The Game and the Governess (28 page)

Phoebe, though the one most likely to make use of the contents of the library, was in fact very rarely in here. When she tried to use the books for her lessons, Lady Widcoate kicked up quite a fuss about the “lines of the room” being disturbed. It was then that Phoebe figured out that the books were purely decorative. If she were to pull down the books from the higher shelves, she would be met by blank pages. Thus she relied on her own small collection of texts and correspondence for teaching Rose and Henry.

It was this thought—the library being solely for show—that steadied Phoebe as she lowered herself into the overstuffed, high-winged chair. Odd, but it made her feel as if the earl in front of her was mostly for show too.

“Is something funny, Miss Baker?” the earl asked, regarding her with one brow raised. His voice was sharp—sharper than she expected. Curious. As if he was taken aback by the smile she had tried unsuccessfully to hide.

“No,” she hastened to assure, shaking her head. “I . . . I wonder why I was called here, that is all.”

The earl nodded, taking a steadying breath. When he finally spoke, his voice was normal, as before. “You are straight to the point, Miss Baker. I asked you here this morning before the rest of the family gathers because there is something you have not told them.”

Now it was her turn to lift a brow. But she did not speak.

“It has come to my attention that you are not what you seem.”

Her second brow joined the first. But again, she kept silent, and watched as the earl shifted somewhat uncomfortably in his seat. She had found when dealing with children that if she kept her attention on the person speaking, and also held her tongue, they would inevitably explain—oftentimes more than they intended to.

She found it also worked with adults.

Though generally not adults as imperious as the Earl of Ashby.

“By that I mean, you have not disclosed the true tragedy of your circumstances.”

“The true tragedy of my circumstances?” she prompted. As much as she wanted to end the interview, as much as she wanted to have him go away and never see him again . . . she was granted an opportunity here. She wanted to hear him say it.

“Your father. His death. The loss of your fortune.”

“And you know this because . . .”

He clamped his mouth tightly and tried his best to look imperious. But, as governess, Phoebe was too well trained in spotting a guilty conscience. He could not hold her gaze.

“I recognized your name. Your given name begins with a
P
, does it not?”

Phoebe opened her mouth to answer, but suddenly, the door to the library crashed open, revealing a breathless Mr. Turner standing there, looking dumbfounded between the two of them.

“What is going on?” he asked, his eyes landing on his employer.

“Miss Baker and I were having a conversation,” the earl answered calmly.

“No, you’re not,” Mr. Turner shot back.

“Yes, we were.” The earl’s words were clipped. Hard. “Unless you have something pertinent to add, that is.”

“Maybe I will,” Mr. Turner replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “What is the topic of conversation?”

“The earl is inquiring after my given name,” Phoebe answered, shooting a look to Mr. Turner, effectively shutting him up. However, he remained in the room, his stance as defiant as a child’s. “And, yes, it does start with a
P
. My name is Phoebe.”

“I thought as much. Phoebe Baker. Whose father died by drowning after some bad investments.” The earl leaned back in his chair. “I have become friends again with the Widcoates and I would hate for them to learn of the circumstances of your father’s death. After all, it cannot do to have a governess with that kind of black cloud hanging over her name.”

“What the hell—” Mr. Turner had taken two steps forward before Phoebe held up a hand to stop his advance, while her eyes never left the earl’s.

“Is that all?” she asked, blinking with innocence. “Well, then, let me put your mind at ease.” She leaned
forward in her chair. “I have never hidden anything from my employers. Sir and Lady Widcoate were informed of everything you have stated. That my father died of drowning, and that bad investments were to blame for my reduction in circumstances. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must teach.”

She made to rise, but was stayed by the earl rising out of his seat, placing his hands in the air in a gesture of compliance.

“Miss Baker, you misunderstand.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” she replied, allowing a little of the venom that she felt to trickle into her voice. She was rewarded by seeing Lord Ashby flinch back for a moment. But then, hands still held out, he continued, “I do not mean to offend. I mean to amend.”

That caught her by surprise.

“Amend?” she asked, tentatively.

“How?” came the reply from Mr. Turner—still there, still posed angrily.

The earl sat down and Phoebe noticed the piece of paper and quill positioned on the small table at his elbow. He jotted something on the paper, then he dribbled a little wax on the bottom and pressed the ring on his last finger into it, effectively signing the document, if not sealing it.

“Indirectly, I did play a role in your current circumstances. I would like to correct that.” He handed her the piece of paper. “Take that note to my bank in London, and they will transfer five hundred pounds to your name.”

“Five hundred pounds?” she asked, astonished. Indeed, there on the page was the number written, and a
few other words around it—although her vision swam so much that she couldn’t make them out. It took her a moment to realize her hands were shaking.

“What is she to do with five hundred pounds?” Mr. Turner asked, his voice as angry as his stance.

“Whatever she likes. She could build a school. She can quit teaching and use the interest to rent a cottage. Perhaps she would like to travel abroad. But she need not be limited to the choices of a governess any longer.”

The earl leaned back in his seat. “I would be happy to hire a carriage to take you to London today, if you like. I am certain that Rose and Henry would be fine in Mr. Turner’s care until a suitable replacement could be found.”

“Now, hold on—” Mr. Turner began, but the earl interrupted him.

“Well, Mr. Turner? Don’t you think the girl deserves something for her troubles?”

Phoebe’s eyes flew to Mr. Turner’s. He was frog-faced—gaping with lack of an answer.

Luckily, Phoebe
did
have an answer.

