The Game and the Governess (43 page)

“Do any of you ladies?” he asked blithely.

“I do!” Miss Minnie Rye cried. Her aunt tugged at her arm, silently admonishing her to keep quiet. “What?” Minnie asked. “You do too.”

Mrs. Rye blushed deeply. “I only learned because my husband is often . . . traveling for business, and I wished to be able to protect myself and my daughter.
But I couldn’t have done it, because I was asleep as well. Besides, I am a terrible shot.”

“But I would wager Miss Minnie is quite a good shot.”

“Mr. Turner!” cried Mr. Fennick, aghast. “You cannot seriously be accusing a young lady like Miss Rye of shooting the earl?”

“Why not?” Mr. Turner spun on his heel to face the fastidious little lawyer. “It makes as much sense as blaming Miss Baker.”

“But there is no reason for Minnie to shoot anyone!” Clara cried, shakily.

“Indeed, she actively tries to avoid it,” Henrietta piped up, “ever since she almost shot off my toe with an arrow a few days ago.”

“Minnie, Henrietta, be quiet, NOW,” Mrs. Rye commanded. “Lady Widcoate, I will not stand to have my girls decried in such a way. The truth is, Mr. Turner, that your lady-love had means to shoot the earl, motive to do so, and, as far as anyone can tell, opportunity. She lied to Sir Nathan about her whereabouts this morning. And now the earl is dying on a sofa. Can you argue any of that?”

“No,” Mr. Turner said simply. “Other than the dying part. But the fact remains that Miss Baker didn’t shoot the earl because she
could not.
She does not know how to operate a rifle.”

“Well, let’s put that to the test,” Sir Nathan said, coming up the hall. “I have my Baker rifle.” He brandished the weapon in his hand. “And, yes, it is clean,” he said to Mr. Turner before he could ask. “But it is possible she cleaned it and put it back before we discovered her in the schoolroom, is it not?”

“I sincerely doubt it,” Mr. Turner said, his tone brooking no opposition. Although Sir Nathan had some to give.

“You might be right. And the earl might bear your theories out. But unless you want Miss Baker behind bars in Midville . . .”

“Never,” Mr. Turner replied savagely.

“Then you will allow us to submit her to a simple test.”

He let those words hang in the air. The two men growled at each other, like dogs fighting over a bone, while the magistrate, Mr. Fennick, and the ladies looked on in anticipation.

“I’ll do it,” she said suddenly. Every eye turned to her, positioned on the stairs. It was almost as if they had forgotten she was there.

“I’ll take your . . . your test, Sir Nathan,” she clarified, her eyes on Mr. Turner, her stare calming him. “And then, one way or another, I am leaving this house for good.”

“PLEASE TELL ME
you have actually no idea how to use a Baker rifle,” Ned said under his breath to Phoebe, as they walked out across the veranda and down to the open space by the pond, which Minnie had been using for archery, bowls, and any other lawn game she could persuade people to play.

“I have never shot a rifle in my life,” she replied. “But it can’t be that hard, can it?”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Go on believing that, and you’ll be fine.”

They neared the rest of the group. Naturally,
no one
wanted to miss this, the governess-murderess proving her innocence by firing a rifle. All the housemaids and the cook were gathering at the windows. Ned looked for the children, but luckily they were not there. Nanny must have kept them away from the fray.

“Don’t be nervous,” he whispered to Phoebe. She nodded and gave him a slight, brave smile.

“Mr. Turner, step away from Miss Baker,” Lady Widcoate cried. “For all we know, you are telling her how to cheat!”

Ned’s eyebrow went up, but he said nothing. With a small squeeze of Phoebe’s hand, he released her.

All Ned could do was watch. If this did not work, he did not know how he was going to extricate her from this ridiculous mess. If only Turner had said something else! If only Turner would wake up into coherency. If only Rhys would get here and get him better. Because if Turner took a proverbial turn for the worse, well . . . Ned could lose two people he loved that day.

Sir Nathan handed Phoebe the rifle. She held it by the barrel, at arm’s length. Then he handed her the ball and powder.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake—she doesn’t even know how to load the bloody thing!” Ned could not help but cry out.

