The Game and the Governess (6 page)

“Yes . . . yes, that is best. Keep them out of sight when they are covered in dirt, at least,” Fanny twitted.

Then her sister made for the door, but Leticia called her back.

“Fanny—just remember: introduce me by my title.”

Fanny double-blinked once again. “Why? For heaven’s sake, what if he knew Churzy? Then he would know everything.”

“He didn’t know Churzy, because Churzy didn’t know anyone, thank heavens,” Leticia snapped. Then, resuming calm, “It’s all part of the plan, dearest.”

“A plan that had better work,” Fanny groused, before she trotted out the door.

Leticia kept the little smile firmly in place until the door closed behind her sister. Then she finally allowed herself the luxury of letting it fall away, for the barest of moments. Whenever Fanny began her nervous affectations, Leticia found it best to remain outwardly serene—however, inside her stomach was flipping over on itself, and she wished fervently she could give in to the apparently hereditary urge to flutter.

No. To appear nervous would undo everything. It would weaken her.

Leticia pulled herself up by an invisible string connected to the top of her spine, rolling her shoulders straight. Then she went over to the polished looking-glass that hung above the buffet, and took stock. Her hair benefited from her being back in the country—the sunshine gave it warmth, turning it from its regular dark brown to a rich mahogany. Her skin still maintained its pale, creamy complexion, her dark eyes their luminosity. And if there was a hint of crow’s-feet at the corner of her eyes when she smiled too widely . . . well, there was an easy enough solution. She would simply not smile with abandon. There would likely be little call for it anyway.

All in all, for a widow crossing the border from nine-and-twenty into thirty (she would
never
admit that border had been crossed last year and she was edging her way past one-and-thirty), Leticia could be satisfied that her appearance conveyed neither the grief of widowhood nor the ravages of age.

She was still beautiful. She was still somewhat young. And she was still cunning.

For while Leticia was not above using her good looks to her advantage, she
lived
by her wits.

It was her wits that had convinced her father, their only surviving parent, to allow her at fourteen to come and live with Fanny when she married her Sir Nathan. Thus Leticia received the genteel benefits of growing up in a landed house in the country—and not above their father’s lumber mill in Manchester.

It was also Leticia’s wits that wheedled a season out of her father and brother-in-law when she turned eighteen. And it was her wits that leveraged her one season into marriage to Count Churzy, an Austrian with a crumbling castle, an unfortunate predilection for horse races, and a family history of heart seizures.

Now, as long as Fanny managed to play her part and all of Leticia’s carefully laid pieces fell into place, it was her wits that would have her capturing the attentions of the Earl of Ashby.

Whether he wanted to be captured or not.

With one last look at herself in the mirror, Leticia pulled her face into a gentle smile (careful to avoid the crow’s-feet) and let her eyes soften. She was feminine, alluring, and just a touch mysterious.

This was going to go absolutely swimmingly.

THE FIRST THING NED
noticed as he and Turner approached the Widcoates’ residence was just how small the house was.

When he had been a boy, Puffington Arms was the largest house in the county—certainly much bigger than his mother’s cottage in Hollyhock. They were invited there only on rare special occasions. A place that required him to dress up in his best church clothes that scratched at his neck. But now the house seemed so squat and . . .
ornate
.

In one of the few of his mother’s letters he was allowed, he vaguely remembered that she mentioned the young Lady Widcoate had discovered a passion for decoration, and the foolish Sir Nathan was willing to oblige her.

“Passion” might have been an understatement. As was “decoration.” There were columns he didn’t remember being there before. Balustrades and cornices on every available surface. There were turrets, for God’s sake!

And where had all the statuary come from?

The house of his memory had been imposing because of its importance in the neighborhood. Now it was ridiculous in its cries for attention, showing little taste and absolutely no restraint.

It was to be expected. Since his life was so large now, the pretense of Puffington Arms could not help but be easily spotted and suffer by comparison. He doubted much in Hollyhock would measure up.

The second thing Ned noticed was the number of women gathering at the front of the house.

A
lot
of women
.

And absolutely no men.

No footmen, no butlers. No Sir Nathan. Instead, they faced down an array of housemaids and kitchen help, and of course, ladies. Some young ladies. And a motherly type—the chaperone, if he ventured to guess. There were ribbons flying and ruffles being ruffled as the ladies shifted and preened and maneuvered their way into an assembly of some kind. A presentation.

Oh, hell. They were all here for him.

Contrary to what Turner thought, Ned was not so blunt-headed as to think that women everywhere traipsed after him on the promise of his natural charm and cheer. He knew very well that being an earl made him a prize to young debutantes and their mothers alike. He knew the difference between being looked at as a good dinner companion and being salivated over as a possible husband. But while Turner avoided anything that did not result in him making an extra penny to put toward his falling-down mill, Ned saw no reason to be short or rude with those who were after him for his title or fortune. Indeed, he doubted he could manage Turner’s level of rudeness if he tried. He would rather be a happy dinner partner to whomever he sat next to, regardless of their motives.

And he would be again.

But no, wait—he thought with dawning glee—these ladies weren’t preening for
him
, they were here for the Earl of Ashby. Whose signet ring at present rested on
the finger of poor, unsuspecting, dull, sour-faced John Turner.

Weren’t they in for a surprise?

And once Turner’s bad humor had turned everyone but the most fervent fortune hunters off his scent, there would be all these ladies for him to charm into winning this ridiculous bet.

Ned almost smiled. Almost let his face split into a wide grin and chuckled. But then Turner, who rode a half step ahead of him, glanced behind him.

“Well, here’s the first real test.”

“What do you mean? The governess wasn’t test enough for you?”

“The governess has never met you before. The Widcoates have.”

