26

No one can win without incurring losses.

Sir Nathan, there you are! Oh, and Mr. Fennick too, where did you come from? And you, sir, must be the magistrate—very pleased to meet you.”

Phoebe watched, dumbstruck, as her Mr. Turner bounced down the main staircase and into the foyer of Puffington Arms, where Sir Nathan was greeting the newly arrived—and visibly bleary—magistrate.

“Indeed,” Sir Nathan said, a bit nonplussed. “This is Mr. Hale, whose estate is east of Midville.”

“And much where he would prefer to be.” Mr. Hale turned his reddened eyes and veiny nose to peer at her. “Is this the girl?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sir Nathan replied, his voice gruff with the surprise of seeing her there.

“Then we’ll take her to be held at the jail in Midville,” Mr. Hale said, before coughing up a lungful of morning fluid. Clearly, his night at the Summer Ball had been as raucous as theirs.

“Such a sad, sad state of affairs,” Mr. Fennick was saying in a quiet undertone to Sir Nathan. Then he turned his attention to her. “As you know, I am more versed in the law of contracts and papers, my dear, but if you should need any advice . . .”

“No call for that!” Mr. Turner said cheerfully. Phoebe’s mind reeled at his happiness. How could he be so joyful? She was about to be taken to prison!

“I told you, Mr. Turner,” Sir Nathan was saying. “I’m not having a murderer in my house, and especially not near my children.”

“Well, then, let her return to the schoolroom, because Miss Baker is no murderer.”

Sir Nathan sighed the sigh of the weary. “We all heard what the earl said. He said Baker.”

“Correct,” Mr. Turner replied. “Not Miss Baker. Not Phoebe. He was not identifying his shooter.”

“Then what was he identifying?” the curious voice of Henrietta Benson came from the entrance to the breakfast room. There the women stood collectively, except for the countess. Phoebe guessed she was likely attending the earl.

“I am so pleased you asked, Miss Benson,” Mr. Turner replied, putting his hands behind his back and rocking back on his heels, happy as a clam. “He was not identifying his shooter. He was identifying the weapon. A Baker rifle.”

Jaws dropped across the foyer. Sir Nathan, in particular, looked a bit like a fish. “A Baker rifle? How—did he see it?”

“No.” Mr. Turner shook his head. “He heard it. Believe me, after time spent on a battlefield surrounded by Baker rifles, you never forget the sound.”

Phoebe’s hand came to her mouth. Of course. Baker rifles had been used during the war, more and more replacing Brown Besses, and had since been populating the countryside.

“Do you own a Baker rifle, Sir Nathan?” Mr. Turner asked casually.

“Of course I do,” that man replied. Then, realizing the implications, “But I only use it for hunting! And hundreds of other men in the country have one as well!”

“That . . . that still doesn’t mean Miss Baker was not the villain!” Lady Widcoate tried. “We have evidence of her hatred of Lord Ashby! And my husband was with me this morning. He could not have shot the earl. But Miss Baker could have—she could have stolen the rifle from my husband’s stores.”

“True enough,” Mr. Turner replied. “Perhaps you could go fetch the rifle, Sir Nathan?”

“Why?”

“Because you keep your hunting rifles in good working order, do you not?” Mr. Turner queried.

“That I do.” Sir Nathan’s chest puffed out with pride. “Clean and oil them myself after each use.”

Of course he did, Phoebe thought. There was no gamekeeper or manservant here to do it for him.

“So, if the rifle is dirty, that would be definitive proof that it was the one fired this morning, would it not?”

Sir Nathan rubbed his bushy mustache for a moment and then, with a nod, ran off down the hall.

“Mr. . . . Turner, is it?” Magistrate Hale interrupted. “I am afraid that I have no idea what is going on. I simply wish to collect the girl and go home.”

“Your patience, Magistrate, is appreciated,” Mr. Turner replied with a grin, then turned back to the assembled women.

“While we are waiting, let us explore the second part of Lady Widcoate’s postulation. You say Miss Baker stole the rifle. But what would make you think she knows how to fire it?”

“What?” Lady Widcoate said, putting her hands on her hips. “Now you are being ridiculous.”

“Do you know how to fire a rifle, my lady?” he asked. Phoebe could only watch in wonder. Her Mr. Turner had command of the room, being jovial, but not yielding his point. He was a leader of men.

And he was hers.

“Of course not,” Lady Widcoate huffed.

“Do you know how to shoot a rifle, Miss Baker?” he asked, causing Phoebe to start. Then she shook her head.

