The Game and the Governess (27 page)

His dove.

“Just contemplating what kind of bird you would be,” he answered after a moment. He always had to hesitate before he spoke with anyone in the house, but with her especially. Something about her made him forget to breathe, let alone smooth out his natural northern accent.

Her eyes lit up with playfulness. He knew what she was, of course. There was no way her easy charm would
be so easy if she did not think him a rich, titled gentleman. But he was like one of those poor souls craving the taste of laudanum—he knew there was no future for them together, but damned if she didn’t drug him into believing there was.

“And what was your conclusion?” she asked, clasping her hands in front of her, all innocence. “A bright fat blue jay? An exotic parrot?”

“Neither,” he said, clipped, but smiling at her. “Something far more lovely.” Then his head turned, caught by motion outside the window. It was Ned and the governess, moving toward the house again.

Leticia must have taken note of his interest, her gaze following his as she moved to stand next to him.

“And what kind of bird do you think the governess is?” she whispered in his ear. “A chickadee? A tufted titmouse?”

“A cuckoo,” he answered darkly.

She pulled back a bit at that. “For heaven’s sake, why?”

“Because they cause problems for other birds.”

He let himself look at her then, her stunned expression. Very quickly, though, she hid it, smoothing it under her beautiful face until such unpleasantness was never there to begin with. But still, he had seen it.

In fact, the surprise was good. It meant she had an opinion—and he could use all the information he could get.

“What do you know of Miss Baker?”

She blinked twice before answering. “Not much. She’s been working for my sister for about a year, I believe. I know she had a good education, because
Fanny hopes her connection to Mrs. Beveridge’s will serve Rose well, when the time comes. And the children of course adore her.” She slid him a look out of the corner of her eye. “But I have not had much to do with her. Why do you ask?”

To answer that, he simply nodded to the window, where they could see Ned taking Miss Baker’s elbow as they mounted the steps to the front of the house, and then disappeared from view.

“Oh. Your secretary Mr. Turner seems to have struck up a friendship, I see.”

He nodded.

“And you are concerned about him. Such sentiments do you credit.”

“It’s not only that,” Turner replied, his eyes coming away from the window. Now that the party was no longer in sight, there was little reason to keep staring out to the road. Not when he had something so lovely to look at right in front of him.

“Why?” Leticia painted an amused smile on her lips. “Is your Mr. Turner a lothario? Do his charms go over better in London than they did with Mrs. Rye? Are you afraid he will seduce and abandon her?”

There was a silliness in her voice, but also a real concern. And if Turner thought he could get away with planting that seed in her head, he would. Make Ned out to be a lothario—all the other ladies would rally around Miss Baker to “protect” her. But he could not—impugning his competitor was against the rules.

Instead, he did something far more drastic.

He told the truth.

“Not that at all. I am concerned not for her but
about
her.”

She cocked her head to one side. “I feel like the parrot you think I am, constantly asking ‘why?’”

Turner chose his words with care. “I am afraid she might be related to a Mr. Baker with whom I had dealings in the past.”

He hesitated—and decided not to disclose anything about the letter. Actually, two letters, which he happened to remember very well.

It had been a bit less than a year into his service with Ashby. He had been settling into his role, reconstruction on the mill was going swimmingly, and he had thought he would be able to part company with Ned within the next six months. Of course, that hadn’t happened, for a myriad of other reasons.

All of the earl’s correspondence went through him, except those with flowery script and a personal footman delivering it from the bedroom of some society lady. The first letter came from a Mr. Baker, wanting to double-check Mr. Sharp’s references. Turner had written back urging him to avoid Sharp at all costs, using the earl’s name and seal, as was his directive from his not-to-be-bothered-with-small-things employer. He had even asked for the direction of Sharp, thinking that he might be able to right a past wrong and have country officials arrest him, keeping London and the Ashby name out of it.

But then, a few months later, he had received the second letter. This one from a girl’s school. He didn’t connect the names at first, and had thought Ned had a sister or cousin he had forgotten to tell him about. But then he read it . . .

At first he was angry. Angry at Ned for demanding that the business be swept under the rug. Angry at himself for complying. Then he was nervous. The girl wrote so vehemently, so angrily. Could it be that she
would
exact some revenge? Lastly, he was worried for his position. He had been told to make Mr. Sharp go away, quietly. And here was a loose end. He was six months away from having his mill back. Ned had been more and more obdurate of late. More and more the earl. If he fired Turner . . . well, the banks would not be happy.

So, he had put the letter away. Buried it, underneath piles of work that would come after. He’d thought she had simply drifted away. But no—she had been laying in wait. Like a time bomb.

“Baker is a common name,” she tried, but he shook his head.

“It’s she.”

“And you worry that she has reasons for being in his company other than the fact that he is generally handsome?” Leticia mused. She then responded to the look he gave her with the sweetest of smiles. “Not as handsome as some, of course . . . Well, with the caveat that I do not believe Miss Baker could be a callous enough creature to entice your secretary for your possible involvement with her maybe relative, I can only advise one thing.”

“And what is that?”

“Separate them.”

Now it was his turn to cock his head to the side. “How?”

