The Game and the Governess (41 page)

“Actually, I found it,” Henrietta Benson piped up from behind her. Mrs. Rye, Clara, and Minnie followed close behind.

“Rose! Henry!” Mrs. Rye called out. “Come here and, er . . . play with Minnie and Clara!”

But Rose and Henry did not move, their eyes flitting from one grown-up to the other, their faces despairing confusion.

“What perfidy?” Phoebe asked, taken aback. “Edward, what is going on?” She turned her eyes to him, but he could only stare back at her, gravely.

“There was . . . an accident this morning,” he began. “The earl—”

“Accident, my foot!” Lady Widcoate cried. “The Earl of Ashby was shot, as well you know, and I have the proof of it.”

She held open her hands, and there were little scraps of torn paper.

Paper it took only a moment for Phoebe to recognize.

“It’s a note from the earl—that’s his seal, right there—and if you piece it together, it offers Miss Baker a great sum of money,” Lady Widcoate said triumphantly.

“Actually,
I
pieced it together,” Minnie said dryly. “I like puzzles.”

“But the fact remains that Miss Baker tore it to pieces! Showing her hatred of the man for the world to see!” Lady Widcoate finished.

“Where did you find that?” Phoebe asked, dazed.

“Your rooms,” Lady Widcoate replied. “And by the
bye, had I realized you and Mr. Turner were the only people on the third floor, I would never have allowed you to attend the ball. I can only imagine the illicit goings-on up there! Why, you have made this a house of murder—
and
ill-repute! To think, my babies have been in your presence. Oh, my babies! Rose, Henry, come here and get away from this nasty woman.”

As Lady Widcoate rushed to her stunned children, smothering them into her bosom with her brand of affection, Phoebe’s mind was reeling. She would have commented on the fact that it was Lady Widcoate who had
placed
them both on the third floor, or that the children looked more frightened by her attentions than anything else, but instead, her mind got stuck on a different part of the accusation.

“Murder?” she asked, faintly. “The Earl of Ashby is . . . dead?”

She could feel her knees going weak. Thankfully, Mr. Turner’s voice sailed above the fray.

“No, he isn’t dead, merely injured,” he said, his eyes shooting daggers at the group. “And when he wakes up, he will tell you that Miss Baker had nothing to do with it.”

“I didn’t!” Phoebe croaked.

“And yet the earl already said you did.” It was Mrs. Rye this time, whose eyes flashed furiously. “I know a liar when I see one.”

“Now, hold on,” Mr. Turner said, his body coming between Phoebe and the rest of the group. “I will not allow you to impugn Miss Baker this way.”

But it was Sir Nathan’s voice that boomed over the crowd.

“Mr. Turner is right,” he said, the gaggle of women behind him stilling, Lady Widcoate gasping, clutching Henry tight. “It is the earl who will proclaim Miss Baker’s fate. But as he cannot do so at present . . . Miss Baker”—he stepped forward and took her arm tightly in his meaty paw—“you had better come with me.”

Phoebe’s eyes fell on her Mr. Turner’s flushed and angry face, but there was nothing he could do, as Sir Nathan dragged her away.

      25

When play turns foul, a gentleman will be forced to call the cheater out.

Y
ou are going to let me see her.”

Ned squared off with the guard at Phoebe’s door, whose stern expression gave away nothing.

It had been two hours since she had been hauled away by Sir Nathan. Two hours since she had been locked away in her own rooms, no other provocation than a ripped-up letter and a whispered word from Turner.

When Sir Nathan closed Phoebe up in her rooms, she was pale but stone-faced, her head held high. She refused to make any admission of feeling, refused to give anything away. So, he put the guard in place and that was that.

Then everyone went back downstairs. Ned didn’t wish to, but he was well aware of the heavy scrutiny that he was getting from the Widcoates, and he needed to check on Turner. He wanted to be there when he woke, and
wanted to make sure he had heard him correctly. Or, as he hoped, incorrectly.

