The Game and the Governess (44 page)

“Until he wakes up.”

“
If
he wakes up. Who’s to say you were not out there early in the morning to end his life yourself!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Fennick,” Ned drawled, his ire rising.

“I’m not—it is no secret that the two of you have been at odds since you got here.”

“Yes, they have been,” Lady Widcoate breathed.
Without her sister present she was letting her imagination run wild, and it was making Ned see red. “And most of all over
her
.”

She pointed at Phoebe, who turned to the lady herself. “Lady Widcoate, you are not doing your cause any favors.”

“How dare you speak to me in such a manner!” Lady Widcoate gasped. “You are as rebellious as your lover. And as dangerous. Why, he could have a hundred reasons to wish the earl harm!”

“Why the hell would I want to hurt the earl? I
am
the earl!” Ned growled.

The minute it was out of his mouth he regretted it. He had been holding on to it for so long, and spent the sleepless night deciding that this would be the day to tell the truth . . . but not like this.

His eyes shot to Phoebe, who was looking at him, her expression curiously blank. Only her eyes, usually so clear, gave her away. They were clouding with confusion.

The rest of the audience—the Ryes, Miss Benson, and especially the Widcoates—simply stood there in openmouthed shock. Until, Lady Widcoate, true to form, began to laugh.

A long trill of laughter, harsh and brittle. “How very droll, Mr. Turner. But you cannot remove the stink of guilt from yourself with further lies.”

The rest of the party relaxed, Mrs. Rye snorting a laugh and Sir Nathan adjusting in his chair. Everyone except . . .

“Of course!” Henrietta cried, her face lighting up like a firework. “It all makes sense now!”

“What makes sense?” Clara asked in her small voice.

“What I . . . overheard on Sunday, when we all went into town. I told you I went to the Granville cottage to see what all the fuss was about and I heard voices and I thought one was the earl but it didn’t really sound like the earl and then Mr. Turner—or, er,
you
,” she said with a nod to Ned, “came storming out, and I’ve been trying to figure it out ever since! But that’s what they did. They traded places!”

Now it was everyone’s turn to blink at Henrietta.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Henrietta,” Mrs. Rye said, her voice steel.

“But—”

“You have long since been too fond of poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, and making up stories. I will have to have a talk with your mother upon our return to Bath. Which will be immediately, Lady Widcoate. I am afraid this is all much too dramatic for young ladies.”

“Long overdue, if you ask me,” Lady Widcoate grumbled. “Although if you wanted to shield them from dramatics, perhaps your departure should have been before we all came outside to witness Miss Baker’s shooting ability.”

Mrs. Rye turned red as a beet, and opened her mouth to retort, but was stilled by Mr. Hale, whose tired voice rose above the fray.

“This has all become rather confusing,” he said. “Perhaps I should come back later.”

“Or perhaps you should arrest Mr. Turner now,” Mr. Fennick called out, to which Lady Widcoate vehemently nodded. “For attempting to implicate me in
crimes, for attempted murder, and for trying to lie his way out of it. Thinking we would go into the woods and find my rifle under a bush, indeed!” he scoffed.

“I said a pile of leaves, Mr. Fennick. Not a bush. Although now I know better where to look,” Ned retorted instantly. Mr. Fennick colored, giving himself away. “And I am not lying. I
am
the Earl of Ashby.”

“Can you prove it?” Sir Nathan asked. All this time he had been sitting still, rubbing his chin in thought, and listening.

“He doesn’t have to.” The familiar voice made Ned’s shoulders fall with relief, as Dr. Rhys Gray rounded the corner, his medical bag in hand, Kevin the groom close behind. “I can attest to it. I am Dr. Rhys Gray, of Greenwich, and this is Ned Granville, Earl of Ashby.” Rhys shot him a look. “And apparently, he has caused just about as much trouble as I predicted.”

“Rhys, I’m so glad you’re here,” Ned said in a rush. “Turner has been—”

“Your groom filled me in on the way,” Rhys cut off his explanations. He called out to the assembled crowd, “Can someone take me to my patient, please?” Then, low, to Ned, “Not you. You have a bigger mess to clean up.”

Rhys glanced over Ned’s shoulder. As his friend followed a maid inside, Ned turned and saw . . .

Phoebe.

Everything happened around them. Lady Widcoate emitted a screech, popping up out of her chair and rushing into the house. Sir Nathan pulled Mr. Hale to his side, whispering and conferring. The Rye girls surrounded Miss Benson as she explained how she had
figured it out. Mrs. Rye hung her head, no doubt trying to decide how she was going to explain this madhouse to her girls, and then her face lit up with glee, with the knowledge that she had the most delicious gossip to spread upon their return to Bath. And Mr. Fennick . . . he used the commotion to make a quick escape, thus cementing his guilt. Although it must be questioned whether he thought much further than getting away from the house, because really, once back in Hollyhock, where would he go? As it was, Kevin the groom intercepted him before he rounded the corner, tackling him to the ground, and brought him, crying, over to Magistrate Hale.

And all the while, Phoebe was watching Ned. Staring, her expression becoming hard, her eyes crystalline. Her voice, when she spoke, was as flat and cold as ice.

“Edward,” she said, then cocked her head slightly. “Ned.”

He nodded slowly.

“They call you Lucky Ned, don’t they?”

“Phoebe, this isn’t . . . I wanted to tell you before.” He took a step toward her, but she quickly held up her hand, stopping him in his tracks.

