The Lie and the Lady (24 page)

“Someone I like,” Margaret said.

“Yes.”

“Hence the physiological response of blushing.”

“I . . . suppose.”

“And that's what you have with Father?”

“It's . . . it's something I hope to have with your father. Once we wed.”

She couldn't tell the truth. She couldn't say that it was as much a dream to her as it was to Margaret. Sir Barty wanted to take care of her . . . but once she was taken care of, he was happy to place her aside and go back to his library and his pork.

She'd come close once. Close to thinking she'd met someone she'd like to walk beside for a while, and hold hands with as they went.

“But you don't blush.”

Leticia's head came up. “What do you mean?”

“You don't blush,” Margaret said. “When you look at Father. But as you said, some people aren't given to blushing.”

With that, Margaret wandered over to the shelves and pulled down a small volume. Leticia could see it contained detailed sketches of various plants. There was, it seemed, nothing more to be said on the subject.

Thank goodness, she thought, letting all the air out of her body. Margaret's observation had unnerved her, as did the girl's lack of judgment when she said it. But Leticia was more than happy to judge herself.

Her loud, condemning thoughts simply jumping at the bit to begin their assault.

You don't blush with Sir Barty. But you are given to blushing, aren't you? How long do you think you can really keep up this farce? If Margaret can see it, can't everyone?

The atmosphere of the drawing room was becoming rather closed in. In fact, Leticia could do with a walk. But a turn about the room wouldn't help. She needed fresh air.

“I think I'll step out onto the terrace for a moment,” she said, standing with as much grace as she could muster.

Margaret looked up from her book. “What about the gentlemen? Aren't they meant to join us soon?”

A guffaw carried across the hall from the dining room, the men obviously still enjoying themselves. “I will be back before they attend us, I have no doubt.”

Leticia took a deep breath the minute she closed the door to the outside. It was a warm summer evening, late enough that the sun had just dipped below the horizon, a glow of orange and red to the west framed by the dark silhouettes of Margaret's greenhouse and the stately trees that edged the gardens.

They had just passed the summer solstice, Leticia realized. These were the longest days of the year. Every day from now on would be shorter and shorter, the edges of the night closing in on the day.

She could sympathize.

Without realizing it, Leticia stepped off the terrace and began walking west, drawn to the last of the sun. Soon enough, she was through the gardens and at the line of trees. To her left was the drive of Bluestone Manor. Follow it a half mile and it would lead to the road. The road ran to Helmsley, and from there, it ran . . . anywhere.

You could just go. She was shocked to hear her own voice echoing in her mind. But . . . she could. She could do as Turner had asked (or demanded) and leave Helmsley. Remove herself from the insanity of this situation and wipe the slate clean. Try to find somewhere new. Someone new.

She liked Sir Barty. She truly did. He was a decent man. He deserved someone who blushed, didn't he?

And what did she deserve?

She deserved security. She deserved to feel safe. To no longer have whispers dodging her heels and be afraid for her future.

She deserved to silence the silly voices in her head that said otherwise.

Ruthlessly she shuddered. Moments of weakness were all fine and good. As long as that was all they were—moments. Walking away from her situation was not an option. She was too close to her goal. Thus she would deal with all the peculiar daughters, all the gout, all the miniscule dramas of Helmsley, and all the Turners life threw at her. She would deal with them—and she would vanquish them.

Pulling herself up by the invisible string on top of her head, she rolled her shoulders back and turned on her heel, intent to go back into the house.

And ran directly into the form of one Palmer Blackwell.

“Lady Churzy.” Blackwell smiled—his grin disturbingly bright in the fading light. “There you are! Dear me, you quite disappeared in these trees.”

“Mr. Blackwell,” she said, taking a generous step back. “What are you doing here?”

“I volunteered to come out and fetch you.” He leaned in conspiratorially, taking back much of the space that Leticia had tried to put between them. “Sir Barty was about come out himself, but we both know that it would take him twice the time to find you, and twice as much complaining.”

Leticia was about to step back again, but stopped herself. Stand your ground, she told herself. She was, after all, a countess. Men like Blackwell could not move her.

“We should go in, then,” she said. “My betrothed is no doubt waiting for us.”

“One moment, if you please, my lady.” Blackwell's hand reached out and took her elbow. She tensed immediately. “I must again apologize for my bluntness this afternoon at tea. I had no wish to remind you of your husband's death.”

“It is unnecessary, Mr. Blackwell.”

“Indeed, I'd hoped to remind you of his life. Lord Churzy was a man of . . . such life.”

Leticia stopped. Wrenching her arm free of his grasp, she forced herself to turn to him. “You knew my husband?” she asked, direct.

“Let's say I knew of him,” Blackwell replied. “After all, I am familiar with the Yew Tree Club.”

Leticia remained still, her face impassive. But underneath, she was almost glad. Glad that Blackwell was finally showing the cards he'd hinted at having that afternoon.

“Your husband's tastes were . . . specific. As his wife you must have been privy to them.” The moon had begun to glow in the darkening sky, allowing Leticia to see Blackwell's eyes as they raked over her body. “You must have been privy to a great deal.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you speak of.”

“Sir Barty is a very lucky man. I wonder, does he know how lucky?” Blackwell persisted. He leaned in again, his breath—heavily spiced with claret—hot and humid against her cheek. “You and I could be such friends to each other, I think. After all, you haven't many here, have you?”

“Mr. Blackwell,” she spoke in her sternest voice. Her countess voice. The voice that sent greater men than Blackwell running for their mothers. “I'm sure as your friendship with my fiancé is so entrenched, you and I will have many opportunities to meet.”

