The Lie and the Lady (22 page)

It made him long for his beautiful laboratory in Greenwich. To spend the day in solitude, his main communication being correspondence with other physicians and scientists across the country (and some in Europe) where they shared their ideas, their research. Oh, he did go out occasionally. He very much enjoyed the visits he made to town to see his friends Ashby and, before he returned to Lincolnshire, Turner. He was once physician to the queen, when there was a particularly troublesome skin condition no one else was able to diagnose. And every few months, he gave a lecture at the Royal Scientific Academy.

But he preferred, on the whole, to be left to his own devices. This, he reasoned, is why he made a terrible spy. He was not a keen observer of the human condition—unless of course, that condition was in the throes of great pain or pestilence. So he would miss subtle clues. Pointed glances. An odd phrase here and there. What's more, he lacked the ability to snoop successfully, or to think of an excuse for said snooping when caught.

“What are you doing?”

Rhys jolted. He was leaning on the side of the greenhouse, trying to keep an eye on Lady Churzy as she wandered the gardens. They had just arrived back from St. Stephen's. Mr. Blackwell was due to arrive any moment—he'd claimed the need to go back to his room at the inn and change his clothes.

“You're staying in Helmsley?” Lady Churzy had asked. “I thought your estate was not ten miles from here.”

“It is, my lady,” Blackwell had answered with a slick smile. “But I have business over the next few days in the area, and it's a blessing to my horses to not ride twenty miles around every day. So I'll be at the Drum for the week.”

Lady Churzy seemed surprised by that. If she was conspiring with Blackwell about anything, she was very good at hiding it.

But John had seemed increasingly suspicious. He wanted Rhys to step up his spying. So Rhys would step up his spying.

When they arrived back at Bluestone Manor, Lady Churzy said she wished to take a walk, to clear her head before tea. He was about to offer to go with her, but then Rhys thought better of it.

She was too smart to think that his presence at Bluestone Manor was anything other than what it was—a poor attempt to keep an eye on her. Therefore, if he walked with her, she would be entirely guarded.

However, if he followed after her, he might be able to overhear some pertinent and dastardly information that John seemed keen to know about. (And the sooner he did that, the sooner he could leave.)

Of course, after about ten seconds, he realized the flaw in his logic. Lady Churzy, like most sane people, was not given to talking to herself aloud. In truth, the most interesting thing she had done was scratch at her knee through her skirts.

“I said, what are you doing?”

He turned around and saw Margaret Babcock standing behind him. She had put her smock over her Sunday dress, her hand on the greenhouse door's handle.

He'd been at Bluestone a few days now, and Margaret Babcock struck him as a sweet, quiet girl who liked to be left alone. As someone who also liked to be left alone, he was happy to comply.

“I'm . . . I was . . . there's a plant,” he said lamely, “that might help with your father's foot. I just thought of it. I was wondering if you had one in the greenhouse.”

“You want to come into the greenhouse?” Margaret asked.

“Er . . . yes?” he replied. “That is, if you don't mind.”

She looked stricken. As if caught in the sights of a hunter's rifle.

“What are you doing?” he asked instead. “I should think you would be preparing for tea.”

“We have a little time,” she replied. “Enough to check the soil moisture of the saplings I planted earlier.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I . . . I have to wear this smock, to be careful of my dress,” Margaret explained, awkwardly fingering the plain, but serviceable-looking apron. “Even though checking soil moisture is not particularly dirty work.”

“Yes,” Rhys said, trying to hide a smile. “That would make sense.”

And they stood there. Rhys feeling unbelievably stupid. Because by then, Leticia had left the rows of violets, her retreating form becoming smaller and smaller as she headed back to the house.

She'd done little more than sneeze.

His first attempt at being a more active spy had failed spectacularly.

“No one comes into my greenhouse,” she said finally, forcing Rhys's attention back to the conversation.

“That's all right,” he said. “I understand. I have a laboratory in Greenwich. I hate having people invade my space there. It's as if they are entering the inside of my head.”

“Yes,” Margaret said—and for the first time, her eyes met his. The effect of that clear blue gaze was utterly startling. “That's exactly what it's like.”

Rhys heard a carriage in the drive. Mr. Blackwell arriving, no doubt.

“I shall leave you to it, then.” Rhys bowed. “To check your soil, that is. I have a feeling Lady Churzy would not have you be late to tea.”

He turned and began to walk away back to the house, exhaling for the first time since she caught him.

“What kind of plant is it?” she called after him. “To help my father's foot?”

“It's ah . . . it's in the poppy family,” he said, trying not to sound like an idiot without an ounce of formal scientific training. “It doesn't have a name yet. Still being studied.”

“I don't think I have it,” she replied.

“I should think not. It was just a thought.”

“But you can come inside and look,” she said, opening the door.

“Oh,” Rhys replied, completely out of his depth. “I . . . all right. Thank you.”

And Rhys was too taken aback by the offer (and again too inept a spy to notice) that as Margaret held the door open for him, a slight blush began to spread over her cheek.

IT TOOK LETICIA
only one day to figure out why Palmer Blackwell caused her to itch. Nay, less than a day. A mere afternoon.

The difficulty was deciding what to do about it.

“But surely we deserve one Sunday afternoon to ourselves,” she had said to Sir Barty when they entered Bluestone. The entire ride back from church, Sir Barty had expounded on the delights of one Palmer Blackwell. Apparently he'd been a man of great jolliness. More than ready with a joke or a hand at cards.

“Always enjoyed running into him in Bourne or Lincoln. Quite the fellow!” he had said.