Turner was where they had left him, on the sofa in the drawing room, the countess tending to his wound with assistance from a maid. His bleeding had slowed to a crawl, and she had bound some linen around his arm to keep it still lest he aggravate the broken collarbone. He was in and out of consciousness, but never clear enough to be asked questions. Ned had tried anyway, without any luck.

For the umpteenth time since a random rifle shot had rung out from the trees, Ned considered bringing the room and the world to a halt by revealing his true identity. But three things stopped him. First, they had no reason to believe him—after all, he had spent two weeks telling them he was the earl’s secretary. There was no proof, and it could backfire so easily. Second, who knows if it would do any good? He would vouch for Miss Baker’s character as the earl, but he could not give her an alibi. And, not for the first time, he regretted not having provided her with one. Third, and most selfishly—someone had shot Turner . . . likely thinking he was the earl. Meaning someone out there wanted the Earl of Ashby’s blood. He did not want to tell them that they’d missed.

While Ned was trying, to no avail, to get sense out of Turner, Sir Nathan had sent for the county magistrate. However, two things were likely to slow his arrival. First, the magistrate had attended the festival and Summer Ball yesterday, and had stayed until the wee hours. The second was that the only person left in the house who could drive was Cook. She had hitched the
old cart herself and taken it out just as soon as breakfast had been served.

There seemed little else to do but eat after that, although the countess refused to leave Turner’s side, and Mrs. Rye had no kind of appetite. The children were brought in, as Lady Widcoate was suddenly struck by a bout of motherly love and refused to let them out of her sight—although she complained of such nervous spasms that it was Clara, Minnie, and Henrietta who ended up playing with them, with Nanny looking on. As it was, only Sir Nathan gobbled up the kidney beans and ham.

When Ned finally decided that everyone had been lulled far enough into complacency, he excused himself from the breakfast room, saying he was going to relieve the countess of her watch. If anyone had a brain in their heads they would have followed him, but Sir Nathan, true to his nature, considered the matter settled, Lady Widcoate was far too engrossed in her own flutterings, Mrs. Rye was happy to turn a blind eye to anything she considered unseemly as long as she could, and the girls were entertaining the children. Out of everyone, it was only nosy young Henrietta whose eyes followed him out of the room, but she stayed where she was, on the breakfast room floor, playing a game of sticks with Henry and Minnie.

Thus, Ned crept swiftly up the stairs to the third floor. If he came across anyone, he would say he was only going to his own room. But no one stopped him.

Until he got to the guard, that is.

The guard who, outside of Kevin the groom, was the only other male servant in the house.

“Is that an order, sir?” Danson replied, his face not giving away a flicker of interest.

“You’re bloody well right it is.”

“Very good, sir,” Danson said crisply, stepping neatly aside and producing a key. He unlocked the door as Ned came forward, his skin suddenly itching to get to her. Before Danson opened it, though, he whispered low in Ned’s ear, “She’s strong. I haven’t heard her crying, sir. But if you change that I will come after you with sewing shears.”

“Sewing shears?” Ned asked.

“A valet’s best friend. Sir. I will be at the end of the hall, should you need me.”

It was at that moment Ned realized he would have to give Danson a hefty raise once they extricated themselves from this mess.

Ned eased the door open and found Phoebe sitting on her bed. Her back ineffably straight, her eyes fixed on the small, framed painting that hung on the wall—looking up at the night sky, through a circle of trees. It was, in fact, the only thing of Phoebe’s that remained in the room. The other pictures, papers on her desk, the few clothes—all of them were packed up in a valise, sitting next to her on the bed.

“Going somewhere?” Ned asked quietly.

“Yes,” was her only answer.

“Somewhere nice?” He tried to be light. “Perhaps I’ve been there and can recommend accommodations.”

“Have you been to prison?” she asked, her voice unable to hold on to amusement, instead becoming bleak.