Ned’s eyebrow went up. Of course! He had met the Widcoates many times in his youth, and surely the past sixteen years had not wrought so much of a change upon him that he was unknowable. And if it turned out he was
not
unknowable . . .

“The terms are that if anyone recognizes me, then you forfeit and I win, correct?”

“No—the terms are that if anyone recognizes you
without your interference,
then I forfeit.” Turner gave him a sidelong look. “No trickery with the cards. Keep both hands on the table.”

“I don’t need trickery, John,” Ned retorted. “Remember—I have luck.”

Turner jerked his head back to stare directly ahead again, at all those waiting girls. “And I sincerely hope it does not desert you.”

A few steps later, they were within hailing distance.
And Lady Widcoate, it seemed, was not one to miss her cue.

“Lord Ashby! Lord Ashby! How marvelous to see you again!” The lady was rounder than Ned remembered but the pinched pink cheeks were the same, as were the tight curls at her temples and the tuffet of a cap on her head—at least a decade out of style, she would be laughed out of Almack’s. She waved heartily and stepped forward as Turner dismounted from Abandon. Ned followed suit. A groom—
Ha! So there was a man here!
—moved quickly to take Abandon’s reins. The stallion whinnied and danced. Although Turner paid no attention to it, annoyingly.

“Lady Widcoate?” Turner said jovially—
Turner, jovial?
—as he made a quick bow to Lady Widcoate’s low curtsy. “Is that you? I swear you haven’t changed a lick. It’s like stepping back in time.”

Lady Widcoate’s cheeks grew pinker with pleasure.

“My lord, what flattery! Meanwhile, you have changed a great deal.”

“Oh?” Ned piped up behind Turner. “Do you think so?”

As much as Ned wanted to see Turner fail—or rather, as much as he wanted to prove to Turner that he would win—Ned couldn’t help thinking that it would be so much easier if he was recognized, and this whole farce could end quickly.

Granted, the fun would be over before it could even begin, but it would be foolish not to try.

Every head in the drive turned to look at Ned. He smiled broadly, but not a single person smiled back at him. Turner’s gaze was rightly hard and suspicious, but
judging by Lady Widcoate’s expression, Ned had just committed a veritable crime of some kind.

“Lady Widcoate,” Turner’s voice a warning, “this is my man, Mr. Turner.”

“Yes,” Lady Widcoate returned with clipped politeness, as Ned bent into a flourishing bow.

“I find I could not do without him—here on business, after all.” Turner smiled—and Ned was sure he detected notes of obsequiousness in Turner’s speech.

That devil. He was sucking up to the Widcoates! Hoping they would not call him out on his complete lack of resemblance to the Ashby line.

Obviously.

“Of course.” Lady Widcoate put the adoring smile back on her face. “But hopefully your visit to your old home will not be
all
business, my lord.”

“How could it be with such a”—Turner swept a wide hand to the crowd of women around them—“
merry
assembly as this?”

“Yes, quite merry!” Ned tried again to interject himself into the conversation. He tried to move forward, but found he still had a hold on the mare’s reins, and she was more stubborn than Turner ever had been.

Another dismissive glance from the assembled crowd kept him as firmly rooted in his place as the mare was.

“Lord Ashby, may I introduce some, ah—
friends
visiting from Bath? This is Mrs. Rye, and her daughter, Miss Clara Rye. This is Miss Henrietta Benson, lately of Bath, and—”

“I’m here, I’m here, I’m here!” A young lady with the shoulders of an ox flew up, knocking into the bright
red Miss Henrietta and the small and wide-eyed Miss Clara.

“—and Miss Minnie Rye,” Lady Widcoate finished.

“My niece,” the too-smiling Mrs. Rye interjected.

“Where were you?” Miss Henrietta whispered.

“I was so worried, you almost missed him!” Miss Clara’s little body shook as if freezing.

“I had to change my gown, didn’t I? I can’t meet a bloody—erm, a
blooming
earl in a muddy dress, can I?” Minnie said, with a quick glance from her mother keeping her language in line.

“Oh, no.” Henrietta whispered—her face flushing all the darker, taking in Minnie’s new dress. “You chose the wrong dress.”

“What?” Minnie whipped her head around, pins raining out of her messy curls.

“You wore pink. I’m wearing pink.” Clara’s voice was a shaky whisper. “We agreed, either we all wear different colors or the same, but now only you and I are wearing the same and Henrietta is left out! You’ll have to change.”

“I can’t change—all the others are day dresses and muddy besides.”

“Well, you’re the one who wanted to play bowls by the pond.” Henrietta puffed dramatically. “Oh, this is an absolute disaster!”

“And you’re the one with the bad aim and I’m the only one not afraid of a little water to keep playing our game,” Minnie shot back.

“It was
your
ball, not mine—and I’m not the one who only brought three dresses!”

“Girls!” Mrs. Rye wailed through a tight smile. “Please!”

“Bloody silly if you ask me,” Minnie sniffed. “Planning our wardrobe.”

“Minnie!” Mrs. Rye shrieked. “Language!”

As the girls veered dangerously toward melee territory, Ned kept his eyes on Turner. If it were he, he would have stepped in by now; would have paid compliments to every girl on their gowns, pink or otherwise. He would have defused the situation, and kept all the females fluttering happily. But Turner just looked as if he were a green private, about to take his first step on the battlefield.

Ned was about to step in. He was about to save Turner and ingratiate himself to the young ladies—after all, they were all going to spend the coming fortnight falling in love with him—when a veritable goddess arrived on the scene.

“Darlings!” The husky voice floated over them, immediately calming the scene. “You are making it very difficult for the gentleman to admire your dresses if you keep admonishing them.” The sea of ruffles parted, and a paragon of grace and style emerged in their midst.

A paragon of grace and style whom Ned found strangely familiar.