If Leticia had been at all wondering why Sir Barty would refuse to use the Turner Grain Mill, considering his lifelong friendship with Helen (not that she was wondering, because that would have implied she had some investment in Turner's business), she now seemed to have at least part of an answer. Palmer Blackwell had thoroughly charmed Sir Barty. He saw him as a chum. A compatriot, always up for fun.

Many a business deal was made in the backroom of a gentleman's club, with copious amounts of brandy and the haze of a good time.

“I know, my dear, but Palmer Blackwell is a capital fellow. What a grand idea, Margaret, inviting him to tea!”

“But . . . what about Mr. Turner?” she found herself saying, and wanting to bite her tongue. “I thought you wished to encourage his affections for Margaret?”

Margaret had hopped out of the carriage, immediately setting off to check the soil of one of her plants. As long as she didn't ruin her dress and was back in time for tea to be served, Leticia decided she didn't mind.

What she did mind was the sense of unease that settled over her when Palmer Blackwell looked at Margaret.

No one was more surprised than Leticia (with the exception of perhaps Helen) when Margaret decided to forgo the fainting scheme and ignore Turner. Leticia fairly wanted to applaud. But then she took things one step further and invited Mr. Blackwell's notice. And invited him to tea.

Mr. Blackwell, who was already making Leticia itchy with his ingratiating manner and penchant for barely veiled entendres.

Mr. Blackwell, who made obsequiousness an art.

Mr. Blackwell, who was twice Margaret's age and whose appearance was timed to coincide with the harvest season.

Mr. Blackwell, who had made Turner's blood boil.

Margaret could not have chosen a better—or worse—person to show favor to. It was almost laughable.

Then she told herself she was being silly. Overly on guard. Perhaps Mr. Blackwell was a fine man, a good miller and no threat to her whatsoever.

So why this churn in her stomach?

Why this itch just outside her knee?

“I do wish to encourage Mr. Turner.” Sir Barty blinked.

“Inviting over his direct rival to the business does not seem very welcoming to Mr. Turner,” Letitia remarked.

“Aha! And that's where I have thought one step further than even your beautiful mind,” Sir Barty crowed, and kissed the top of her head. “I was thinking about what you said, about Margaret liking Mr. Turner, and decided that I had not seen any reciprocal feeling. Why, when he came on Thursday with Dr. Gray he barely said one word about Margaret. And I tried to induce him, believe me. So, what better way to prompt it than to show favor to Mr. Blackwell instead?”

Leticia's jaw dropped. She was certain she gaped like a fish. It was a particularly deft bit of game play, worthy of herself. Coming from Sir Barty, of all people! Perhaps she was influencing him in more ways than she'd anticipated.

How very disturbing.

“I only wish you had invited Mr. Turner and Helen over for tea as well. It would have been entertaining to watch. Besides, no one is a better partner at whist than Helen. Did you not notice me nudging you?”

“I . . . no, darling. My apologies.” In truth she had noticed. Sir Barty was not particularly subtle—his elbow had likely left a bruise. But at that moment, she was not able to comprehend the idea of having both Turner and Blackwell in the same house.

She was itchy enough as it was.

“Nothing to be done about it now,” she replied casually. “I'll send Helen a note.”

“Ah well.” Sir Barty shrugged. “Where did that doctor get off to? I need him to rewrap my foot. Oh, Mrs. Dillon! We're having a guest for tea again—and possibly dinner. I leave that up to my dear Lady Churzy.”

So. It seemed as if she would simply have to wait and see how today played out. Palmer Blackwell, as much as he prompted itching on her part, could simply be a man protecting his investments. She should give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, that's all she wished for herself.

But by the end of dinner, she knew her womanly intuition had not failed her.

It started off innocuously enough. Mr. Blackwell was able to maintain easy conversation over tea. He left the sweeter cakes to Sir Barty, and didn't take up half the room the way other guests who should remain nameless had. He was equally attentive to both ladies, as well as Dr. Gray and Sir Barty.

Indeed, everyone seemed more than happy to be entertained by Palmer Blackwell.

“And that's my tale of the last time I was in London,” Mr. Blackwell finished. “And it's why I avoid it now. Honestly, I doubt they'd let me back in after that embarrassing display of horsemanship.”

“I'm sure the city of London misses your wit, Mr. Blackwell.” Leticia smiled. “If not your horsemanship.”

“As I am sure they miss you, Lady Churzy,” Blackwell replied, his expression warm, but his eyes hiding something else. “You lived in London for a time, did you not?”

“I did.” Leticia did her best to keep the wariness out of her voice. “With my late husband.”

“Yes, Lord Churzy.” Blackwell put down his cup, and a slosh of liquid had never seemed so sinister. “He was a very accomplished horseman, wasn't he?”

“He enjoyed riding, yes.”

“He and Lord Vere cut quite the picture through the parks of town, if I recall correctly. They must have been very good friends.”

Leticia's cup froze in midsip. For just a fraction of a second, but long enough for Mr. Blackwell to notice it. And when she lifted her eyes to his, she saw victory in them.

“Quite,” she said. “He was riding with Lord Vere when he was thrown from his mount.”

Mr. Blackwell's smile fell, and he affected the posture of regret. “Oh, but I must apologize, my lady. I did not wish to remind you of the sadness of your husband's death.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blackwell,” Leticia said, as serenely as possible. “It is difficult, but I prefer to remember happier times. And look forward to making more.” She squeezed Sir Barty's hand.

“I told you I'm an embarrassment,” Mr. Blackwell said. “You can't take me anywhere.”

“At least not London,” Dr. Gray added, from his seat beside Margaret.

And then . . . Blackwell winked.

But not at Leticia.

At Margaret.

There was nothing to indicate Margaret had even seen it. She simply went on sipping her tea, smoothing her skirt away from Dr. Gray's leg. Except . . . she blushed.