“Of course she would deny it,” she heard Lady ­Widcoate say under her breath. Always feeling the weight of phantom persecution, that one. If Phoebe had not been currently fearing for her very life, she might have broken character and rolled her eyes.

“Do any of you ladies?” he asked blithely.

“I do!” Miss Minnie Rye cried. Her aunt tugged at her arm, silently admonishing her to keep quiet. “What?” Minnie asked. “You do too.”

Mrs. Rye blushed deeply. “I only learned because my husband is often . . . traveling for business, and I wished to be able to protect myself and my daughter. But I couldn’t have done it, because I was asleep as well. Besides, I am a terrible shot.”

“But I would wager Miss Minnie is quite a good shot.”

“Mr. Turner!” cried Mr. Fennick, aghast. “You cannot seriously be accusing a young lady like Miss Rye of shooting the earl?”

“Why not?” Mr. Turner spun on his heel to face the fastidious little lawyer. “It makes as much sense as blaming Miss Baker.”

“But there is no reason for Minnie to shoot anyone!” Clara cried, shakily.

“Indeed, she actively tries to avoid it,” Henrietta piped up, “ever since she almost shot off my toe with an arrow a few days ago.”

“Minnie, Henrietta, be quiet, NOW,” Mrs. Rye commanded. “Lady Widcoate, I will not stand to have my girls decried in such a way. The truth is, Mr. Turner, that your lady-love had means to shoot the earl, motive to do so, and, as far as anyone can tell, opportunity. She lied to Sir Nathan about her whereabouts this morning. And now the earl is dying on a sofa. Can you argue any of that?”

“No,” Mr. Turner said simply. “Other than the dying part. But the fact remains that Miss Baker didn’t shoot the earl because she could not. She does not know how to operate a rifle.”

“Well, let’s put that to the test,” Sir Nathan said, coming up the hall. “I have my Baker rifle.” He brandished the weapon in his hand. “And, yes, it is clean,” he said to Mr. Turner before he could ask. “But it is possible she cleaned it and put it back before we discovered her in the schoolroom, is it not?”

“I sincerely doubt it,” Mr. Turner said, his tone brooking no opposition. Although Sir Nathan had some to give.

“You might be right. And the earl might bear your theories out. But unless you want Miss Baker behind bars in Midville . . .”

“Never,” Mr. Turner replied savagely.

“Then you will allow us to submit her to a simple test.”

He let those words hang in the air. The two men growled at each other, like dogs fighting over a bone, while the magistrate, Mr. Fennick, and the ladies looked on in anticipation.

“I’ll do it,” she said suddenly. Every eye turned to her, positioned on the stairs. It was almost as if they had forgotten she was there.

“I’ll take your . . . your test, Sir Nathan,” she clarified, her eyes on Mr. Turner, her stare calming him. “And then, one way or another, I am leaving this house for good.”

“PLEASE TELL ME you have actually no idea how to use a Baker rifle,” Ned said under his breath to Phoebe, as they walked out across the veranda and down to the open space by the pond, which Minnie had been using for archery, bowls, and any other lawn game she could persuade people to play.

“I have never shot a rifle in my life,” she replied. “But it can’t be that hard, can it?”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Go on believing that, and you’ll be fine.”

They neared the rest of the group. Naturally, no one wanted to miss this, the governess-murderess proving her innocence by firing a rifle. All the housemaids and the cook were gathering at the windows. Ned looked for the children, but luckily they were not there. Nanny must have kept them away from the fray.

“Don’t be nervous,” he whispered to Phoebe. She nodded and gave him a slight, brave smile.

“Mr. Turner, step away from Miss Baker,” Lady Widcoate cried. “For all we know, you are telling her how to cheat!”

Ned’s eyebrow went up, but he said nothing. With a small squeeze of Phoebe’s hand, he released her.

All Ned could do was watch. If this did not work, he did not know how he was going to extricate her from this ridiculous mess. If only Turner had said something else! If only Turner would wake up into coherency. If only Rhys would get here and get him better. Because if Turner took a proverbial turn for the worse, well . . . Ned could lose two people he loved that day.

Sir Nathan handed Phoebe the rifle. She held it by the barrel, at arm’s length. Then he handed her the ball and powder.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake—she doesn’t even know how to load the bloody thing!” Ned could not help but cry out.

“Language, Mr. Turner!” Mrs. Rye called out, pressing hands over Clara’s and Minnie’s ears. Both girls tried to duck out of the way. “And maybe she is feigning her ignorance, hmm?”

“She is not, Mrs. Rye,” Ned countered. “Unlike some, she is incapable of feigning anything.”

