The Game and the Governess (8 page)

Turner mumbled something under his breath, and for a moment, Ned was certain that he heard “It won’t.”

But before he could ask Turner about it, a rumbling around the front of the house drew their attention. A few quick steps revealed that the carriage bearing the valet Danson and their luggage had made the turn on the road for Puffington Arms, and was quickly bearing in their direction.

“Oh, thank God,” Ned breathed. “Danson is here. And our clothes. Now we can be properly settled. And I can take a bath. I must smell something atrocious.”

“No more than normal,” Turner said wryly, and
Ned resisted the urge to chuff his friend on the arm, like they had back in their army days.

“You’re no better. I have a hard time believing the ladies could stand you.”

“Twenty minutes in, and I’ve already discovered that ladies will stand quite a bit in the presence of an earl. Even an illustrious lady like the countess.”

“I would be careful with Countess Churzy,” Ned ventured.

“Why?” Turner asked. “She seems happy to give me her attentions.”

“Yes, well, I would rather not have some Austrian count finding out about those attentions and hunting
me
down because of them.”

“Actually,” Turner perked up, “Countess Churzy is a widow. No count will come hunting for your honor. Or mine.”

“Still . . . don’t do anything that I cannot undo, if you please,” Ned replied. “I doubt this one is seeking only a warm bed.”

“Widows are already undone,” Turner countered. “Hence their appeal.”

Ned had to acknowledge that he had a point.

It seemed there was little else to discuss.

“Well, then, I suppose I will see you at supper.”

“I suppose so.”

After a moment Ned ventured, “Are you going to go in?”

“After you,” Turner replied. But neither man moved. Until Ned realized . . .

“I’m not going to scrape and bow to you, Turner—not when we’re alone.”

“But are we really alone?” Turner asked, tilting his head back toward the house.

Ned glanced over. There, safely out of earshot but not eyeshot, were three female heads, popping out from around the corner. Minnie, Clara, and Henrietta.

Gritting his teeth, Ned gave Turner the slightest of bows. Turner returned an even slighter one. Then Ned turned on his heel and walked in one direction; Turner walked in the other.

But before he made the corner, Turner called back after him, “Good luck, my friend.”

“Thank you. But I shan’t need it.”

No, Ned decided as he walked back toward the house, seeking Danson, a bath, and a change of clothes, he did not need luck.

Because, whether he realized it or not, Turner had just shown his hand.

NED PRACTICALLY SKIPPED
up the stairs after the maid—the same one who had pointed out his less-than-valet-level clothes—who carried his (well, actually Turner’s) trunk up the stairs. She was struggling a bit with it, but Ned figured that was because she kept looking over her shoulder to shoot Ned displeased looks. As if she expected him to help her.

Meanwhile, Ned had determined to be gleeful, because it had taken only twenty minutes and the arrival of the carriage for him to realize Turner’s strategy in this game.

And it was all so simple. Turner was expecting Ned to bow out.

Not because he wasn’t charming enough to woo a woman. Not because he wasn’t lucky—but because he thought Ned was too squeamish at the idea of having to bow to him and wear unfashionable clothes.

Turner thought Ned had gone dandy. He thought he was too soft to live at a level of comfort less than an earl was used to. Well, Turner didn’t know everything about Ned.

Turner knew that Ned had lived among men on the battlefield, but he likely thought that an aberration. He didn’t realize that, growing up, Ned’s life had not been one of privilege. That he had worked in his mother’s vegetable garden from the age of three, and had carried water back and forth from the town well since he was able to walk, for their cooking, their washing, their gardens. He had built fires in a smoky little room. He
had
lived at a level less comfortable than an earl, and he had . . . well, he hadn’t liked it. But he had done it. And he could do it again.

They walked to the end of the hall of the second floor, passing by several doors on their way, some opened, offering a peek into the bedrooms of Puffington Arms. They were certainly not as grand as Ned was used to, with overly ornate furniture matching the rest of the house, but they would do, he thought. When they reached the door at the end of the hall, Ned smiled to the little maid, who was dwarfed by the size and weight of the trunk.

“Could you get the door?” she asked, from beneath the trunk. Then added hastily, “Mr. Turner?”

“Oh!” Ned started. “Of course.” He opened the door and discovered . . . another set of stairs. This one far more rickety looking and hidden away than that last.

“Er . . . what’s this?” he asked the young maid. “Where are we going?”

“To your room, Mr. Turner.”

“Well . . . surely my room is on the main floor. With the other guests?”

“Ah . . . I believe every room has been taken. By the house party.”

With that, the maid lifted the trunk in her arms again and headed up the stairs—which, true to their appearance, were immensely rickety.

“Of course. Makes perfect sense,” Ned said as he followed.

After all, adjustments were to be expected. And if he was to beat Turner’s strategy, from now on, nothing could ruffle him. Not being placed away from the rest of the party, not being mistaken for a valet. Nothing would make him lose his good humor.

Not even when he saw his room. Its cramped space and bare floorboards. Its low slanted ceiling and small bed. Its small basin for water, currently empty.

No. This would not undo him.

“Brilliant! Marvelous!” he said, keeping the smile pasted on his face. He let the maid put the overly heavy trunk down, maneuvering out of her way, since the space was so tight.

“Thank you,” he remembered to say, trying to wedge his way past again, but in so doing banged his head on a low ceiling beam.

