The Lie and the Lady (12 page)

It wasn't as if his heart was engaged elsewhere.

Coming to Bluestone today had absolutely nothing to do with seeing Letty in the churchyard.

Letty, who looked like a dream and a ghost and all those things he thought he'd lost.

As it was, he'd done his damnedest to hold himself together while it felt like all his seams had come undone. So while he was internally reeling, he did the only thing he could do: he played along.

Along with Leticia, who decided not to know him.

Along with his mother, who wanted him to attach himself to Margaret.

And along with Margaret, who painfully tried to tell him all about the cross-pollination required to have that specific color blue at the heart of the violets.

He'd been cordial, kind, and conscientious, no more. To his mind, he hadn't paid Leticia or Margaret any special notice.

Except for those moments that he had.

He caught up to Margaret just as she reached the front steps, where her father was waiting for them.

“Well, Mr. Turner!” Sir Barty said. “How are the violets? And where is my bride-to-be?”

“Beautiful,” Turner answered. “The violets, I mean. Your daughter has quite the talent.”

Margaret, true to form, blushed furiously at the compliment.

“And Let—that is, let your bride-to-be tell you herself.”

He was saved at that moment by Leticia and his mother rounding the corner from the gardens.

Sir Barty's eyes widened when he saw Leticia—or more important, her dress. Then he turned red-faced to his daughter.

“Margaret . . .”

“I didn't do it!” Margaret cried, wide-eyed. “I swear. It was an accident.” She turned her eyes up to him. And for a moment, John felt bad enough for the girl to take her hand and place it on his arm. Present a united front.

“It was an accident,” he confirmed. “Margaret in fact did her best to warn the countess.”

Sir Barty's mustache twitched, but his shoulders relaxed. Good.

That was how they were standing when Leticia and his mother approached. Margaret's arm through his, Margaret looking at him with relief, and Sir Barty smiling down on the whole party.

They must have made quite the picture. Enough for Leticia to go white and narrow her eyes.

And that made his blood rush in his veins.

Dammit, but it felt good to know that she felt something. She'd been so cool and calm, not giving away anything, even to him, who knew her better than anyone. So to know that he could still affect her the way she affected him . . . it was enough to have his body reacting in ways it shouldn't.

“Back already m'dear?” Sir Barty had said, his voice booming out. “Pity, I was just about to join you. Goodness, what happened to your dress?”

“Gravity,” she answered, raising an eyebrow. Then she shot a conspiratorial smile to his mother. “And we can take another circle of the park, if you like, darling.”

“Oh no, no, no . . .” Sir Barty protested. “You would obviously like to change, I think.”

“Yes, I would,” Leticia answered. And his mother—thank Christ—took that as a cue.

“Thank you for the lovely afternoon! I hope this is only the first of many pleasant afternoons spent together. After all,” she said, waggling her brow, “our families are long intertwined. Perhaps more so now.”

He resisted rolling his eyes. He would cut his mother down to size later for her not-so-subtle ambitions, but right now, Turner was ready to leave. Dying to extricate himself from this insanity and lock himself away until his mind and body were back under control and he could pretend ignorance just as well as she did.

“Miss Babcock, thank you for the tour. You know your plants.”

Margaret blinked at him. Well, it was better than blushing at least. “Of course I do. I have studied them for years.”

Then he turned to the rest of the party.

“Sir Barty.” Then, quietly, “Countess.”

It was the most he had said to her all day.

And perhaps it was too much. Because in that one word, she must have deciphered his discomfort. His unwillingness to be there a single second longer . . . and decided to prolong his torture.

“You can't be off yet!” she said suddenly. Turner and his mother pivoted. Helen smiling, anticipating.

Turner's anticipation was less excited.

“Helen, we would be delighted if you and your son would stay for dinner.” She moved to retake Sir Barty's arm, and pecked him on the cheek. “Wouldn't we, darling?”

