The Lie and the Lady (23 page)

Blushed. At Mr. Blackwell? Oh no.

At that point, the itch began to move, migrating from Leticia's knee to her forearm. It took five deep breaths before she felt she'd conquered the urge to scratch it.

The rest of the afternoon proceeded much like last Sunday afternoon—just turned bizarrely on its head.

They went to tour the gardens. Sir Barty played the same little game where he claimed that his foot was well enough to allow him to come along, but then Jameson appeared with some “business” to attend to. That left Leticia, Dr. Gray, Margaret, and Palmer Blackwell to make up their foursome. But this time, there was no means by which to hang back and observe. She had to watch Blackwell compliment and Margaret blush from up close.

“He seems to be laying it on a bit thick, doesn't he?” Dr. Gray murmured at her side. The path only accommodated walking in pairs, and Mr. Blackwell had slid himself next to Margaret before Leticia could blink. Leaving her with Dr. Gray.

A man who she knew had been sent to spy on her for Turner.

It seemed she was surrounded by men with hidden agendas.

Fortunately, Dr. Gray spied very badly. And she had to assume reluctantly. Over the past two days in Bluestone Manor, he had done little more than wrap Sir Barty's foot, advised Margaret on proper microscope use (he had brought one with him from London), and eaten their pork. Nary a probing question, nor a surreptitious search of her things. And when he did try to spy on her, well . . . did he not think she saw him lurking by the greenhouse?

All in all, Dr. Gray was proving to be less of an adversary and more of a . . . presence. A reminder that John Turner existed. Merely a mile or so away.

As if she needed a reminder.

She was about to answer Dr. Gray when Blackwell exclaimed, “The beauty of these flowers is eclipsed only by the beauty of their keeper.” And again, he leaned over Margaret's hand.

At this rate, poor Margaret's hand would be soaked.

“Regardless of the thickness of his flattery, it is not malicious. And Margaret is a lovely young lady,” she said instead. As unassuming as Dr. Gray's presence was turning out to be, confiding in him about her current alarm would still be a mistake. Could be a mistake. Oh hell, she hardly knew anymore.

Of course, Leticia's statement had been nothing more than observable truth. Palmer Blackwell's flattery of Margaret seemed to be in no way mean. And Margaret was looking particularly pretty that day—especially since every time her face turned in their direction, she was blushing.

It appeared Palmer Blackwell's flattery was also working.

“Miss Babcock, thank you for the tour of your gardens. Rarely have I seen such loveliness,” Mr. Blackwell said when they made their way back to the house. “I shall think of nothing else while I am eating my supper tonight, alone in my room at the inn.”

It was a hint as broad as the English Channel. One Leticia refused to take. And luckily, Margaret did not have the social savvy to pick up on it, blushes aside.

Unfortunately, by that time Sir Barty had appeared on the steps. “Done already? And here I was, about to rejoin you!”

“What a pity, darling,” Leticia replied kindly. “And Mr. Blackwell is just about to take his leave.”

“What? Going already?” Sir Barty's mustache bristled. “We'll be having none of that! Mrs. Dillon—an extra place at dinner! There's enough pork for everyone!”

Mr. Blackwell smiled broadly. But while the smile was directed at Margaret, the look in his eyes was for none other than Leticia.

It said, quite simply, I win.

DINNER WAS A
curiously banal affair. There was nothing on the outside that suggested they were anything other than a pleasant party. The overly flirtatious air and syrupy compliments were left behind in the garden, now that Sir Barty was there. Ever oblivious, even he would likely cringe at such an overt display toward his daughter. Instead, Blackwell continued the theme established at tea, telling anecdotes of his youth—sanitized versions for ladies' ears, of course.

“I tell you, I still feel sorry for that pig to this day.”

Soon enough, the ladies removed themselves after the meal was complete, allowing the men to converse.

And for once, Leticia was thankful that Dr. Gray had been unceremoniously dropped in their laps. Because Blackwell wouldn't have Sir Barty to himself.

But there was enough to deal with in the intervening time, waiting for the men. And by enough to deal with, she meant Margaret.

“I cannot believe I dropped the pork pie on my lap,” Margaret was saying as they sat in the drawing room, the guffaws of her father still audible from across the hall. While most girls would have died of embarrassment, Margaret became exasperated with herself. “Water alone will not get this out.”

The napkin on her lap had not been enough to save her Sunday gown, and she had a smear of brown sauce on her skirts.

“Give it to Molly,” Leticia replied. “Do you think she would make a good lady's maid? She claims to do hair well.”

“I do not know, but she'll be pleased to be promoted above her friend Wendra,” Margaret said idly, showing for once an alarming grasp on the downstairs politics of the house. “It's my best gown. Now you're going to say that I need to wear my smock while eating too.”

“Of course not. But if it is ruined, perhaps it's a blessing in disguise. Your father has granted me a surprisingly generous allowance for wedding clothes. I'm certain we can make it stretch to include a gown or two for you.”

“No,” Margaret answered.

“Certain things are expected of you, Margaret. At the very least for the wedding. I'm afraid your blue ball gown is too short—”

“No. I told you I don't want any new clothes. I like the dresses I have. Molly can clean this one.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Can we discuss something else please?”

“Certainly,” Leticia replied, happy to move on, but not quite done with the battle. It was such a sticking point for the girl, but something really had to be done.

Another echo of laughter traveled down the hallway from the dining room, filling the silence between the ladies.