“You will not go to prison,” Ned replied, so savagely that Phoebe couldn’t help looking at him.

“Not if the Widcoates have anything to say about it.”

“Phoebe, the Widcoates won’t have a choice!” Ned came and sat next to her. Unable to stop himself, he grabbed her cold hand in his, held it fast. She did not return his grip, but neither did she remove her hand. “I will protect you. No one as small and mean as the Widcoates will ever be able to touch you again. Besides, the earl will come to, and he will explain to everyone that you had nothing to do with this.”

“Even if that is the case, I’ve been accused of murder by my employers. I doubt I can stay here and be civil any longer.” She shook her head. “I can go to America. To my cousins. I have enough money for the voyage. Not as much as I would like, but . . . enough. I’m told Connecticut is pleasant. I just . . . I . . .” Her face began to crumple, as she was unable to hold up the façade of strength any longer. “I don’t know why I
lied
.”

Big fat tears threatened to fall onto her cheeks. The sight of them broke something in Ned. Something fierce, primal, and protective. He said nothing but pulled Phoebe to him, crushing her against his chest.

“This morning, I . . . I was so tired, I had barely slept, and then I overslept. I should have just told Sir Nathan that, but I made it seem like I had something to h—”—
hic
—“hide.”

“Hush, my darling, hush,” Ned soothed, unable to hide a smile. “Don’t cry. If only because Danson will murder me with sewing shears if he hears you.”

That made her shoulders shake with laughter instead of tears. “It was your fault I overslept, you know.”

“And you are the reason I slept not at all.”

She pulled back and looked at him then, her eyes
drying quickly after their uncharacteristic display of emotion. Those clear blue eyes asked all the questions left over from last night, and several new ones too.

And suddenly, the weight of things unsaid and secrets too long held bore heavy on Ned’s chest. He knew he needed to tell her everything. Everything he had taken Turner out to the woods to confess that morning. How he felt about her, what he wanted—and the reason he didn’t deserve any of it. His true name. And their foolish, terrible game.

But where to begin? What words would cover the enormity of what he needed to say?

Evidently, he took too long contemplating, because Phoebe let her gaze slip away. Pulling her hand away from his, she composed herself.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter now, anyway,” she murmured, smoothing her hand over her hair.

She made to rise, to shake out her skirts. The return to decorum—and space. And Ned knew—in the bottom of his very soul—that he could not let her put her walls back up.

“Phoebe.” Ned stood with her, taking her hand in his. She let hers lie limply. “You’re wrong. It does matter that neither of us got sleep last night.”

“Why?” she asked, her entire body lighting like a wire. She tried to pull away from him, but he pulled her back.

“Because . . . of what happened last night between us.”

“And what did happen, Edward?” she burst out. “I had an entire night to contemplate, and
I don’t know
.”

“What could you possibly not understand?” Ned said, his voice getting louder.

“Why did you stop?” she wailed finally, breaking free of his hold. “Why did you pull away from me and make me feel like such a fool?”

“I . . . I never intended you to feel like a fool.”

“How could I not?” Her face was a fury of anger and despair, of raw, honest pain. “I bared everything to you, and you walked away. If you didn’t want me, you could have simply said so at the beginning and spared me the embarrassment of being . . . wanton and unwanted.”

“Not want you?” Ned cried, bewildered. “How could I possibly not want you? Phoebe, I’m in love with you!”

Her breath stopped. “You . . . you’re in love with me?”

“Yes,” he exclaimed, nearly laughing in relief. He risked a step forward and took her by the shoulders. “I didn’t stop because I didn’t want you. I stopped because I wanted you so badly. But I didn’t want you to hate me. And you would have hated me, Phoebe. I promise. You still might.”

“Why would I ever hate you?” she asked, bewildered.

He swallowed, the right words elusive, dancing around and taunting him. “I . . . there are things you do not know about me, Phoebe. I have not been entirely honest with you. About my background. My family.”