The Game and the Governess (45 page)

She turned her head away, clutching the bag in her hands tightly. It kept them from shaking. Last night had been a dream, a hazy memory of stars so far away that it almost didn’t exist anymore.

“And this morning?” she asked, swallowing hard. “You gave up your newfound conscience?”

“No.” His eyes came up, sparking like fire. “This morning I simply couldn’t fight against what we both wanted anymore.”

He took another step toward her, his body moving like a cat, his eyes mesmerizing on hers.

“You wanted me then,” he purred. “You want me now.”

“No.”

“You’re in love with me.”

She let her eyes flash with anger, with pain. “No.”

“Phoebe, you told me you loved me here, in this room, not an hour ago.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice cracking. “But I know you so much better now.”

He leaned into her then, growling. She refused to bend her spine. “You also said it did not matter to you what my past was. You said you didn’t care if I was the child of chimney sweeps. Why is this any different?”

“It is different, and you know it,” she spat back. “Or else you would have told me the truth much sooner. Certainly, before we . . .” Her eyes drifted to the wall, where they had been wrapped around each other. He caught the line of her gaze and his eyes went black with remembered passion. She snapped her mouth shut, and her eyes away.

“If you had been any other lord, perhaps it would not have made any difference. But you’re the
Earl of Ashby
. The person whose carelessness altered my future.”

“I’m also the man who loves you. Who would alter your future again. Phoebe, don’t you see?” He clasped her hand. “All this little wager has done is allow that to happen.”

“No!” She wrenched free of him and finally set him back on his heels enough that she managed to throw open the door and march down the hall. “All
this little wager has done is convince me that you are still that careless person—one who does not give a damn about what damage is done or who he hurts as long as things are going his way.
That
is who you are,
Lucky Ned
.”

She spat the last words like bile. His face fell; he looked so hurt that it nearly broke her heart. But she had to be strong. She had to walk away.

Her pride was all she had left.

So she hurried down the hall to the rickety stairs. By the time she reached the landing, he was dogging her steps, nearly on her heels. But she kept moving forward.

“Phoebe, please don’t do this. Please, let me explain. I will tell you everything.”

They reached the main staircase.

“You want to know about me? Fine. I lived in that little cottage until I was twelve, when my great-uncle named me his heir and sent me to school. I never saw my mother alive again, and it haunts me to this day.”

The foyer. The front door.

“I never thought I’d come back to this town. I convinced myself I’d hated it here. That it was boring. That men of my standing live in town.”

The front walk. Rounding the house toward the stables.

“I went to war because I was a selfish boy, and when I came back I had friends for the first time ever—friends like Turner and Rhys. But I was still selfish then because I stopped treating my friends as friends. And I still am selfish now, because I want you.”

“Kevin!” she called out as she reached the stables. The groom popped his head out from the stall where he
was brushing down a very tired Abandon. “I need you to drive me into town. Now.”

“The cart’s rigged up,” Kevin said, his gaze swinging from Phoebe to Ned and back again. “We can go right now if you like.”

She swallowed and nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She didn’t trust herself to not cry.

Especially when Ned reached out and gently slid his hand up to her elbow, his touch an aching torture. “Phoebe,” her name a prayer. “Please. I’ll fix it. You’ll see.”

“Are you ready, Miss Baker?” Kevin called out.

“Yes,” she rasped. “Yes, let’s go.”

NED TRUDGED BACK
up the drive, lost in thought. He had stood at the stable door until Phoebe and Kevin disappeared around the bend in the lane. It took everything in his power not to force a saddle on poor exhausted Abandon and follow them, but he knew it would be futile. She would not look at him. She would not let him in. Not the Earl of Ashby. Not this version, at least.

“Ned!” The voice came from the front steps of Puffington Arms. Ned looked up to find Rhys walking out into the midday sun. So much had happened since dawn broke, it was hard to believe that it was barely afternoon.

“The bullet is out of Turner’s shoulder. With any luck it will heal cleanly,” Rhys said, wiping red from his hands on a clean rag. Ned nodded with difficulty. His entire body felt like it had lost its bones. Or something else just as vital.

“Now, would you kindly tell me what the hell has been going on here?” Rhys asked.

He looked down. He was still holding Phoebe’s picture in his hand, the night sky edged by trees. She had left it—and him—behind. That’s how little both meant to her.

Or it meant too much,
a little voice told him, one that dared to hope.
And she could not bear it.

“I ruined everything,” Ned said resolutely. “And I have to repair it.”

      28

In any game, someone wins, someone loses. That’s the chance you take.

TO: MISS P. BAKER

CARE OF: THE TRIDENT TRANSATLANTIC COMPANY

LONDON

Dear Miss Baker—

Please do not be alarmed by the name at the bottom of this missive. I am not the Mr. Turner you were so familiar with. Rather, I am the real Mr. John Turner, who acted so abominably to you in the guise of the Earl of Ashby. (Although, given those actions, any feeling of alarm on your part is completely justified.)