“Language, Mr. Turner!” Mrs. Rye called out, pressing hands over Clara’s and Minnie’s ears. Both girls tried to duck out of the way. “And maybe she is feigning her ignorance, hmm?”

“She is not, Mrs. Rye,” Ned countered. “Unlike some, she is incapable of feigning anything.”

Mrs. Rye sniffed at the reproach, but she let it go. Really, Mrs. Rye had become terribly prudish since that first night when he thought she might welcome a fling. If he were to guess, he would say that it was that misconception that did it. Perhaps she had been thinking of a fling, and then found herself horrified at the prospect of one.

“Now, if she cannot load the gun, how could she have fired it?” he asked.

“Perhaps she had help?” Lady Widcoate rationalized. “Perhaps the gun was left loaded?”

“Sir Nathan said he always cleans his guns. Why would he clean it and then reload it and then put it back?” Ned drawled.

“Well, what if she used a different gun?” came the wheedling sound of Mr. Fennick’s voice. “One that was already loaded. Er, just as a suggestion.”

Ned looked over at the little man, considering his words. And then . . . something clicked into place. The last piece of this ludicrous, dangerous puzzle.

“Very true, Mr. Fennick,” he said, considering. “Your solicitor’s brain has come upon a weak spot in my argument.” He watched as Phoebe’s eyebrow went up, but said nothing. Ned kept his attention on the calm-faced man in front of him. “Very lucky you happened to be here.”

“Well, I had an appointment this morning to go hunting with Sir Nathan and the earl. To firm up plans for the cottage before he left for London, you see.”

“Yes, indeed. Have to make certain those plans are firm.”

“You have no idea how many people no longer be
lieve that giving one’s word constitutes a deal.” Mr. Fennick shook his head. “I have had so many difficulties—”

“Well, since you happened to be coming to go hunting, surely you can help Miss Baker load the rifle?” Ned broke in, all innocence. “So we can see if she can fire it. After all, you are right, she could have taken a rifle already loaded from somewhere else.”

“Well, I suppose . . .” Mr. Fennick tried, his full eyebrows rising up to his nonexistent hairline.

“Come on, come on, Fennick,” Sir Nathan said gruffly, having settled himself into a chair on the veranda, and not looking like he wanted to rise again anytime soon.  “Load the thing for the girl, we haven’t all day.”

With a quick nod, Mr. Fennick crossed to Phoebe and took the rifle out of her hands. With quick, practiced motions, he checked the barrel, loaded and primed the gun. Then, with one last check, he handed the rifle back to Phoebe.

“Now aim,” Sir Nathan called out. “Into the pond, if you please—I should rather not have anyone shot.”

“My toes escaped mauling once already this week,” Henrietta said, causing Clara to snicker and Minnie to turn red with embarrassment.

“Like this?” Phoebe asked, bringing the gun to her side.

“Er, more like this,” Mr. Fennick replied, adjusting her position, so the gun was at her shoulder.

When she was in position, Mr. Fennick stepped back, and then . . . Phoebe fired.

“Oof!” she cried as she fell backward. The force of the rifle’s kick had sent her flying onto her back, show
ing no small amount of petticoat when she landed with a thud. She struggled to her feet as rapidly as possible, and quickly restored decorum to her skirts.

“Now I know why ladies don’t shoot,” she murmured as she rubbed her shoulder.

“Yes, they have quite a force,” Mr. Fennick agreed, absentmindedly rubbing his own shoulder in sympathy. “And you, er, missed the pond.” They looked and saw a mark in the dirt on the other side of the pond, where her bullet had ended.

“I think you can agree, Sir Nathan, Lady Widcoate,” Ned drawled, stepping up to join Phoebe and Mr. Fennick, “that it would be nearly impossible for Miss Baker to have shot the Earl of Ashby.”

Lady Widcoate opened her mouth to protest, but she was stayed by a stern look from her husband. “That is . . . a fair assessment,” he said grudgingly.

“But . . .” Lady Widcoate tried. But this time Ned cut her off.

“Lady Widcoate, stop. Take a moment. And admit to yourself that you were swept up in the madness and must now let it go.” His eyes narrowed. “While you think, perhaps you should take some refreshment? A bite to eat? I understand blackberry tarts are a particular favorite of yours.”