Thus, he was still here. There was no way his mother was going to turn down the invitation—and God knows what trouble Helen would get up to without him. So there he was, waiting in the same fluffy and feminine sitting room, waiting for Leticia and Margaret to change for the meal, and listening to the clatter of china and silver as the servants in the dining room beyond worked madly to set the table for the two unexpected guests.

It was still light outside. Since it was summer and they kept country hours, it was no surprise the evening meal was being served when the sun still shone, but to Turner it felt like he still had time to escape.

If only.

Sir Barty was left to sit with the guests, and he and Helen reminisced about their youth, but as soon as Helen mentioned the mill in the most oblique way, it served as a reminder to Barty that he had some papers in his library awaiting his attention.

Now the clock ticked, and Turner paced.

“I didn't say anything, I promise you,” his mother replied. “The invitation to stay for dinner was completely spontaneous, and to my mind, an excellent sign.” She was inspecting the little ceramic pots on the shelf by the window—women's knickknacks that served no purpose than to give maids something to dust. She picked one up, her eyes falling over the little flowers painted on its side. “Do you think she'll make many changes in here? I always liked this room—except I might get rid of all these pots.”

“What are you talking about?” Turner said, sharp. His mother gave him that stare that made him feel like the littlest of children.

“Has something displeased you, John?” his mother asked. “I would be careful of showing it to our hosts.”

There was very little he could say to that, other than bloody hell yes something had displeased me, but he doubted his mother—for all her intelligence—would even be able to fathom the reason.

“It is a woman's prerogative to make changes to her home,” his mother was saying. “And Leticia is so very polished. Even when she spilled that bottle on herself, she was still perfect as a princess. I can't imagine that she would let this room stay the way it is. She'll likely want Italian marble and French silks everywhere.”

Turner couldn't help snorting. Yes, Leticia was regal. But not a princess—an ice queen. And yes, she would want French silks and Italian marble and everything fine. He had no doubt she would drape this entire house over in extravagance, he thought bitterly.

“God help Sir Barty,” he mumbled under his breath. Letty had no idea what it was to live by the skin of your teeth.

Except . . . hadn't that been what she had been doing when he caught up to her in Dover?

“Oh, Sir Barty knows what he's in for,” his mother replied. “And he'll be pleased as punch with it—for the first few months, at least.”

He snorted again.

“That is a most disturbing habit. Don't tell me snorting is now fashionable in London.”

He snorted yet again—but this time, covering a rueful laugh with it.

“I just don't understand what we are doing here. You weaseled your way over for tea—”

“Our way.”

“I did the pretty by Miss Babcock, and now I need to get back to the mill.”

“It's Sunday, the mill can wait,” his mother argued.

“After all the accidents that have befallen it, I'm taking no chances. I want it up and running as soon as possible,” he countered. “That means testing the new equipment every day—even on Sundays.”

He was practically itching to get back to the mill. To climb the tower and lose himself in the mundane but all-too-important tasks of checking the weight of the grindstones, the pulleys and gears that regulated the speed of the sails, and getting into the new building, to fiddle with the pipes that would transport the steam from one end of the space to the other.

Because the wind did not blow every day. And he had big plans for the Turner Grain Mill.

“It would be just as devastating to the mill if you went home now.” His mother cocked her head to one side, considering him. “You seemed to be enjoying your stroll with Miss Babcock.”

Turner stopped pacing. Here we go, he thought.

“I told you, Mother, I have no objection to Miss Babcock, but I also have no designs on her. She's a child.”

His mother's eyebrow went up. “You did not give that impression when you were tucking a violet into her bonnet.”

He could feel the heat of color spread across his cheekbones. Yes, he had done that. And touched the girl's back. And kissed her hand. He knew it was misleading. Regret had settled into his stomach immediately upon those actions, but he hadn't paid any attention to it. He was too busy watching for a reaction from Leticia.