As ashamed as I am at my actions toward you, I am writing not in regard to our recent association, but rather in regard to our much older one. Your father purchased some shares in a company that, unbeknownst to my friend and employer, bore his seal of approval. After consulting with a solicitor, it has been discovered that those shares are still valid, and hold value. If this letter reaches you before your voyage, would you consider meeting with me to discuss the matter? I assure you complete discretion, and the business can be concluded with all possible speed. However, if that does not please you, the business can be conducted via correspondence, although it will take much longer.

If you choose the former, I will be in my offices at the address listed below on Monday, July 1st, between the hours of noon and five.

Yours, etc.

Mr. John Turner

Phoebe received the letter exactly seventeen days after she left Puffington Arms. Seventeen days and six hours.

Kevin the groom had asked no questions and quickly bore her through Hollyhock to Midville, where she caught a mail coach to London. Dear, dear Kevin had even given her the shilling he had in his pocket—given to him for driving them the previous night by her Mr. Tur— by the earl. Kevin had told her to keep it, but she promised she would post it back to him when she reached her relatives in America. She asked him to keep an eye on Rose and Henry. It was another wrench of her heart to think about leaving them two years earlier than expected, but at least they had Nanny.

At least they had someone.

She had found her way to the docks and the Trident Transatlantic Company, the outfit that owned the
Blooming Daisy
, and which her cousin said would give her a good rate. She discovered that the
Blooming Daisy
was expected to dock in London within the week, and then set back on the ocean in another week. She promptly bought a ticket.

The wait was interminable. She had been moving so fast, so blindly, that now, being forced to a standstill wreaked havoc on her conviction.
Just two weeks
, she told herself.
You only have to wait a simple fortnight, and then you will be free
.

Of course, it was luck in some form or another that delayed the ship in its crossing. And so, when the letter arrived, she was already on pins and needles, and her lodgings and food were eating up her precious savings. And her heart—her traitorous, traitorous heart—had been preying upon her mind.

And so it was, eighteen days and four hours after she left Puffington Arms, that Phoebe made her way to the address listed in Mr. Turner’s letter.

An address in Mayfair.

Phoebe let out a long, steadying breath as she mounted the steps to the imposing yet beautiful gray stone mansion, taking up half a block looking out onto the wide expanse of Grosvenor Square. Keeping her head held high, she knocked.

And waited.

“Miss Baker.” The familiar voice sent a tingle up her spine. “How pleasant to see you.”

“Danson,” Phoebe replied, allowing a tiny smile to tug at the corner of her mouth. Even though a small shot of alarm ran through her at seeing the earl’s valet, it was the first smile she had managed in eighteen days. And four hours. She had liked Danson. She could only hope his presence did not mean that Mr. Turner’s prom
ise of “complete discretion” was a lie. “And how pleasant to see you.”

He gave an appreciative nod. “Mr. Turner is expecting you. If you will follow me.”

As they began to walk down the long, echoing hallway, she could not help but ask, “I take it you are the earl’s valet, not Mr. Turner’s.”

“Indeed. I was copiously bribed to play my role.”

“I should hope so,” she said blithely.

“And my regrets are heavy.”

“But not as heavy as your purse.”

That made the unflappable Danson smirk. “However, I must say, I enjoyed our association, Miss Baker. And what I saw of my master when he was with you. And just so you know”—he leaned forward as they reached a large, engraved oak door—“I do not come down from my lofty heights to open the front door for just anyone.”

He turned the doorknob and whispered in her ear. “You will prevail. Of that I have no doubt.”

Before Phoebe could ask what he meant, she was in the library, and the door closed behind her.

“Miss Baker.”

She came about to find Mr. Turner—the real Mr. Turner—standing behind a large desk that was covered with papers and books. His voice had taken on a sharper, northern accent. His left arm was stiff at his side. He wore clothes she recognized as ill-fitting on someone else.

She dropped to a curtsy, retreating into stiff formality.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, crossing over and gently taking her arm. “You were not easy to find.
We scoured the docks until we found the company that owned the
Blooming Daisy
. And when we finally did, I admit, we did not know if you would accept the invitation.”

Her body froze. “We?” she asked, her mouth going dry.

Mr. Turner, regardless of her suddenly frozen body, continued to guide her toward a chair. “I mean Danson and I. I promised you discretion—the earl is not here.”

“Oh.” Something dropped inside her, a trail of feeling falling down her body. But that was silly. She kept her back straight, her expression passive as she took her seat. “Your shoulder is repairing, I see.”

He winced a bit as he rolled his left shoulder. “It’s slowgoing, but yes, repairing. I have other things to repair as well.” His eyes went dark, his mind for a moment fleeing to something else. Then he shook his head and returned to her.

“I won’t keep you, Miss Baker, but I am tying up a few last pieces of business for Lord Ashby, and this one was long overdue.”

“Last pieces of business?” she asked, trying to steady the thundering beat of her heart.

“Yes. This meeting is, in fact, my last duty as his secretary. I have a mill in Lincolnshire that has long since needed my attention.”

“I see,” she said slowly. “So that part of the story was true, at least. Although it was your history, not his.”