The Game and the Governess (21 page)

He followed his nose down the hall toward the east side of the house, but as he was discerning which door was the correct one to the breakfast room, he was stopped by the sound of laughter.

Female laughter.

“You’ll see, Leticia,” came Lady Widcoate’s voice. “You can have the earl for the entire day, to do with as you like. He’ll not be going into Hollyhock today, I made certain of it.”

“But what about Sir Nathan?” Countess Churzy asked. “He will not want to put off anything if it means a decision can be made.”

Given the freedom of their speech, they must have been alone.

“My darling Sir Nathan will go into Hollyhock as always and drink—er, I mean plan with Mr. Fennick and the vicar. But I promise you, Ashby will not be among them. Neither will his horrid little secretary.”

There was a pause, and it sounded as if someone was slurping tea.

“He absolutely sneered at the idea for the cottages
last night,” Lady Widcoate said darkly. “I’m certain of it. Didn’t you hear him?”

“Mmm” was the noncommittal reply.

Apparently, it was unsatisfactory for Lady Widcoate, because she continued, “I was horrified by his behavior. Leaving the table in the middle of everything? Not even waiting until the ladies left? Mrs. Rye thinks there is something wrong in his head. One must wonder at the state of the earl’s affairs if he leaves that man in charge.”

“They are old friends from the battlefield. He trusts Mr. Turner.”

“Why, I have no idea. Affection for the lower classes lowers us all.”

Again, there was nothing but a noncommittal “Mmm.”

Bacon really wasn’t worth the trouble of entering this viper’s nest. However, Ned found he could not help but stay rooted to the spot and listen.

“I am glad of it if Lord Ashby gets to rusticate today,” Countess Churzy tried bravely to change the subject. “He acts so stern and focused—as if a holiday in the country is completely foreign to him.”

But Lady Widcoate would not be deterred. “If only I could do away with the other girls as easily as I did away with Mr. Turner, and leave the two of you alone. You would have him sewn up in a few short hours.”

Wait—did she say
do away
with Mr. Turner? How had he been done away with?

“I tell you I was positive we were undone when he left the table without taking a bite of it. But then I had the
genius
idea to send it up to his room. Genius, wasn’t it?” Lady Widcoate giggled like a girl at school.

“Fanny, I don’t know why you do such things.”
Countess Churzy sighed, disapproval in her words, if not her voice.

“I do it for you, my dear. But he’ll be fine. Just uncomfortable for a little while. With any luck, he’ll not only skip today, but dinner tonight too.”

An unsettling sense of horror seeped through Ned all the way to his feet.

The tart.

She had sent it up to his room. He had thought it was an attempt to make him feel either guilty or better or both, but really it had been an attempt to poison him with . . . something unpleasant.

And he hadn’t taken a single bite of it.

But Miss Baker had.

Suddenly, his feet uprooted from the ground, springing free as if they were three steps ahead of him already.

Damn the bacon—he had to find Miss Baker. Now.

SHE WASN’T IN
the schoolroom. He found Henry and Rose under the supervision of a young, stout woman he presumed to be their nanny. Without stopping for an explanation, he bobbed a short bow and ran out as quickly as he had run in.

There was only one place she could be. The reason he hadn’t been sure if he’d heard her leave her room was because she had not. He took the steps two, three at a time, up the rickety last flight to the third-floor landing.

And saw Miss Baker standing at the door of her bedroom, hand on the knob, dressed as neat as a pin.

“Miss Baker,” he cried, running up to her. When she started at his approach, he remembered why he
had to apologize to her in the first place, and slowed, measuring his steps. “You are all right?” he asked, as he reached her side.

“Of course,” she said, her voice uncompromising and stiff. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because, well . . .” He began to explain. But then he got a good look at her face.

She was pale. Not that that was unusual, she was always pale, but not usually so . . . wan. There was a faint sheen of perspiration on her brow, and her cool blue stare was suddenly quite unfocused.

“Miss Baker?” He asked, “Are you certain you’re—”

Then Miss Baker answered his unfinished question definitively. By retching on his shoes.

“Damn,” she said hoarsely. “I didn’t think I had any left.”

And then she fainted.

WOOL SCRATCHED AT
her face. A sleeve.

She was in someone’s arms. The world spun in dizzying circles as she was lifted from the ground. The ground that she just wanted to sink into, to let gravity hold her in one place and hopefully the spinning would stop.

“No . . .” she said weakly, but she had no ability to physically protest.

“Shh . . .” came that soft tenor. Mr. Turner’s voice. Oh, that’s right—he had come to her door. Again. Oh, no, he was carrying her? Last night . . . last night he had been rude.

“No,” she said again, “you’re mean.”

“And you weigh no more than a feather,” he said,
taking steps with her in his arms. Or at least, that’s what she thought he said. The movement made the room spin again.

