13

Sometimes one must wager blindly, and bluff.

The 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.

And finally, young Henry and Rose Widcoate were surprised to learn that they would be receiving instruction from a substitute tutor today—Mr. Turner.

And the subject? Horses.

Of course, Miss Phoebe Baker knew none of this. No, Miss Baker slept. And when she woke up, it was to be greeted by someone she most certainly did not expect.

“Mr . . . Mr. Danson?” she said as she came to, blinking away sleep.

“Miss Baker,” the stiff valet said, bowing slightly at the waist before continuing to arrange things in her room. “I am much relieved to see that you are looking better.”

Indeed, she was not the only thing looking better. Her rooms, as tidy as she normally kept them, had undergone a disheveling the night before during her illness, and she was deeply embarrassed that anyone—Mr. Turner especially—had seen them that way. But now the sheets she rested upon were freshly laundered. The window was thrown open wide to allow in a breeze; the fresh, sweet air replacing the sour stench that had taken hold the night before. The only thing out of its neat place was her gown, lying folded over her soft reading chair.

She looked down at herself—she was in only her chemise and petticoats.

“Why is my . . . Why are you . . . What time is it?” She struggled to sit up.

“The answers to your questions are thus: Your gown is off because you were in danger of sweating through it. I removed it in as delicate a manner as possible. Although delicacy is not often required in a material that coarse. I also loosened your corset, but I am unfamiliar with most women’s clothes, therefore you might have to reset the laces.” He ticked up a second finger. “I am here because the . . . because your Mr. Turner requested that I assist you today. Apparently, your illness, had it become known, would cast a bad light on you both.”

Her illness. What was it that Mr. Turner had been saying before she was tucked back into bed? She had been poisoned. And for some reason it was his fault. But he overheard Lady Widcoate saying it would pass . . .

And suddenly, all the pieces fit together. The tart. She had eaten all of it, and it was meant for Mr. Turner—whom Lady Widcoate had decided to hate.

Her eyes flitted to Mr. Danson’s, and he nodded sagely.

“My discretion is, of course, absolute. Your Mr. Turner trusts in it, and so, I hope, will you.”

And discretion was absolutely necessary. If Lady Widcoate discovered she had been ill, she would know the cause and then ask questions about how the tart came into her possession. Which would, in turn, likely result in her firing for having the immoral turpitude to entertain a man alone.

“And the answer to your third question is that the time is just past tea, and thus, you should try to eat this.”

Danson lifted a tray from her small desk, which bore hot tea and what looked like a simple broth with some bread. Just the sight of the plain bread made her stomach flip over, but perhaps she could try the broth. Her mouth positively watered for some . . . well, for some water.

She struggled to a sitting position. Danson, meanwhile, directed his gaze to somewhere above her head until she realized that the blanket had slipped down, revealing the top of her chemise. Its thick sturdiness did not remove the inappropriateness of his seeing it, so she quickly tucked the blanket up under her chin.

Danson gave her a stiff nod and settled the tray across her lap.

“May I avail myself of this chair?” he asked, lowering himself to the chair, his posture still completely perfect.

Which made her smile. Ever so slightly, but she was in no shape to make the effort to hide her amusement. But if Danson noticed, he was still the consummate professional and said nothing.

The tea was weak. The broth was delicious. And together, they filled Phoebe to the point that she could again think properly. And when she did, she thought . . .

“Oh, my goodness!” she cried, her head coming up from the soup. Her eyes flew to the window. Amber beams shot straight through, parallel to the floor. Sunset. “It’s not after tea! It’s nearly evening!”

“Yes,” Danson replied. “And we consider your waking now to be a fortuitous bit of luck. Although, with your Mr. Turner, luck seems to be in his purview.”

“But I must . . . I have the children. They have to be presented to their parents tonight and I . . . I have to teach them something today.”

She tried to get out of bed, but the tray, the tucked-up blanket, and her own surprising dizziness stopped her before Danson could even rise out of the chair.

“Now, do not strain yourself. For I have not told you the most amazing bit of information.” He leaned forward, took her spoon, and made her take another, measured sip of broth. “Your Mr. Turner has taken care of the children’s education for the day. As long as you are able to stand and present them, they will be able to answer questions asked.”

Of the hundreds of questions running through Phoebe’s head at that moment—He spent the day with Rose and Henry? What did they learn? How am I going to get out of bed?—the only one that popped out of her mouth was . . .