“And soon enough you will be sounding like an owl.” She arched an enticing brow at him. “Mr. Turner is in your employ. Surely there is something
that requires his attention in London. Send him away. Simple as that.”

Turner shook his head. “I wish I could, but I need him here. For the consortium’s business proposal.”

“Ah, yes, this business proposal that you have been ignoring for the past three days to spend your time under my sister’s oak trees?”

“As long as you happen to be under those oak trees, there is nowhere else to be,” he answered simply, for which she rewarded him with a delightful giggle.

“Well”—she shrugged—“if you refuse to send him away, and as you cannot send
her
away, you will simply have to warn your secretary, watch from the sidelines, and hope for the best.” She slipped her arm through his. “But come, I was sent to fetch you. Minnie has caught Henrietta up in a game of wickets, and Clara could not decide between them, so you apparently must come judge the last hit to see who is the winner.”

Turner let himself be led out of the drawing room and tugged toward the parlor that led to the terrace. There he would be greeted by the Ryes, Miss Benson, Lady Widcoate, Sir Nathan, and, if the last few days were any indication, Mr. Fennick, Mr. McLeavey, and possibly the Midville mine’s owner, Mr. Dunlap. They would all look to him for something—praise, adulation, answers, satisfaction. But for once, his mind would not be on the worry of having to deal with them. No, because something Leticia had said worked its way into his ear, echoing there, a grain of an idea forming.

And as you cannot send
her
away . . .

But maybe, just maybe, there was a way he could.

Maybe he could steal a bit of Ned’s luck yet.

      16

Never bet with money not yet won.

B
ut does it have to be spelling
again
?” Rose asked, as only she could: dramatically, clutching her heart and falling over into her eggs.

“Maths and reading in the morning means you get your riding lessons in the afternoon,” Phoebe reminded her.

Which was bribe enough to focus her. At least on her eggs.

As usual, Phoebe took breakfast in the nursery with the children and, when she wasn’t running around cleaning up or belowstairs, Nanny. Today the frizzy-haired girl was sorting clothes to be sent down to the laundry maids. Tutting at how their riding lessons had, if possible, made them dirtier.

The riding lessons had been phenomenal. Rose especially had something that made her keen and smiling every day. Sir Nathan had even stopped by the stables a
time or two, wanting to see how the lessons were progressing. Phoebe no longer had to work hard to get Rose to learn one thing to repeat back to her father—she recited horse-based trivia at lightning speed. And it made her want to learn other things too—as long as they were equally horse-based.

“But couldn’t it be
fun
spelling? Not boring letters and things.”

“Well, if we don’t learn the letters part of spelling, it seems a little difficult.” There was a knock at the nursery room door, and she rose to answer it. “Think about that.”

She pulled open the door and started when she saw the solemn valet of the Earl of Ashby standing there, as straight-backed as ever.

“Oh! Mr. Danson,” she cried, letting a hand go to her chest, her heart suddenly fluttering.
Why would Mr. Danson be there?
“How nice to see you . . . out of my sickroom.” She smiled bemusedly.

“Miss Baker.” He gave a short nod. And no smile, as per suspected custom. Then, to the children, who were leaning out of their chairs to see who it was, “Sir. Madam.”

Phoebe turned around and gave them a sharp, stern look. They immediately ducked their heads into their eggs and porridge.

“Miss Baker, the, er, Earl of Ashby has requested your presence. If you would be so kind, I will escort you.”

Phoebe’s eyes went wide. “The earl?” Her voice was gone, barely a rasp. “Now?”

“Yes, if you please.”

“But . . . why?” Phoebe’s heart, already at a flutter from seeing the earl’s valet, began to hammer. What could have possibly happened that the earl would want to see
her
?

Then . . . she remembered what she told her Mr. Turner yesterday. Oh, God . . . she had thought he understood . . . that was her secret! Her blackest moment, and he went and told the earl about it? Told him everything?

“I have no idea,” Danson replied. “But if I may offer advice: be on your guard. Do not let them play games with you.”

Phoebe may have been unsure of what the warning meant, but she gave a short nod anyway. Two deep breaths, to steady herself, and then she turned, to find Nanny watching, a basket of laundry under her arm and a child on either side of her.

“Nanny, once they are done with breakfast, if you could escort them to the schoolroom? I will meet them there.”

Then she turned back to Danson, and set her face in those hard lines that allowed no humor to shine through. “Then let us walk into fire.”

WHEN PHOEBE ENTERED
the library, it was with her back as straight as a plank, her eyes clear, and her blankest possible expression. Perhaps she was being called forth only to be asked about the riding lessons. Perhaps he had a child in his care, and wished to ask if she would be willing to enter his employ as governess.

And perhaps, on the library ceiling, Lady Widcoate’s painted cherubs would start flapping their wings.

But her true surprise upon entering was seeing that the Earl of Ashby was alone in the room.

“Miss Baker,” he said with a short bow. She gave a small curtsy in return, but could not help glancing about. If this was Mr. Turner’s doing, shouldn’t he be here?

“Expecting someone?” the earl asked.

Phoebe, finding she could not yet manage words, simply shook her head.

“Then, please . . .” He indicated two high-backed chairs placed before the unused fireplace. “Have a seat.”