The Game and the Governess (16 page)

It was a good fifty yards before she felt safe enough to slow down—for heaven’s sake, Rose and Henry were practically running at her side. But it was harder to steady her feelings.

It had been that spark of interest in his voice. That upturned brow. Had this secretary of the Earl of Ashby put her name and Mrs. Beveridge’s School together and finally recognized who she was?

All she wanted was to stay hidden. All she wanted was to get these two weeks over with, and not let the bile and hatred that had consumed her for far too long threaten to take over once again.

She had gambled today, being kind to Mr. Turner.

And she had lost.

NED STAYED IN
the stables awhile after the curious Miss Baker disappeared, marching off like a general leading her short child-troops into battle. And apparently, he was standing stock-still long enough to elicit some worry from the groom.

“Mr. Turner?” Kevin the groom asked, poking his head out from behind Abandon. “You . . . all right?”

“Yes, of course,” he replied, shaking his head.

“I ask because you’re standing in horse droppings.”

“Oh!” Ned’s eyes shot to his feet. Indeed, in the one or two steps he had taken since Miss Baker left, he had stepped into a fresh pile of soft, slightly green horse droppings.

Danson would have a fit.

And then he remembered, he did not have Danson at his disposal.

“Ergh,” he made a strangled noise as he stepped out of the pile. “Good Lord, man, can’t you keep a better stable?”

The groom just shrugged. “Hazard of the job, being the only groom here.”

Ned’s eyes narrowed. “And the only man?”

“I am right now,” the groom replied. “Why put up with the Widcoates when there’s a mine offering good wages ten miles away?”

“And why are you still here, then?” Ned’s eyebrow went up. “Sweet on someone? Miss Baker perhaps?”

Kevin cracked a rueful smile. “Naw. I canna go down the mine. My mind don’t like being in small places. I get agitated-like.”

Ned hummed, understanding. “Plus, Miss Baker’s too strict for your liking?” he teased.

Kevin shook his head. “I’d heed Miss Baker’s advice if I were you.”

“Really?”

“She’s the best governess those two could have hoped for. Been with them a year, and they are better for it. Whether or not she is I canna say. And how she manages Lady Widcoate I do not know. Likely out of affection for the tykes,” was the reply. “Soft for ’em. She knows they are not supposed to be in the stables, because the lady thinks her children are still wee babes. But that girl is horse mad—so Miss Baker breaks the rules. I don’t mind so much—but it’d be better if I had more help here, so I could keep an eye on them, teach them properly about the horses.”

She breaks the rules
. A small smile began to creep up over his face, as he completely ignored the scent of horse dung wafting from his feet. He was beginning to get an idea. An idea that could turn this entire trip to Hollyhock around.

He had been enjoying himself with Miss Baker, hadn’t he? They had spoken for only a few minutes, but it had been easy—he didn’t have to try to make her pay attention to him, the way he did with the other women in the house. And for a few moments, he had been relieved of the burden of thinking about his mother’s house and its uncertain fate.

And she had attended Mrs. Beveridge’s School.

Which was one of the premiere finishing schools in England.

He only knew about Mrs. Beveridge’s because Lady Brimley, his latest paramour—and oddly, easily forgotten in the past two days—kept going on and on about it. She was attempting to get her own daughter in and, apparently, admission was highly sought after, and required connection.

In fact, hadn’t Lady Brimley mentioned something about Mrs. Beveridge’s the night they had first consummated their relationship? Something about how a peer of the realm such as himself could exert his influence even in places he’d never been?

Good Lord—had . . . had Lady Brimley begun their relationship to get a recommendation? To get her daughter into a school?

But this personal, more unpleasant revelation was tempered by the present situation.

And that situation was that, in terms of the wager, Miss Baker was fair game.

To have attended Mrs. Beveridge’s, Miss Baker must have been a young woman of some family. Meaning she was not a foundling, a lost child who through patronage worked her way into her present position. Whatever unfortunate circumstance had led to her becoming a governess could not change that fact.

She was completely adequate as someone Turner would pursue and, therefore, adequate as someone for Ned to pursue as Turner.

True, Miss Baker would have never been his first choice. She was as thin as a rail, all angles and closed-off posture. The gray wool gown she wore—indeed, the only gown he had seen her wear—was basically armor. Up to her throat, stiff, thick, protective.

But when she had made a joke on the stairs yesterday—when he had steadied her with his hand on her shoulder—something different slipped through.

She breaks the rules
.

Then there was that moment today when she allowed the armor to fall and let her dry humor out to breathe. They had talked—bantered!—with ease.

And she had smiled.

She had tried not to, tried to keep her features pale and unremarkable. Indeed, with her white-blond hair and brows, she was as colorless as a glass of water, but when she smiled . . . something sparked to life. She had cheekbones. She had vibrancy.

She had dimples.