She rose slowly, holding the piece of paper in her hands. A piece of paper worth five hundred pounds. More money than she could save working for the Widcoates for twenty years. She looked the earl dead in the eye.

And tore the piece of paper in half. Then in half again. Then once more, just to make her point.

“Thank you but no,” she said in her clipped governess tones, placing the uneven squares of paper in her pocket. “I want nothing from you anymore. Oh, there was a time when I was an angry child with no outlet for
my grief. But now I find that the idea of being indebted to you turns my stomach.”

She watched the flash of something—anger? rage? frustration?—flicker through his eyes, but he said nothing. Mr. Turner, meanwhile, looked absolutely flummoxed.

As for Phoebe, who had spent years refining her calm, quiet demeanor for public consumption . . . well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

“All you have done today is confirm my original opinion of you. Careless to the point of cruelty.”

“How dare—” The warning came with flared nostrils, but Phoebe was not one to be cowed. Not today.

“No, my lord, how dare
you
?” She drew herself up and moved calmly to the door. Before she turned the handle, she looked back at him. “You should be ashamed of yourself. It takes a very small man to threaten someone as unimportant as me.”

With that, and with her dignity, she left the room.

NED WATCHED PHOEBE
leave the library, a swish of gray skirts and head held high.

He wanted to choke Turner; wanted to rail at him for this trickery and challenge him to the sort of duel men got sent to the Continent for.

But he didn’t. Instead, he kept his eyes on the door as it creaked its way back into place.

“Did you enjoy that?” Ned asked harshly.

Turner’s voice became raw. Ned didn’t turn to look at him, but he imagined his face had for once dropped its hard mask. “Not for a second.”

“This is not over between us,” he growled, his blood feral.

“I should imagine not,” Turner mused, resigned.

Then Ned took off after Phoebe, breaking into a run before he left the library.

“Miss Baker!” he cried, moving swiftly to catch up to her. But hearing her name did not slow her down—indeed, she sped up. Walking as fast as propriety would allow, out of Puffington Arms and down the front lane, as far as she could go.

Ned kept pace behind her until they had passed the bend that hid them from the house, and her steps slowed. Then he finally allowed himself to close the distance.

“Miss Baker—please . . .” he said in between gulps of air (she had been moving very fast, especially for someone in such skirts) and reached out to touch her shoulder. Which, he discovered, was shaking.

“Miss Baker?” She still didn’t respond. “Phoebe,” he finally said, and turned her to him.

She was crying.

Wet streaks were running straight back from her clear blue eyes, such had been her speed. Her face was red, flushed to the tips of her ears. Her nose . . . well, perhaps it was best not to opine on her nose, Ned thought. Crying had made it swell.

But while her eyes gave her away, her mouth remained a firm line, no sob allowed to escape. No sound even. Until she spoke.

“How could you?” she accused, shoving his hand off her shoulder.

“What are you talking about?” Ned asked, his brows coming together.

“You told him!” she hissed. “You told him what I told you! About my father.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Then how did he know? Did the Earl of Ashby suddenly remember after a week of staying in the same house that I happened to write him a letter once upon a time?” She placed her hands on her hips, her eyes drying rapidly with her ability to direct her anger at someone.

While Ned would have very much liked to say that, yes, that was very likely what had happened, he knew it would only incite further anger in his direction. And he knew better than to do that. In general.

“It must have been one hell of a letter,” he offered half jokingly.

She did not see the amusement. “Is this some sort of game to you? That was the most humiliating time of my life—and a close second was that farce of an interview just moments ago.” She shoved her face into her hands. “Oh, God—if the Widcoates find out about this, they will sack me.”

“They won’t,” Ned assured her. “I promise.” Tentatively, he reached out and took her hands down from her face, forcing her to look at him. “You have my word.”

They stood there for some moments, Ned holding Phoebe’s hands as she took the breaths she needed to bring herself back to normal, to put the wall of propriety back up and be able to face the world again.

But Ned had seen behind it now.

“Phoebe,” he asked—not the first time he said her name, but the first time he had paused to taste it. “Why didn’t you take it?”

Her eyes flew up to meet his. Those clear blue eyes, at that moment filled with a question.

“The money,” he clarified. “You could have a different life, if you took it.”

She blinked at him. “You don’t understand, do you? I was an angry, sad child when my father died and I wrote that letter. I was railing at the only person I could find to hear me. Even though he proved himself to be an unfeeling man simply by his lack of reply, I look back and realize I was utterly foolish. I do not belong in his province. I belong in my own.”

“But the money—”

“No amount of money can give me back my father. Nor can it return me to my former life. And I wouldn’t want to go back to being that girl. She didn’t have a single thought in her head about how the world worked. All she knew was that she would be petted and cosseted her entire life. And there is so
much
more.”

There was so much more. How was it that this little governess, hidden away from the world, had a greater appreciation for it than a peer such as himself? It made him feel . . . shallow. Being never troubled, and always bored.

“You reminded yourself he was human. And that bought him forgiveness?”

Phoebe shook her head. “Reminding myself he was human is what saved my sanity, and made it so I let go of my anger at him. But forgiveness is a harder thing.”

She wiped her eyes, though they remained dry.

“I knew it would be hard to face the earl—he’s become something of a personal demon,” she continued. “In fact, when I learned he was coming, my most fer
vent wish was to hide away, pray that he did not know me, and let this fortnight pass unexceptionally. But that’s not what happened.” She sighed and looked up, opening herself up to the sky. “And now there is nothing to do but be glad of it.”

“I thought you were brilliant in there,” Ned suddenly blurted.