The smile died on Blackwell's face. His claret-hazed vision cleared and he spoke with the sobriety of a Quaker—and the malice of a snake.

“Sir Barty is a good man, is he not?”

“He is.”

“But he hasn't seen much of the world. Not as much as you and I. If his friends, his fiancée—let alone his wife—embarrassed him . . . I don't know how he would manage.”

His wife. Oh heavens, this man did know the weak points, didn't he?

She was about to answer again—dredging up that imperious voice that had suddenly found itself faltering in the red of anger—when the sound of twig snapping broke through the dark.

“Oh hell . . . er, I mean, hello!” Dr. Gray's voice called out. “Lady Churzy, Mr. Blackwell, there you are. We began to fear you had gotten lost.”

“Dr. Gray,” Leticia replied. “How good of you to find us.”

“Shall we return to the house?” Mr. Blackwell said. “We need only follow the lights, like moths to a flame.”

Mr. Blackwell offered his arm, but Leticia made no move to take it. Instead, for once, Dr. Gray showed a prescience she had not thought possible in a man of learning.

“Actually, my lady, could I have a word with you?” he said. “I, er . . . I need to ask for a favor. About my rooms. I should hate to go to Sir Barty about it . . .”

As unbelievable as that excuse was, Mr. Blackwell simply shrugged. “I leave you to it then. I should hate to keep Miss Babcock waiting. I confess I am finding her company uniquely delightful. I would ask your permission to call on her, my lady, but you're not quite her stepmother yet.”

Once Blackwell was at a safe distance, Leticia found it again possible to exhale. But she dare not let her posture go slack. She could not let Dr. Gray see how unsettled she was. He was after all, here on orders.

But while the good doctor was a man of facts, and extremely bad at lying—and spying—he was also a creature of diagnosis and prescribing solutions.

“He's a problem, isn't he?” the doctor said.

There was no point in lying. “Yes,” she said simply. “How much did you hear?”

“Enough, I should think. Was that what I thought it was?”

She nodded. “A warning.”

“What do you intend to do about it?” he asked.

Leticia blew out a breath. What could she do about it? The possibilities were endless . . . but her options were rather limited. “I don't know.”

And that scared her. Scared her into laughing. At least she knew now what it was about Palmer Blackwell that made her itch.

He was a problem, yes. But not one easily dismissed. He was too smart, too treacherous for that.

Dr. Gray hesitated. Then he took one step closer, glancing from one side to the next. “If you don't mind my saying so, my lady, Mr. Blackwell was wrong about one thing.”

“Oh?”

“You are not friendless here. In fact, you have one friend in particular who, in this circumstance, has similar interests to your own.”

John Turner.

She could tell Turner of Mr. Blackwell's warning—but could she? The last time they spoke, truly spoke, he'd asked her to leave town. Hell, he'd outright demanded it! He might decide that he'd let Blackwell drive her away . . . except for the fact that he hated Blackwell.

Dr. Gray must be right . . . he would want Blackwell gone as much as she.

Some proverb-spouting person in the past had said the enemy of the enemy is my friend. Leticia could only assume the speaker was a woman.

Still . . . they'd come to a fragile truce, wherein they did not see or speak to each other. To break that truce would place her squarely within his power.

And that sounded most uncomfortable.

But if he would be willing to help, it also sounded like a relief. To have someone to talk to . . . to rely on . . . she was so very tired of holding everything in.

“I doubt he has any interest in helping me,” she said, tamping down the emotion in her voice that threatened to overwhelm. “In fact, he might glory in my predicament.”

“He wouldn't, my lady. I promise,” Dr. Gray said, with a fierceness she hadn't known the steady man capable of. “And if he did, I'd give him a concoction that would make him clutch his chamber pot in his regret.”

Leticia let out a watery laugh and allowed herself to lean on Dr. Gray's arm as they began to walk back toward the house.

“I suppose it is only common sense to take one's doctor's advice.”

14

John—

There is information you must be made aware of. Send a note forthwith saying you have need of a doctor's services. Leave the door to your kitchens unlocked. We shall meet there before dawn.

Rhys

John Turner was a patient man. One could not spend five years in the service of the Earl of Ashby, scrounging and saving every penny to rebuild his fortunes and repair his mill, without cultivating a bedrock of patience. Nor could one live through the struggles to raise the mill from its proverbial and literal ashes without the perseverance to do that little bit more every day to achieve one's goal.

Nor could one spend six months trying to find a single troublesome countess, on the thin hope of reconciling—and then be forced to live in the same town as said countess after she had refused him.

Yes, Turner had spent a long, long time being patient. He was damned tired of it.

These were the thoughts that crossed his mind as he sat in the kitchen, dozing off over his tea.

He had received Rhys's note just before he was about to head to the mill and his pallet there. His mother had retired a few hours earlier with a good book, leaving him with the less-good books—the account books.

After going cross-eyed for an hour on numbers, trying to see if there was any way he could offer his mill's services to Sir Barty at less than cost, and if so, for how long, he'd just snuffed out the candle when the boy from Bluestone Manor arrived, thrusting the note into his hands.

After he read it, he had only one thought: Rhys was really getting into this spying business.

Although he still had some things to learn about sneaking around. After all, the note could easily have been read by the boy (presuming the boy could read), thereby negating any subterfuge.

And why was subterfuge necessary anyway? Rhys was known to be his old friend, he could visit anytime! In fact, it would be less suspicious if he'd simply stopped by on his way into or out of Helmsley. Yet Rhys had something worth telling him, and so he wrote up a note and sent it over via his own boy, inviting Rhys for a late-night visit and a fictitious medical emergency.