And considering that Hollyhock seemed populated
by old biddies, and Ned had managed to isolate himself from every other female in Puffington Arms, Miss Baker was his best opportunity for winning.

“Mr. Turner?” the groom asked again. He was holding Abandon’s reins now, ready to lead him to his stall. “Are you going to be standing statue-like for much longer? Dead smack in the center of the way?”

“No,” Ned replied, shaking off his musings. His plottings. “No, I have to go get ready for dinner.”

As he strode out of the stables, he caught a trace of the smell wafting up from his shoes. Damn—he had been outside all day too, riding. He had better bathe if he was going to make himself presentable for the evening—where he would see Miss Baker again. And begin his wooing of a governess.

And then he remembered.

The bathwater. Which Rose and Henry Widcoate were likely frolicking in at that very moment.

No matter his aroma, Ned was not doing
that
again.

There was a pond on the far side of Puffington Arms, if he remembered correctly. One that collected bowling balls but otherwise seemed clean.

Certainly cleaner than that bathwater.

A shiver ran over him—the sun was dipping lower in the sky and it was getting markedly chillier into the evening. But, much like Miss Baker, it would have to do.

      10

Keep a good eye on the cards in your hand—they can change with a blink.

N
ed went downstairs to the drawing room precisely on time. Not too early, not too late, and smelling of clean, clear pond water. His evening clothes were acceptable. His coat could have used a brushing, but the shirt was fresh.

He smiled politely at Lady Widcoate and Countess Churzy—the former smiled very politely back and the latter seemed to shake her head in pity. Mrs. Rye, as Turner had predicted, was keeping her daughter and niece and Miss Benson well out of Ned’s path, shooting him dark looks whenever she happened to catch him looking her way. Which wasn’t often. She just happened to be standing by the door.

Mrs. Rye did, however, manage to direct her charges to fawning over Turner, who was nearby, cornered by Sir Nathan. They listened patiently, leaning in (in the case of Miss Clara Rye, leaning on—she might have
been pushed forward by Miss Minnie) as Sir Nathan pumped Turner for information about what he thought of Hollyhock now and should he like to go hunting tomorrow? And oh, yes, what did he think of the consortium’s proposal?

But before too long, Lady Widcoate began to lead everyone into the dining room. Without Miss Baker or the children making their appearance for the Questioning.

“Uh, excuse me,” he asked, earning no small number of looks from the assembly. “But what about the children? Are . . . are they coming down?”

Lady Widcoate’s expression grew markedly displeased, an angry line forming between her eyebrows. “If you must know,
Mr.
Turner, the children—”

“Henry has a bit of a cough, poor thing,” Countess Churzy finished for her sister. Then she moved lightly toward him, back through the guests, to come and take
his
arm. “Do me the favor of walking me in to dinner, Mr. Turner?” she asked, turning her big hazel eyes to his. “I feel as if we have barely been introduced.”

Taken aback, Ned shot Turner a look of triumph. Now,
this
was more like it. Perhaps Turner had done or said something to offend the lovely Leticia in the short time between returning and dinner, and now she was turning her attentions to someone more worthy of them . . .

But no. Her smile did not reach her eyes. As far as she knew, his name did not have an “Earl” in front of it. And she was the kind who required it—even if Turner refused to see it.

“You must forgive the children,” Countess Churzy said in a whisper as he led her in to dinner. “Their gov
erness sent word that Henry was not feeling well. My sister was torn between sitting by their bedsides and hosting her guests. Hence her . . . shortness.”

“That is most unfortunate,” Ned said, turning his most genial smile to Countess Churzy. “I hope they are not ill with regularity.”

“From what I understand, it is quite rare,” she replied. “But the governess insisted that Rose and Henry could not be presented tonight. For her sake, I certainly hope they are able to be brought out tomorrow.”

“Indeed,” Ned agreed, perhaps a bit too fervently. “It would be very bad for Miss Baker.”

Countess Churzy turned to him, a considering glint in her eye. “I think you and I should be friends, Mr. Turner. I imagine we could be of use to each other. I could tell you all kinds of things about Hollyhock, and the consortium’s proposal, and oh,
anyone
else you might be interested in. And you could tell me all sorts of things about . . .”

“About Ashby?” he finished for her.

“You know him better than anyone here.”

Ned quirked up an eyebrow at that. “That, Countess, is more true than you know.”

DINNER WAS A
better affair than the night before, Ned would give them that much. Since the ratio of men to women was so off balance, and the party was so intimate, Ned knew he would be seated next to at least one person who would rather he be anywhere else. Tonight it was Mrs. Rye. But with a single glare she twisted her body away from him, becoming a wall between him
self and Miss Minnie on her other side. Luckily, Ned was happy enough to be left alone with a minimum of interaction. After all, he had an alternative—the plain governess with surprising dimples, Miss Baker, was going to succumb to his charms, and Turner would never see it coming.