Mrs. Rye sniffed at the reproach, but she let it go. Really, Mrs. Rye had become terribly prudish since that first night when he thought she might welcome a fling. If he were to guess, he would say that it was that misconception that did it. Perhaps she had been thinking of a fling, and then found herself horrified at the prospect of one.

“Now, if she cannot load the gun, how could she have fired it?” he asked.

“Perhaps she had help?” Lady Widcoate rationalized. “Perhaps the gun was left loaded?”

“Sir Nathan said he always cleans his guns. Why would he clean it and then reload it and then put it back?” Ned drawled.

“Well, what if she used a different gun?” came the wheedling sound of Mr. Fennick’s voice. “One that was already loaded. Er, just as a suggestion.”

Ned looked over at the little man, considering his words. And then . . . something clicked into place. The last piece of this ludicrous, dangerous puzzle.

“Very true, Mr. Fennick,” he said, considering. “Your solicitor’s brain has come upon a weak spot in my argument.” He watched as Phoebe’s eyebrow went up, but said nothing. Ned kept his attention on the calm-faced man in front of him. “Very lucky you happened to be here.”

“Well, I had an appointment this morning to go hunting with Sir Nathan and the earl. To firm up plans for the cottage before he left for London, you see.”

“Yes, indeed. Have to make certain those plans are firm.”

“You have no idea how many people no longer believe that giving one’s word constitutes a deal.” Mr. Fennick shook his head. “I have had so many difficulties—”

“Well, since you happened to be coming to go hunting, surely you can help Miss Baker load the rifle?” Ned broke in, all innocence. “So we can see if she can fire it. After all, you are right, she could have taken a rifle already loaded from somewhere else.”

“Well, I suppose . . .” Mr. Fennick tried, his full eyebrows rising up to his nonexistent hairline.

“Come on, come on, Fennick,” Sir Nathan said gruffly, having settled himself into a chair on the veranda, and not looking like he wanted to rise again anytime soon.  “Load the thing for the girl, we haven’t all day.”

With a quick nod, Mr. Fennick crossed to Phoebe and took the rifle out of her hands. With quick, practiced motions, he checked the barrel, loaded and primed the gun. Then, with one last check, he handed the rifle back to Phoebe.

“Now aim,” Sir Nathan called out. “Into the pond, if you please—I should rather not have anyone shot.”

“My toes escaped mauling once already this week,” Henrietta said, causing Clara to snicker and Minnie to turn red with embarrassment.

“Like this?” Phoebe asked, bringing the gun to her side.

“Er, more like this,” Mr. Fennick replied, adjusting her position, so the gun was at her shoulder.

When she was in position, Mr. Fennick stepped back, and then . . . Phoebe fired.

“Oof!” she cried as she fell backward. The force of the rifle’s kick had sent her flying onto her back, showing no small amount of petticoat when she landed with a thud. She struggled to her feet as rapidly as possible, and quickly restored decorum to her skirts.

“Now I know why ladies don’t shoot,” she murmured as she rubbed her shoulder.

“Yes, they have quite a force,” Mr. Fennick agreed, absentmindedly rubbing his own shoulder in sympathy. “And you, er, missed the pond.” They looked and saw a mark in the dirt on the other side of the pond, where her bullet had ended.

“I think you can agree, Sir Nathan, Lady Widcoate,” Ned drawled, stepping up to join Phoebe and Mr. Fennick, “that it would be nearly impossible for Miss Baker to have shot the Earl of Ashby.”

Lady Widcoate opened her mouth to protest, but she was stayed by a stern look from her husband. “That is . . . a fair assessment,” he said grudgingly.

“But . . .” Lady Widcoate tried. But this time Ned cut her off.

“Lady Widcoate, stop. Take a moment. And admit to yourself that you were swept up in the madness and must now let it go.” His eyes narrowed. “While you think, perhaps you should take some refreshment? A bite to eat? I understand blackberry tarts are a particular favorite of yours.”

Lady Widcoate’s cheeks flamed in either horror or embarrassment, but she shut her mouth.

“And can we perhaps all admit the impossibility of Miss Baker’s involvement in this event?” Ned called out to the crowd. “A young woman who can neither load a rifle, nor manage to hit an entire pond when standing right in front of it, is hardly likely to be the crack shot who felled the earl from under cover fifty yards away.”

He had thought perhaps that there might be a rousing cheer for his efforts, for Phoebe’s unshakable bravery. But rather there was some grumbling, some shrugging, and ultimately, a concession of the point.

“Yes, Mr. Turner, it is agreed.” Mr. Hale the magistrate spoke for all. Ned wrapped his arms around Phoebe as he felt her knees give way.