“Why do you keep calling him that?”

“Calling who what?”

“My Mr. Turner.”

A fleeting smile painted the valet’s lips. “Well, he is most certainly not mine.”

Phoebe swallowed. “He mentioned that he was uncomfortable with children. I take it his actions today are . . . out of character for him?”

Danson seemed to consider that for a moment. “I can tell you this, ma’am. I have known your Mr. Turner for many years, and I can say very truthfully that I have never seen him do anything quite like this. It really is—as I said—quite amazing.”

At that moment, the quite amazing topic of conversation burst into the room, after the briefest of knocks.

“Danson, is she— Oh! Miss Baker,” he said as he ducked his head into the small space and peered around the door.

Phoebe, who had been previously unconcerned with her appearance except for Danson’s sense of propriety, held that blanket to her chin for dear life. Which must have looked supremely odd with the spoon jammed in her mouth.

But that was nothing compared with how Mr. Turner looked.

His dark hair stuck up on his head in a hundred different directions, and there were patches of mud caked into it. There were patches of mud everywhere else too. His shoes in particular seemed to be caked in the stuff, going up his stockinged feet to his ankles.

But he seemed to have little care for his state and was much more interested in hers.

“You are awake! And eating—oh, that is good news.” He wiped a hand across his brow, leaving a streak of mud. “Best news I’ve had all day. Are you feeling better? You seem to have more color, although you’re still quite pale. But then again, you are normally pale. Do you think you feel up to tonight? I don’t know what we’ll do if you do not, but—”

“Ahem.” Danson cleared his throat conspicuously. “If you do not mind, sir, I believe Miss Baker will be much more able to rise and face what comes next if she does not have to answer a string of redundant questions.”

Mr. Turner stared openmouthed at the exceptionally nonplussed valet for a moment, before snapping to. “Right. You are sure you are feeling well enough, Miss Baker?”

She opened her lips to answer, but Danson again had the better of her. The better of them both.

“I will make certain Miss Baker is presentable and ready to meet the children in the nursery before they head downstairs.” He raked his eyes up and down Mr. Turner in severe, pointed judgment. “And you should make yourself presentable as well, sir.”

Mr. Turner looked down at himself then, a spray of dust coming off his head in the jerky movement and falling onto her floor.

Danson gave Mr. Turner a look of such reproach that Phoebe was surprised he did not shrivel up and die on the spot. But Mr. Turner was apparently a more resilient creature than she took him for, or he was more used to Danson, because he simply gave a snort and that lopsided smile.

“Well, perhaps I had better bathe myself. Although Rose and Henry beat me to it—they were quite dirty as well. Oh—you don’t have to worry about them, Miss Baker. Nanny has promised to be most discreet about the fact that you were under the weather today. She mentioned that she owed you for her ‘afternoon walks’—and I decided to let her keep what that meant to herself.”

Phoebe couldn’t help a small smile. Nanny was young, and her mind still tended toward romance. She had a beau in Midville, and on a few occasions had relied on Phoebe to occupy her charges with lessons while she took a stroll with him. Of all the servants who had come and gone, this nanny had made it almost six months already, mostly due to the teamwork principle she and Phoebe had managed to establish.

“Well, I should go, then,” Mr. Turner said. “The pond gets chillier the lower the sun.” He shot her a rueful smirk at that . . . which he was almost certain she reciprocated.

“Ah—and I’m very glad you are feeling better, Miss Baker. You would not believe how glad.” Mr. Turner gave one last wipe to his brow, and then ducked out of the room as astonishingly as he had entered it.

Danson turned to her, his unruffled posture effortlessly intact. He said not a word out of place, but his look to her spoke volumes.

You see? it said. Your Mr. Turner.

Instead of heeding these annoyingly unspoken facial expressions, Phoebe decided it was her turn to actually speak.

“If you had been my ladies’ maid or governess growing up, I would have gotten into either a great deal less trouble, or a great deal more,” she said to him, earning an approving nod.

“Of that I have no doubt.”

“Well, then,” she said, her voice stronger than it had been. She could rest no longer—not with Mr. Turner’s harried looks and children she needed to prepare.

She handed the tray of broth and weak tea back to Danson and swung her feet out onto the floor. “I think I had better get out of this bed, and see just how much trouble my Mr. Turner has gotten us all in.”