Then she was no longer in his arms, no longer being scratched by the wool of his coat. Instead, her face was pressed against her cool pillow. Lying down on the bed gave her that gravity she craved, let her feel like the world was settling. She could focus just a little better.

“I cast up accounts. On you,” was the only thing she could think of to say.

“You missed most of me—just got the edges of my shoes,” he said, pulling a blanket up over her.

“You deserved it.”

“Of that there is no doubt,” he agreed. “But right now, let’s see what we can do to make you comfortable.”

His hands went to the buttons at her throat, and her instincts kicked in. She batted at his hands with all the strength she could muster. “How dare you . . .” she said, tears coming to her eyes—amazing, as she was fairly certain she had no fluid left in her body.

“Miss Baker, calm yourself. I am not going to ravage you,” he said sternly, pushing her shoulders back into the mattress. Then he undid the top two buttons at the neck of her gown, allowing her to take a deep breath. “Not when you’ve been poisoned, at least,” he added.

“Poisoned?” she asked. Her mind drifting again, she tried desperately to hold on to the thread of the conversation.

He stood, started rooting around the room, looking for something. “Chamber pot?” he asked. She shook her head. There was no way she was letting him see what was in her chamber pot at the moment, hidden
in its cabinet. Remnants of a long, unpleasant night. “Water?” was the second question—and she pointed to the pitcher next to her little basin. He looked in and poured out the remaining drops into her small tin cup. She had gone through most of it the night before.

“Here.” He sat next to her, pulling her head onto his lap. “Drink this.”

She did as she was told, letting the lukewarm liquid trickle down her fiery throat. It was gone all too soon.

“I’ll get more,” he said. “I overheard Lady Widcoate say it would pass in a day or so. You should be fine, just get some rest.”

“No,” she cried, trying to sit up. “I have to work. The children . . . the Questioning . . .” she managed, before her strength gave out and she flopped back down on the bed, clinging to it, thankful for its gravity.

If the children missed the Questioning again, she would be out of a job. She had to teach. She had to get up. She had to . . .

“Don’t worry,” came the gentle tenor from somewhere above her. “I will handle it. I will . . . I will handle everything. You have to get some rest.”

“No . . . if I don’t . . .” She slid back down against the sheets. “He’ll see.”

“Who? Sir Nathan?”

“No,” she mumbled, her eyes drifting closed. “Ashby.”

“You want to impress the earl?” His voice sounded almost amused. Sardonic.

“No,” she croaked, letting sweet darkness take over. “He’s awful.”

She heard him chuckle. “I quite agree.”

And then . . . she slept.

      13

Sometimes one must wager blindly, and bluff.

T
he rest of the morning proceeded differently for the various residents of Puffington Arms.

A note was sent from the Earl of Ashby’s secretary to Sir Nathan and the earl, detailing that he was not feeling very well and would not be joining them today. While the earl expressed concern at this, intent upon visiting his friend to find out what was the matter, or even perhaps writing to his friend Dr. Gray, asking that he come all the way from Peterborough and attend them, he was assured by Lady Widcoate and the countess that nothing was the matter that a little time and rest would not cure.

“Some people must adjust to the country,” Countess Churzy said in her floating tones, before taking the earl’s arm and guiding him into escorting her from the breakfast room.

Deciding—with the help of the countess—that
perhaps it was best to let business wait until Mr. Turner was able to join them, the earl acquiesced to his host’s suggestion of a shooting party. But since the secretary would not be available to act as loader, and indeed the vast majority of the uneven party was female, the shooting party was modified into an archery outing, and the girls, Miss Minnie Rye in particular, rushed to prepare themselves to display this particular ladylike skill, while Sir Nathan grumbled and called for his carriage to take him to Hollyhock’s pub, as Lady Widcoate had predicted.

Later in the afternoon, Miss Minnie was heard to be proud of her victories, but sad over the fact that she was not permitted to shoot a rifle instead of just arrows.

“But I am a much better shot with a rifle!” she was heard saying. “You know, Aunt. You taught me.”

But Mrs. Rye shushed her before the earl could hear that she had ever encouraged such vicious pursuits in her niece.

Elsewhere in the house that morning, Danson received a note of his own. He had been thrown into disarray already by the earl’s decision to rusticate about the property that day. This required an entirely different suit of clothes, and he was attempting to dress the man—who some maids said was objecting to the practice, most curious!—when he received said missive. It was read with alarm and then, a sigh. This outward sign of exasperation was egregiously out of character. Apparently, the valet had not gotten much in the way of sleep last night, as he had been up late with some errant laundry.

Upon being released by the recalcitrant earl, he
made his way up to the third floor, where he was seen coming and going, bearing a stock of clean towels and water from the kitchens. When questioned, he simply said he was on orders from his employer. As the other servants of Puffington Arms were not, one might say, well trained, they took the valet from an aristocratic background at his imperious word and asked no more questions about it.