“Perhaps I can go back to my bed now?” Mr. Hale yawned.

“In just a moment, Mr. Hale,” Ned called out. Then he turned his attention to the man with the gun. “Thank you, Mr. Fennick, for your assistance in proving Miss Baker’s innocence.”

“Well, you are quite welcome, Mr. Turner,” Fennick replied, handing the rifle over to him.

“You say you were coming hunting here today?”

“Yes. Sir Nathan and I—”

“Yes, yes, solidifying business and all that. Must be terribly trying, being the only member of the consortium concerned about the deal.”

“That’s not wholly true . . .”

“Now, now, as a man of business, I know how it goes,” Ned said cheerfully. And he did, too, since he had read through all the paperwork of the business proposal. “The consortium’s been laying out a pretty penny to make this work, I assume. Land surveys, having a pipeline built . . . even moving the Summer Festival cost money! You deserve the credit for being the one to make certain all that happens.”

“Thank you, Mr. Turner.” Mr. Fennick blushed. “It is gratifying to have one’s work acknowledged.”

“How much does it take to buy into the consortium anyway?”

“How much?”

“You four are equal partners. But equal means different things to different people. After all—Sir Nathan is funded by his wife’s fortune. Mr. McLeavey comes from some money, as he’ll inherit a hunting lodge upon his mother’s death. And Mr. Dunlap owns a profitable mine. But you’re just a solicitor. You must have used everything you had.”

Mr. Fennick’s eyes narrowed, while his grin remained firmly in place. “I don’t see the point of enumerating my involvement.”

“Don’t you, Mr. Fennick?” Ned rubbed his chin. “Where is your rifle?”

Mr. Fennick’s obsequious smile faltered. “My rifle?”

“Yes, your rifle. For hunting. You do have your own, correct?” Ned inquired. “After all, you shoot with Sir Nathan often.”

Fennick shot a nervous look to Sir Nathan, who had begun to peer at him queerly. “Certainly . . .”

“Then why did you not bring it this morning?”

“I . . .”

“Or perhaps you did.” Ned advanced on Fennick. Phoebe fell back and away. “Perhaps you came out early and had your rifle with you. And saw us in the woods.”

“I . . . I . . .” Mr. Fennick began to stammer.

“Too good an opportunity to miss, I suppose. After all, so many people no longer honor their word. If the chance at the cottage slipped through the Hollyhock Bathing Consortium’s fingers because the earl changed his mind, it would be terribly problematic.”

“You . . . you are spinning ridiculous stories now,” Mr. Fennick replied, his nervousness turning to anger.

“Perhaps,” Ned conceded. “But if we go into the woods, what are the odds that we are going to find your rifle underneath a pile of leaves somewhere?”

Gasps rose from their audience—which had grown. The gunshot had drawn the housemaids out from behind the windows and onto the veranda.

“Mr. Fennick?” Mr. Hale said, his bleary eyes narrowing, as if he was finally truly waking up.

“Fennick, where is your gun?” Sir Nathan asked.

“I . . . I . . . I cannot believe you are accusing me of such things!” Mr. Fennick cried, puffing out his chest and poking at Ned’s chest. “I would never do anything to harm the earl!” The little man’s eyes narrowed. “But you might.”

“Me?” Ned scoffed. “Mr. Fennick, I was the one who brought the earl in.”

“Exactly—you were the only one with him,” Mr. Fennick returned. His solicitor brain began to pick up speed. “We have only your word for what happened.”

“Until he wakes up.”

“If he wakes up. Who’s to say you were not out there early in the morning to end his life yourself!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Fennick,” Ned drawled, his ire rising.

“I’m not—it is no secret that the two of you have been at odds since you got here.”

“Yes, they have been,” Lady Widcoate breathed. Without her sister present she was letting her imagination run wild, and it was making Ned see red. “And most of all over her.”

She pointed at Phoebe, who turned to the lady herself. “Lady Widcoate, you are not doing your cause any favors.”

“How dare you speak to me in such a manner!” Lady Widcoate gasped. “You are as rebellious as your lover. And as dangerous. Why, he could have a hundred reasons to wish the earl harm!”

“Why the hell would I want to hurt the earl? I am the earl!” Ned growled.

The minute it was out of his mouth he regretted it. He had been holding on to it for so long, and spent the sleepless night deciding that this would be the day to tell the truth . . . but not like this.

His eyes shot to Phoebe, who was looking at him, her expression curiously blank. Only her eyes, usually so clear, gave her away. They were clouding with confusion.

