12

Whist is a different game altogether. One has a partner, and must occasionally take up their cards.

Ned woke up the next morning feeling like a heel, a sensation he was unaccustomed to. Although, in the three days since he’d been at Puffington Arms, it was becoming a bit more the norm.

He had gone back down the long third-floor hallway to his room after leaving Miss Baker’s. No more than a quarter of an hour had passed in the interim. And yet so much—so little?—had occurred.

He was numb, his heart beating wildly. Odd jerks of anger and shame coursed through him. He had been rejected. Summarily, completely rejected. By the governess. Who had no pretensions and no hopes for anything better in life, who was destined for America, of all places, and was pale and thin besides—dimples or no dimples!

He would give it up, he decided. Declare Turner the victor and then leave this wretched place where he had no hope of winning his wager. Walk right out the door and never look back. Let them do what they like with his mother’s house, he was done. Utterly, completely, finally, done.

And with that, he went to bed.

Of course, that was when his conscience—terrible, traitorous thing that it was—began to creep in, keeping him from sleep.

He just kept going over and over those last lines she had said to him.

You did not misunderstand. You took advantage.

Had he? He was fairly certain he had misunderstood. Certainly Miss Baker had been sending out signals all evening that she wanted to be kissed. After all, who made noises like that when they ate blackberry tarts?

Someone who hadn’t had a dessert in years, his conscience reasoned, and he tried to shut it up by suffocating himself with his own pillow.

Yes, well . . . why would any woman let a man into her rooms?

Although, he had sort of let himself in. To better see the paintings on the walls.

But the way she had looked at him . . .

Had been the way anyone looks at anyone in low candlelight. As if they are trying to see better.

Oh, hell.

The truth was . . . he had not misunderstood. He had been so focused on charming her, and admittedly was beginning to enjoy their strange conversation, that he only let himself see what he wanted to see. Things he was used to seeing. And now, with the benefit of hindsight and a box to the ear, he could see everything much more clearly.

She had been nervous and reserved. Her posture was unbending, closed off, and relaxed only when they began to talk, putting her at greater ease. She had gradually become less standoffish, that was true, but it was only to the degree that one might say a hermit crab was less standoffish than a lobster.

And he had taken advantage of the situation.

Then . . . oh, then! She had cut him down with the firmest of rebukes, and made him feel like the heel he was. Made him know to his core that he was no gentleman.

What he had done was something no gentleman ought to do. That no true gentleman would even think of. He had taken advantage of someone in a weaker, more vulnerable position.

And she had bravely, beautifully corrected him.

He should slink back to London. Though not in anger or frustration.

In shame and disgrace.

But before he did, he had to apologize to her—and maybe get back a granule of his self-respect.

Sleep—what he had of it, anyway—was fitful and unpleasant. He kept waking up, his body aware of every movement and creak outside his door, the old boards of the third floor settling with the night and awakening with the sun. Amazingly, sometime in the night, Danson had brought his clothes back from being laundered and had hung them in the small wardrobe.

He wanted to make sure she went downstairs before him. He suspected she would anyway, since her day began much earlier than his. While he did want to apologize to her—nay, needed to apologize—he thought it best not to do so up here. She would likely feel much more comfortable if there were people nearby. And so would he.

After all, she might hit him again. His ear still rang a bit.

But the sounds outside his door were undistinguishable as footsteps or simply old creaks, so he waited until it seemed impossibly late, then ducked his head out into the hall.

The door at the far end was closed. Whether it was “still” closed or had been closed after she left, there was no way to tell. Either way, Ned had to take the chance. But just in case she was there, he silently pivoted out into the hall on his toes, achingly careful as he closed his door behind him, desperate to not make a sound.

He would have to ask Danson for lessons on how to move silently, Ned thought grimly.

When the latch finally took, echoing in the hall, he moved swiftly to the stairs and snuck down them.

He let himself breathe when he hit the second floor. And he let himself slow down to a normal pace when he hit the ground floor.

First things first. He would go to the nursery and schoolroom and see about locating Miss Baker. If she was not in her rooms still (looking at the hour, how could she be?), he would find her there.

A gurgle arose from his stomach.

Then again, perhaps it would be better if he breakfasted first.

After all, he’d missed out on the blackberry tart last night.

He could pop in to the breakfast room, grab some bacon, and then search out the schoolroom. Hopefully he would be able to avoid any of his companions from dinner the night before. He was completely unaccustomed to keeping country hours, so he could only assume, since the sun was up, that people were out and about. Yesterday’s breakfast was so murky in his memory, he half assumed he had woken on Turner’s mare on the way to Hollyhock.

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.