’t . . . cry.” His voice was a struggle, and it tore at Ned’s gut to hear it.

“Of . . . of course not,” the countess sniffed, and tried to smile. “These are not tears. Just, ah—too many flowers in here. Now—” She wiped her hands over her cheeks. “What can we do? Mr. Turner?”

Ned found those dark, seductive eyes on him, but for once they were straightforward, and keeping fear in check.

“You can help him keep pressure on the wound,” Ned said. “That should stop the bleeding. But be careful, I think his—”

“GRAEAHHH!”

“—collarbone was broken by the bullet,” he finished lamely, as the countess decreased the pressure she was putting over Turner’s hand, which held the now bright red scrap of lace to his shoulder.

“Is that my doily?” Lady Widcoate noticed. Luckily, the doily would be saved from further dampening with
the arrival of linens, a pitcher of water, and a decanter of brandy, borne by one of the maids he’d sent.

“Excellent, thank you,” Ned said, receiving the tray.

“Really, Mr. Turner, is now a time for drinking?” Mrs. Rye harrumphed.

“And the good brandy too!” Lady Widcoate added.

“I think it’s a perfect time for drinking,” Sir Nathan mumbled. But to all of them, Ned barely spared a glance.

“It’s not for drinking,” Ned said through gritted teeth. “Countess, lift your hand—and his, if you can manage it.”

She did, whispering sweetly to Turner, encouraging him to lift his hand off the wound. Ned carefully clipped the coat and the shirt away from the wound and exposed the skin.

“What are you doing?” came Danson’s voice from the door. “Cutting a coat by Weston?”

“I’m trying to save his life, Danson,” Ned said without looking. “Now, come and help me.”

The grave valet rushed forward without another word and helped Ned survey the wound.

Blood was still pooling, but it seemed a bit slower than the gush of red that had occurred when he fell in the woods. Danson took one of the linens and damped it in the water, pressing it to the wound, cleaning the area. Turner whimpered in pain but did not move a muscle. Ned attributed this to the presence of the countess, and was thankful for her way with him. Then Ned took up the bottle of brandy.

“Are you ready?” he asked Turner, locking eyes with him. Turner took two deep breaths through his nose, then nodded.

“What are you doing?” Henrietta asked, with more curiosity than relish.

“Something Rhys taught us in the war,” Ned replied, and then poured a liberal amount of brandy on the wound.

The sound Turner made was inhuman and echoed through the room. The countess, God save her, held his hand tightly and let him squeeze his pain into her.

When it was over, Turner’s body relaxed, slumped. Ned quickly packed fresh linens on the wound. “Keep pressure there,” he commanded the countess. “When blood seeps all the way through, add another cloth. Eventually it will stop.” He turned to his valet. “Danson, help her.”

Ned made to rise, but when he did, Turner caught his arm. Ned met his eye.

“In the . . . in the woods . . .” Turner began, his voice even weaker now from what he had just gone through.

“It’s all right—don’t tire yourself,” the countess murmured in his ear.

“No,” Turner coughed. “In . . . woods. Heard . . .”

“Yes?” Ned said, leaning forward.

“It was . . . Baker.”

And then Turner slumped, passing out from the pain or loss of blood, or both.

Ned felt the ground shift beneath him. The clock ticked on the mantel, five, six, seven times, before someone finally spoke.

“What did he say?”

“Did he say Miss Baker?”

“Miss Baker? The governess?”

“The governess shot the earl?”

“Everyone stop!” Ned cried, coming to his feet. “I’m certain there is some misunderstanding. Miss Baker was not in the woods this morning. Tur—the earl must have meant something else.”

“What else?”

“How do you know she wasn’t in the woods?”

“Where is she, then?”

“There is a murderess in this house!”

“She is not a murderess!” Ned cried again. “Not the least reason being that he is not dead. He has simply passed out due to pain. And I refuse to consider any preposterous explanation until he wakes and can explain what he meant.”

“That is all very well and good for you,” Lady Widcoate sniffed. “But my children are under her care! And cannot be a moment longer!”

“Lady Widcoate, be reasonable,” Ned tried on a sigh. “There is no reason for hysterics.”

“Oh, really?” Lady Widcoate sneered. “Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, Miss Baker has no reason to shoot him.”

“But she does,” came the calm, rapidly cooling voice of the countess.

All eyes turned to her.

“He told me that he was worried about her . . . flirtation with you, Mr. Turner. Because she had blamed the earl for her family’s past misfortune.”

“Revenge!” Henrietta piped up, her eyes as large as saucers, full of the salacious possibilities. “But what about—”

“That’s it!” Lady Widcoate cried. “My babies! My darlings! We must rescue them from her evil clutches!”

“My dear, hush.” Sir Nathan took his overly dramatic wife in his arms (and now Ned knew where Rose got such flair) and turned a dark gaze on Ned.

“Mr. Turner, it seems Miss Baker would have a motive.”

“It’s patently ridic—”

“And while we can do nothing for the earl except wait for the doctor, I for one do not intend to let Miss Baker go unquestioned.”