“Yes,” she agreed, her voice clipped. “Before would have been better.”

They stood there, in the middle of the lawn, madness breaking all around them. And all Ned could do was hold his breath.

And then, he could only watch as she turned away from him and walked back into the house.

“Phoebe,” he called out, running after her, “Phoebe, wait!”

      27

Never wager more than you can afford to lose.

L
etty!” Lady Widcoate’s shriek broke through the haze. Turner knew where he was. He knew the hand that held his—and had been doing so for hours. He looked for her face whenever his eyes opened. Her dark, secretive eyes for once gave away everything.

He was not feeling all that well. His shoulder burned like fire, and the rest of him wanted to be absorbed into the sofa. When he came to, all he could see were colors swirling and Leticia’s face.

Then he saw Lady Widcoate’s bustling form come into the room, on the heels of someone tall. Someone with a calm, soothing voice which was gratefully familiar.

“Rhys . . .” Turner managed.

“Excuse me, please,” Rhys said, kneeling down next to Leticia by the sofa.

“Are you the doctor?” Leticia said, the relief evident in her voice.

“Yes. Who has been taking care of him?”

“I have.”

“You have done admirably. I’ll take it from here. John . . . John, can you hear me?”

“Letty, come away from him!” Lady Widcoate called out.

“Wait, why is he calling him John? Fanny?” Leticia’s voice got quieter as she rose, stepping away.

“Rhys,” Turner tried again. Rhys was prodding at Turner’s chest, putting his horn-shaped listening device to his heart. (He forgot what it was called. He never paid as much attention to Rhys’s work as Ned did.) “I . . . wasn’t shot . . . there.”

“I can see that,” Rhys said sarcastically. Then his tone changed to that no-nonsense yet kind tone he used when he wanted his patients to know they would be fine. “This is nothing. I’ve seen you looking worse. Getting shot should be old hat by now.”

Turner chuckled, then winced in pain. Rhys called out behind him, “His heartbeat is quite fast. Have you given him anything?”

“Ah, just water, when he asked for it. And brandy,” Leticia answered. “But I still don’t understand—”

“I will explain,” Lady Widcoate said harshly. “Just come away with me
now
.”

Turner wanted to call out, wanted to tell her to come back. But before he could find the words, he could no longer find the color of her dress in the room. She was gone.

“I’m going to take the bullet out of your shoulder,”
Rhys said, opening up his bag of horrors. “And it’s really going to hurt. You’ll be happy to know, though, that Ned discovered who shot you.”

Turner only gave a slow nod. His eyes remained on the door, through which Leticia had vanished.

“I believe this is when I say I told you so. Pursuing your damned wager led you to this point.”

Turner didn’t move, just kept his eyes on the door.

“From what I saw outside, however, I think perhaps you won.”

But the door remained open, and empty. So terribly empty.

“No.” He shook his head. “No one wins.”

“PHOEBE!” MR. TURNER
—no, no, he was the earl now—called out, as he took the steps to the third floor two at a time. Quickly she grabbed her bag, already packed on the bed. She had no choice but to go past him, but she could do it quickly. She could rush past, not look him in the eye, and be gone.

She just had to do it without her heart breaking in half.

She put her hand on the knob and did exactly as she said. She kept her head high but her eyes low. She pulled the door open and stepped out.

And he was right there.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his eyes falling to her satchel.

“America,” she replied calmly.

“Now?”

“I told you, I have the funds to make the crossing. It’s
not much but I will manage once I am there and find my cousins.”

“Phoebe, please, we need to talk. I can explain everything,” he said, trying to take her arm.

She maneuvered out of his way. If he touched her, she might come apart.

“There is no need, my lord,” she said instead, holding her ground. He winced at her formality.

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Then how shall I address you? ‘Mr. Turner’ will not do. ‘Edward?’”

“Ned. Please, Phoebe, I am Ned. And you know me.”

“Do I?” she asked coolly. “If that is the case, would you mind answering some questions?”

“Fine!” he said, holding out his hands. “Ask me anything. We will have our own Questioning.”

“Did you really grow up in a village in Lincolnshire?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I grew up here, in Hollyhock.”

“Do you have a family mill?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Did you really have a wager to see if you could kiss someone while you were here?”

He hesitated. “Not exactly.”

She paused, realization dawning. “But there was a wager. And I was part of it. Of course, no wonder the earl—I mean, Mr. Turner—wanted me to leave so badly.” She cocked her head to one side. “What was the wager?”

“Phoebe . . .”

“What was the wager?”

He could not meet her eyes. “Turner bet me that I could not get a lady to fall in love with me without benefit of my title.”

She could feel the blood drain from her face. She thought she might be sick. “I see.”

“No, you don’t—”

“You were tired of ladies throwing themselves at your feet, so you decided a poor, plain governess might be a game challenge.”

“Phoebe, that’s not it at all!” Ned cried, and moved away from the door, toward her. “In fact, I never would have picked you in a hundred years!”

She blinked. “Thank you very much.”

“But you were the only person to talk to me. Everyone else was chasing after Turner, mooning over him. And then you became . . . more.” His eyes moved to the picture on the wall, her little painting of the night sky peering through a circle of trees. He took it down, let his gaze become lost in the picture.

“Last night . . . suffice to say, last night, I could have won the wager. But I didn’t, because I knew that I loved you and you deserved more. From everyone, but especially from me.”