“You could hardly do better than Sir Barty's daughter,” his mother mused. “She could use a bit of polish, of course. Some social lessons, but that's what Leticia is here for.”

“I will not marry simply to secure business, Mother. I have some morals.” Turner growled. “And would you stop calling her that?”

“Calling who what?”

“The Countess—Leticia.” Letty, his mind said, unbidden.

“She told me to,” his mother replied, astonished. “I will call her what she wishes to be called. What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” he replied, but the look his mother gave told him she knew it was not nothing. “I just don't like being . . . in this situation.”

In this situation. In this house. With Leticia just upstairs.

Engaged to Sir Barty, of all people.

“If you truly object to courting Miss Babcock, I will not press it.” His mother threw up her hands.

“You won't?” He stopped pacing. His eyebrow went up, an echo to hers.

“Of course not, John. I want your happiness as much as I want the mill's success. And if Miss Babcock won't make you a good wife, then she won't. I have ‘morals' too.”

“Oh,” he said. It was really the only thing he could say. Sometimes he forgot that his parent was just that—a parent. Her priorities were manifold, but ultimately centered on his happiness. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome, my boy.”

“Then we can give our regrets and go home,” he said, straightening his coat.

“Are you mad? Not when we have already accepted.” His mother laughed. “The meal will be in truth what it is on the surface—that we are simply passing the evening with old friends. I will not have your bad mood over your ‘morals' ruin what is turning out to be a lovely day and a promising relationship with Leticia.”

Turner grew still. “Relationship?” he managed on a cough.

“Yes. I think she and I will be great friends. After all, she will need someone to guide her through the morass that Mrs. Emory is sure to create in her stupidity,” Helen said, preening.

“The same morass Mrs. Emory has created for you?”

His mother had endured a great deal while he had been away in London. When she was the miller's wife, and the Turner Grain Mill employed dozens of men in Helmsley and brought people and business from all around, Helen had been one of the leaders of town society. But then tragedy came—and with it, the town's pity.

His mother did not do well with pity. Mrs. Emory, having just purchased her shop, took advantage of her lowered place in society.

“That woman is idiotic thinking she needs to defend her position in town. The wife of Sir Barty, and a countess to boot, owns a higher place simply by existing. Mrs. Emory is barely better than a shopkeeper. She should be kissing Leticia's feet, begging for her favor. But Louisa Emory never did think long term. So she misses an opportunity I am more than happy to pick up. Besides, if you are so against courting Miss Margaret, then this is perhaps a better way to approach the situation.”

He began to pace again—between his mother's calm machinations and having the works-ruining wrench that was Leticia back in his life, he was beginning to feel like a caged animal. He needed to drink something. He needed to hit something.

He needed to know why the hell Letty had asked them to stay for dinner.

“I don't know why you feel the need to manipulate Sir Barty for his business. He will see that the Turner Grain Mill will serve his and his tenants' needs best as soon as we get the new equipment operating and open for business. Besides, he's your old friend.”

Helen harrumphed at her son's naïveté. “I do it precisely because he is my old friend. Didn't you see him run out of here as soon as the mill was mentioned? I know very well that he will only change his business to the Turner Mill if there is something in it for him. Right now, Palmer Blackwell can offer the steady service he's had for the past five seasons, and likely at a discount.”

“And Palmer Blackwell has enough mills and money to undercut us for a year, or two, or however long it takes for us to go toes up,” Turner grumbled. He could offer a discount for so large a contract, but not nearly what Blackwell would to retain Sir Barty's business.

“Yes,” he mother replied. “But Sir Barty can be influenced. And if not by his daughter through you, then possibly by his wife through her friendship with me.”

This time he gave in to the desire to laugh. “If you think the countess is going to do anything you wish, prepare to have your illusions shattered.”

His mother's eyes narrowed. “You are in a mood.”

He took a deep breath. She was right. But she did not know the reason.