The rest of the audience—the Ryes, Miss Benson, and especially the Widcoates—simply stood there in openmouthed shock. Until, Lady Widcoate, true to form, began to laugh.

A long trill of laughter, harsh and brittle. “How very droll, Mr. Turner. But you cannot remove the stink of guilt from yourself with further lies.”

The rest of the party relaxed, Mrs. Rye snorting a laugh and Sir Nathan adjusting in his chair. Everyone except . . .

“Of course!” Henrietta cried, her face lighting up like a firework. “It all makes sense now!”

“What makes sense?” Clara asked in her small voice.

“What I . . . overheard on Sunday, when we all went into town. I told you I went to the Granville cottage to see what all the fuss was about and I heard voices and I thought one was the earl but it didn’t really sound like the earl and then Mr. Turner—or, er, you,” she said with a nod to Ned, “came storming out, and I’ve been trying to figure it out ever since! But that’s what they did. They traded places!”

Now it was everyone’s turn to blink at Henrietta.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Henrietta,” Mrs. Rye said, her voice steel.

“But—”

“You have long since been too fond of poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, and making up stories. I will have to have a talk with your mother upon our return to Bath. Which will be immediately, Lady Widcoate. I am afraid this is all much too dramatic for young ladies.”

“Long overdue, if you ask me,” Lady Widcoate grumbled. “Although if you wanted to shield them from dramatics, perhaps your departure should have been before we all came outside to witness Miss Baker’s shooting ability.”

Mrs. Rye turned red as a beet, and opened her mouth to retort, but was stilled by Mr. Hale, whose tired voice rose above the fray.

“This has all become rather confusing,” he said. “Perhaps I should come back later.”

“Or perhaps you should arrest Mr. Turner now,” Mr. Fennick called out, to which Lady Widcoate vehemently nodded. “For attempting to implicate me in crimes, for attempted murder, and for trying to lie his way out of it. Thinking we would go into the woods and find my rifle under a bush, indeed!” he scoffed.

“I said a pile of leaves, Mr. Fennick. Not a bush. Although now I know better where to look,” Ned retorted instantly. Mr. Fennick colored, giving himself away. “And I am not lying. I am the Earl of Ashby.”

“Can you prove it?” Sir Nathan asked. All this time he had been sitting still, rubbing his chin in thought, and listening.

“He doesn’t have to.” The familiar voice made Ned’s shoulders fall with relief, as Dr. Rhys Gray rounded the corner, his medical bag in hand, Kevin the groom close behind. “I can attest to it. I am Dr. Rhys Gray, of Greenwich, and this is Ned Granville, Earl of Ashby.” Rhys shot him a look. “And apparently, he has caused just about as much trouble as I predicted.”

“Rhys, I’m so glad you’re here,” Ned said in a rush. “Turner has been—”

“Your groom filled me in on the way,” Rhys cut off his explanations. He called out to the assembled crowd, “Can someone take me to my patient, please?” Then, low, to Ned, “Not you. You have a bigger mess to clean up.”

Rhys glanced over Ned’s shoulder. As his friend followed a maid inside, Ned turned and saw . . .

Phoebe.

Everything happened around them. Lady Widcoate emitted a screech, popping up out of her chair and rushing into the house. Sir Nathan pulled Mr. Hale to his side, whispering and conferring. The Rye girls surrounded Miss Benson as she explained how she had figured it out. Mrs. Rye hung her head, no doubt trying to decide how she was going to explain this madhouse to her girls, and then her face lit up with glee, with the knowledge that she had the most delicious gossip to spread upon their return to Bath. And Mr. Fennick . . . he used the commotion to make a quick escape, thus cementing his guilt. Although it must be questioned whether he thought much further than getting away from the house, because really, once back in Hollyhock, where would he go? As it was, Kevin the groom intercepted him before he rounded the corner, tackling him to the ground, and brought him, crying, over to Magistrate Hale.

And all the while, Phoebe was watching Ned. Staring, her expression becoming hard, her eyes crystalline. Her voice, when she spoke, was as flat and cold as ice.

“Edward,” she said, then cocked her head slightly. “Ned.”

He nodded slowly.

“They call you Lucky Ned, don’t they?”

“Phoebe, this isn’t . . . I wanted to tell you before.” He took a step toward her, but she quickly held up her hand, stopping him in his tracks.

“Yes,” she agreed, her voice clipped. “Before would have been better.”

They stood there, in the middle of the lawn, madness breaking all around them. And all Ned could do was hold his breath.

And then, he could only watch as she turned away from him and walked back into the house.

“Phoebe,” he called out, running after her, “Phoebe, wait!”