“Are you all right, Mr. Turner?” the girl asked—annoyingly adept at avoiding the low ceiling beam herself. Although, to be fair, she was shorter.

“Brilliant. Marvelous.” He rubbed the spot that
would grow to a goose egg in no time at all. “Have Danson sent up. And a bath, if you please.”

“Danson, Mr. Turner?”

“He’s my—he’s my earl’s valet. We have to . . . go over some things.”

“I’ll let him know to come see you.” She nodded. Then, with a relieved roll of her shoulders, left.

Ned surveyed the small room, the small cloudy window, which afforded a glance down onto the pond off to the side of the house. There was no fire, but it was far enough into summer that it would not make much difference. There was no possibility that this room would be used in winter—and that led him to the satisfactory belief that this accommodation really was because of the overcrowding of the actually-not-very-big-at-all house.

Idly, he opened up Turner’s trunk. Rifled through his clothes, all of which were free of wear and holes, but none of which were remotely fashionable.

“Brilliant. Marvelous.” He smiled wryly.

The bulk of the trunk seemed to be made up of sheaves and sheaves of paper, and a pile of ledgers. Ned rolled his eyes. Of course Turner would bring all this madness with him. Likely for this moment, when Ned would open this trunk and see
all the work
Turner did. How very droll.

Well, he would simply ignore it. He wasn’t here to puzzle over ledgers. He was here to woo a lady—any lady—and a bath was the first step toward that.

Where the hell was his bathwater? And Danson?

Ned waited another half hour before he went in search of them.

He had just hit the bottom of the creaky third-floor stairs when he ran into the governess again.

Quite literally.

“Oof!” was all he heard as the thin female form landed against him like a bundle of fragile sticks.

He grabbed her arm, steadying them both. A pair of gray-blue eyes, set in a pale tight face, whipped up to meet his.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” he said, peering into the young woman’s face. She looked back at him so clearly, directly, that it unnerved him.

And then he remembered that his hand was on her shoulder. He removed it as if it burned. She seemed to relax, but kept her eyes on his face.

Trying to restore some distance and decorum, he said, “I am looking for the earl’s valet.”

The governess took a considering moment before answering.

“I believe I saw him moving the earl’s things into his room,” the governess replied quietly.

“Thank you . . . Miss . . .”

“Baker,” she replied, keeping her gaze on him, unblinking. Direct. Judging. Given that she would not meet his eye before, it was beyond disconcerting.

“Thank you, Miss Baker. I am Mr. Turner.”

“I remember.”

“Right. Well . . .” Perhaps Turner had been right. Some women were simply immune to basic civility. Even so, Ned could not help but try for a spot of conversation. “Where are your charges?”

“They are having their baths, Mr. Turner.”

“Ah! So there are baths to be had in this place,” he
joked. Miss Baker did not smile, simply raised a surprisingly expressive eyebrow.

“It has been a while since I was out of Leicestershire—has bathing become unfashionable elsewhere?” she asked wryly.

“Er . . . no. It’s still considered rather a good thing,” he said awkwardly, as a bemused smile tipped up the corners of her mouth. Meanwhile, she never lost her governess’s demeanor. “I must hunt the earl’s valet down at once.”

“Then I bid you happy hunting, Mr. Turner.”

Ned paused as she turned to mount the steps. Had the dour governess just told a joke? He shook his head. This place just got stranger and stranger.

“Brilliant,” he said under his breath. “Marvelous.”

      5

In for a penny, in for a pound.

D
anson!” Ned cried upon entering the rooms Turner had taken. Which were, Ned could not help but notice, far more spacious than what he had been given. But that was incidental, not worthy of comment. That was something that Ned was determined to smile at and say, “Brilliant! Marvelous!”

Danson, his mournful valet, looked up from where he was polishing Ned’s favorite pair of boots.

“Why are you polishing my boots?” Ned asked. “I certainly can’t wear them. And Turner’s feet would not fit in them.”

“Just because you have decided to subject yourself to this strange social experiment does not require my standards for your clothing to fall—whether or not you are in a position to wear them.” Danson’s dry response was typical of his valet. Its consistency was almost
comforting. “Dare I hope you have forgone this terrible idea and come to your senses?”

“Not yet, Danson. I am glad you take such care with my clothes. Now, if we could address my person, I would greatly appreciate it.”

“Whatever are you referring to, my lord?” Danson replied archly. “Oh, I mean Mr. Turner.”

“I mean I sent a maid to fetch you to me.”

“I was so informed by a maid, yes.”

“So . . .”

“So, my first task was to see
the earl
settled. I could not come and consult with the earl’s
secretary
until that was done.” Danson finished with the boots and placed them in a spacious wardrobe.

“I am sure the boots that neither of us can wear could wait.”

“Indeed. I, on the other hand, do not have your certainty. Sir.”

Ned sighed. He knew Danson’s reservations about this wager. But he thought his valet had vented his trickle of spleen before they left. Now it seemed that the trickle was more of a steady river.

“Regardless, I am here for your assistance. I rode all the way from Peterborough this morning, and need to bathe before supper tonight.”

Danson took a deep sniff. “I agree with your assessment, sir.”

“Well . . . ?”

“Well?” Danson replied.

“Well, if you could see to my bath, I would be ever so grateful.”