“I have never understood this part of the evening ritual,” Margaret said eventually. “I should like to hear what story has my father laughing so.”

“That is the reason for this part of the evening ritual,” Leticia answered. “There are some stories men like to tell that are likely not appropriate for a lady—especially a young lady—to hear.”

“Why?” Margaret's nose wrinkled. “It's just words. It cannot cause harm.”

“Words can cause harm, no matter what nursery rhymes might have told you,” Leticia replied. “All too often, they are the most cutting weapons in an entire arsenal.”

Margaret seemed to take that in. “But it is a silly ritual. You have to admit that.”

Leticia sighed. “Yes, at times it is rather silly.”

“What are we supposed to do while the men are talking?”

“Talk among ourselves.”

“About what?” Margaret's brow came down. “I really wish I could check my soil moisture again. The air was terribly dry today.”

Yes, and Leticia had barely been able to hold in her sneezes.

“We can talk about our visitor,” Leticia said, ignoring Margaret's concern for her soil.

“Dr. Gray?” Margaret asked.

“No,” she replied. “I mean Mr. Blackwell. How well do you know him?”

“I have met him only a few times. He does business with Father.”

“Has he . . . has he ever paid attention to you akin to today?”

Margaret shook her head.

“And you are aware that not all attention a man gives is complimentary?” Leticia added. “Know that if someone pays unwanted attention to you, you can come to me about it.”

“Of course.” She nodded. “I know that.”

But as she did, that blush spread over her cheeks again.

“What if . . . what if our guest—I mean, someone pays me such attentions, and they are not unwanted?” she asked.

Leticia felt herself still. “Oh? Are . . . are you referring to Mr. Turner?”

“No . . .” Margaret's brow came down. “I . . . I am revising my theory. About human interaction and indicators of attraction as being a basis for selection of a husband.”

“Oh?” Leticia's eyebrow went up. “You no longer feel that blushing is a strong indication of attraction?”

“No, it is,” Margaret replied. “But I have recently—just today, in fact—come to the conclusion that one can be made to blush by multiple people. Therefore it cannot be the only indication for husband selection.”

“I am relieved to hear it.” And she was. Although she did it in her own peculiar way, Margaret was coming to the same realization every young lady did when their first crush disappoints them—there are many more fish in the sea. “After all, some people are not given to blushing.”

The difficulty was this realization seemed to have been prompted by the arrival of a man who made her skin crawl, quite literally.

John Turner had done many things to her—many overwhelming, mind-altering things—but he had never caused her to itch.

And the way Blackwell had spoken about Konrad set her teeth on edge. There was nothing revealing in his speech, true, but she was learning that he was a master of the oblique. He merely hinted at knowledge he should not have.

Truths that if spoken aloud, could be almost as damaging as the Lie.

Yes, she thought, words were often the most dangerous of weapons.

“What would the other indicators be, then?” she asked carefully. “What would you have in a husband?”

“I don't know,” Margaret said, coming to the realization that yes, perhaps she did not know. “I assumed I would never marry. But then Mr. Turner made me blush and I began to think differently.”

“Never marry?” Leticia asked. “But why?”

“I just . . . I don't dance well, I don't know why other girls are always laughing and smiling at men. Or why men are gallant in one setting and brutish in another. I like flowers. I understand flowers. The male/female fertilization habits and proliferation of plants are so much more interesting. The singular pairing off of a man and a woman seems at times unnatural to me.”

Leticia's brow rose, but she held her tongue. No need to let the girl know she was espousing some rather bohemian thoughts.

“I much preferred to stay in my greenhouse. My mother used to joke that unless I fainted at someone's feet, I was not in danger of meeting a husband at any rate.”

“Your mother,” Leticia repeated.

“It's how my mother met my father. Or rather, how she says she got his attention.”

That explained the origins of the fainting scheme. And Leticia had been right. That plan would not work on ninety-nine men out of a hundred. But a man like Sir Barty, who simply wished to protect everyone? It would certainly work on him.

“What did your mother tell you about being married?” Leticia tried.

“That it's something expected of a lady. I told her that as a lady I would rather not limit myself. She kissed my head and told me someday I might feel differently and we went back to trimming a juniper bush.”

“Your mother sounds very wise.” Leticia's smile could not be contained.

“But now that that day is here, I don't know what would make a good husband.” Margaret shrugged, as if this admission was not the loneliest thing Leticia had ever heard. “What do you think would make a good husband?”

“Well, I suppose it depends on the person,” Leticia said, taken aback, but not letting it show. “There are any number of men out there who I'm sure would make you a good husband, but the question is, what would make the right husband?”

“What made Father right—for you?”

Leticia hesitated. “Your father . . . he wants to take care of me. That is his best feature. He wants everyone to be well and happy.”

“So, someone that takes care of you is most important,” Margaret said, nodding.

“Not necessarily,” she replied, lost in thought. “You should want to take care of them as well. In fact, your partner's happiness would begin to supersede your own. But it's all right, because your happiness and his are the same. Your goals and interests would be shared. You would work toward building a life together, not giving up the one you have, but letting it become part of something bigger. Which makes choosing the right person very important.”

Margaret nodded, but her gaze was toward the window. Not really understanding, but letting the thought take seed.

“So I need someone who I have shared goals and interests with,” she mused.

“Yes. But more than that, you need someone you wouldn't mind spending your life with. Because you will be tied together forever. So it had best be someone you can walk besides for a while, and hold hands as you go.”