Lady Widcoate’s cheeks flamed in either horror or embarrassment, but she shut her mouth.

“And can we perhaps all admit the impossibility of Miss Baker’s involvement in this event?” Ned called out to the crowd. “A young woman who can neither load a rifle, nor manage to hit an entire pond when standing right in front of it, is hardly likely to be the crack shot
who felled the earl from under cover fifty yards away.”

He had thought perhaps that there might be a rousing cheer for his efforts, for Phoebe’s unshakable bravery. But rather there was some grumbling, some shrugging, and ultimately, a concession of the point.

“Yes, Mr. Turner, it is agreed.” Mr. Hale the magistrate spoke for all. Ned wrapped his arms around Phoebe as he felt her knees give way.

“Perhaps I can go back to my bed now?” Mr. Hale yawned.

“In just a moment, Mr. Hale,” Ned called out. Then he turned his attention to the man with the gun. “Thank you, Mr. Fennick, for your assistance in proving Miss Baker’s innocence.”

“Well, you are quite welcome, Mr. Turner,” Fennick replied, handing the rifle over to him.

“You say you were coming hunting here today?”

“Yes. Sir Nathan and I—”

“Yes, yes, solidifying business and all that. Must be terribly trying, being the only member of the consortium concerned about the deal.”

“That’s not wholly true . . .”

“Now, now, as a man of business, I know how it goes,” Ned said cheerfully. And he did, too, since he had read through all the paperwork of the business proposal. “The consortium’s been laying out a pretty penny to make this work, I assume. Land surveys, having a pipeline built . . . even moving the Summer Festival cost money! You deserve the credit for being the one to make certain all that happens.”

“Thank you, Mr. Turner.” Mr. Fennick blushed. “It
is gratifying to have one’s work acknowledged.”

“How much does it take to buy into the consortium anyway?”

“How much?”

“You four are equal partners. But equal means different things to different people. After all—Sir Nathan is funded by his wife’s fortune. Mr. McLeavey comes from some money, as he’ll inherit a hunting lodge upon his mother’s death. And Mr. Dunlap owns a profitable mine. But you’re just a solicitor. You must have used everything you had.”

Mr. Fennick’s eyes narrowed, while his grin remained firmly in place. “I don’t see the point of enumerating my involvement.”

“Don’t you, Mr. Fennick?” Ned rubbed his chin. “Where is your rifle?”

Mr. Fennick’s obsequious smile faltered. “My rifle?”

“Yes, your rifle. For hunting. You do have your own, correct?” Ned inquired. “After all, you shoot with Sir Nathan often.”

Fennick shot a nervous look to Sir Nathan, who had begun to peer at him queerly. “Certainly . . .”

“Then why did you not bring it this morning?”

“I . . .”

“Or perhaps you did.” Ned advanced on Fennick. Phoebe fell back and away. “Perhaps you came out early and had your rifle with you. And saw us in the woods.”

“I . . . I . . .” Mr. Fennick began to stammer.

“Too good an opportunity to miss, I suppose. After all, so many people no longer honor their word. If the
chance at the cottage slipped through the Hollyhock Bathing Consortium’s fingers because the earl changed his mind, it would be terribly problematic.”

“You . . . you are spinning ridiculous stories now,” Mr. Fennick replied, his nervousness turning to anger.

“Perhaps,” Ned conceded. “But if we go into the woods, what are the odds that we are going to find your rifle underneath a pile of leaves somewhere?”

Gasps rose from their audience—which had grown. The gunshot had drawn the housemaids out from behind the windows and onto the veranda.

“Mr. Fennick?” Mr. Hale said, his bleary eyes narrowing, as if he was finally truly waking up.

“Fennick, where is your gun?” Sir Nathan asked.

“I . . . I . . . I cannot believe you are accusing me of such things!” Mr. Fennick cried, puffing out his chest and poking at Ned’s chest. “I would never do anything to harm the earl!” The little man’s eyes narrowed. “But
you
might.”

“Me?” Ned scoffed. “Mr. Fennick, I was the one who brought the earl in.”

“Exactly—you were the only one with him,” Mr. Fennick returned. His solicitor brain began to pick up speed. “We have only your word for what happened.”