Sir Nathan patted his wife on the head and released her, before stomping out of the room. It took only moments for the rest of the party to scurry after him.

Ned looked down at the countess, still kneeling beside Turner’s prone form, diligently placing pressure on the wound, under Danson’s direction.

“You are wrong about Miss Baker,” he ground out to her.

“I sincerely hope so, for both your sakes,” the countess replied coolly.

“You’ll stay with him?” he asked.

She nodded in return.

Ned did not hesitate. He had to catch up to Sir Nathan. Phoebe had no idea what was coming.

“SOMEONE SLEPT LATE,”
Nanny singsonged as Phoebe rushed into the schoolroom. “Or perhaps didn’t sleep at all?”

Phoebe blushed a deep red, but otherwise her features remained utterly controlled. “I apologize for being late, Nanny. Rose, Henry—good morning,” she said quickly, turning her attention to her charges. Turn
ing her attention to anything other than Nanny’s knowing look.

“We already had breakfast,” Nanny said, “and recited the alphabet—”

“Nanny only missed ‘L-M-N-O,’” Henry cried. “She did much better today!”

“And I’m running a bit behind myself—needed in the kitchens.” Nanny took off her apron and smoothed her hair as she spoke. “Apparently, there’s some sort of ruckus, and a few of the girls were called away to help. Cook is going mad trying to ready the kippers and eggs, because everyone got up earlier than she expected for the day after the Summer Ball. Everyone except you, that is.” Nanny winked as she passed Phoebe, and headed out the schoolroom door.

In truth, Phoebe had barely slept last night, so fraught was her mind. She kept running over the evening in her head, the wonderful moments at the ball having their shine dulled when compared with her outrageousness at the little cottage, and then Mr. Turner’s confusing reaction to them.

And she had thought Mr. Turner seemed confused before! But this time, it infected her. She had gone past boldness into wantonness, and he had made her feel such things . . . and then . . .

He’d stopped. Stopped and changed every feeling of glory she’d had to shame. She had thought he had feelings for her. Feelings enough to leave her with a wonderful memory. But instead, she’d only inherited his confusion.

She’d lain awake most of the night, swinging madly between rejection and rage and courage and
cowardice. How would she act when she saw him again? How would he? She’d ached, her body pulsed, at the smallest sound from outside her door. But it was never anything. Finally, in the early, predawn hours, she’d fallen into exhausted sleep, all the energy she’d had coursing through her from the excitement and enormity of the day leaving her spent, and she’d slept. Late.

But she could not stare at the closed schoolroom door and reflect on it any longer. She had Rose and Henry and their lessons for the day to fill her mind.

“Now, children, if you would please fetch your primers . . .”

As Rose and Henry found and took out their primers, there was a knock at the door. Both Rose and Henry cocked their heads, eager to be distracted.

“Turn to the page from yesterday, and start reading,” Phoebe admonished as she went to the door.

“Edwa— Mr. Turner,” she said, unable to hide her shock. He was red-faced, as if he’d been running. She could not think of anything else to say, her eyes locked on his, until she noticed who was behind him. “And Sir Nathan.” She dipped to a curtsy. “How can I help you?”

“Miss Baker,” her Mr. Turner began, and she forced herself to keep her expression blank. “There has been—”

“Miss Baker, all you need do is answer one question,” Sir Nathan said, elbowing his way past Mr. Turner and into the room, his barrel chest and belly filling up the space so that Phoebe had to take a step back. Rose and Henry immediately stopped pretending to read their primers and watched in awe.

“Certainly,” she said, folding her hands in front of her.

“Where were you this morning, about an hour ago?”

For the rest of her life, Phoebe would wonder why she lied. Maybe it was because Sir Nathan’s presence in the schoolroom was strange and intimidating enough to turn her tongue on itself and make her feel meek and scared. Maybe it was because of the warning she’d received from Lady Widcoate and the countess, telling her that her conduct at the Summer Ball must be above reproach—and she felt that oversleeping would be seen as an admission of some kind of guilty act. Or maybe it was because her Mr. Turner’s solemn eyes were on her, and she did not want him to know that she had been so unsettled.

But no matter the reason, lie she did. “I breakfasted with the children at seven, and then we began our lessons.”

Mr. Turner sagged in what could only be relief, a strange reaction to Phoebe’s eyes. Sir Nathan turned to him, and she had thought the man would nod and go, and it seemed for a moment like he would. But then, quiet, observant Henry decided to speak up.

“But you did not have breakfast with us today,” he said. “It was just Nanny.”

Mr. Turner’s face fell. Sir Nathan’s turned bright red, his brow coming down in fury. Phoebe quickly backtracked.

“Yes, that is true. I am sorry, Sir Nathan, for lying. I overslept and did not want you to think me lazy, especially on account of how you so graciously allowed me to attend the ball last night, and I beg your—”

“I found it! I found it!” Lady Widcoate’s voice came from beyond her husband, as she knocked Mr. Turner
back again to force her way through. “I found proof of your perfidy!”