The Lie and the Lady (25 page)

Or rather, early morning. If Rhys didn't hurry up and get here, his covert actions would be useless, because their maid would be up to light the fires and start breakfast.

“This had better be important,” Turner grumbled, his eyes again falling on his pocket watch, laid open on the counter, where he sat and his tea went cold.

But it must be important, and Turner guessed what it was—something to do with Blackwell. His arrival stirred up some mess. Rhys must have followed his instructions and kept a close eye on Blackwell and Leticia. And he must have seen something between them. Some conspiracy, perhaps.

The idea made Turner's blood boil.

Of course Leticia would jump at the chance to find an ally against him. Hell, when they had spoken, truly spoken a week ago in her bedroom, she told him he needed to leave. Then, when they were standing so close together in the market stall, she said the thing that would make her happiest was if he would just disappear. Leave the village he grew up in, his life's work, simply because she had staked a claim. She was likely persuading Sir Barty at that very moment (although, any persuading she was doing to Sir Barty at three in the morning was not something he wanted to contemplate and indeed, turned his vision black) that Palmer Blackwell was the only person trustworthy enough to do business with. That the Turner Grain Mill was folly, it would never be what it was when his father was alive, and considering its history unlikely to even open its doors.

And there was not a damn thing he could do about it.

But if that was the case, a tiny weed of logic popped up, why on earth would she have befriended your mother?

It was then, as the dark thoughts began to turn over in his head, whispering their insidious ideas into his ear, that he heard the rumble of a carriage. It pulled to a stop, and the dim light of a lantern appeared underneath the kitchen door.

He leapt up and crossed the room in three strides. He wrenched the door open.

“It's about damn—” But the words died on his lips.

“Hello, Turner,” Leticia said from beneath the heavy hood of her cloak. “Aren't you going to invite me in?”

THE KITCHEN OF
the Turner house was very cozy, although one would be stretched to call it comfortable. It was a small space—although the house did not call for a large kitchen. They did not serve dinners for scores of guests here. Instead there was a large hearth, where embers from yesterday's fire still glowed. A stove stood in the corner, and shelves of china and crockery lined one wall. There were even some modern conveniences such as a well pump that at some point had been built into the wall. There was a long table in the center of the room, set high for a maid or cook to work while standing. On it was a pot of tea, long neglected, and a pocket watch.

All of these things were what Leticia decided to stare at when Turner pulled her roughly into the kitchen, fitting her against his side, hiding her from any errant light and prying eyes.

Although she doubted there were any prying eyes. This was Helmsley, not London. Country hours and all that. Still, better to be safe than sorry.

She was contemplating the lack of prying eyes and the teapot on the counter when Turner released her and came around to look at her.

“What are you doing here?”

“I can answer that,” came a voice from behind her. “Would you care to invite me in as well?”

Dr. Gray lounged in the doorway to the kitchen, a bit smugly if truth be told.

“For someone who insisted on a clandestine meeting, you are making a mockery of it,” Turner grumbled, cocking his head in an invitation to enter.

“Oh, a person could see me. I planned it all out,” Rhys said, a smile lighting his face. “Bluestone Manor knows I received a note asking for medical help. I know this because when your note arrived I made sure to say, ‘Oh dear, my medical services are needed in Helmsley!' when the note was delivered.”

“How very intelligent of you,” Turner drawled.

“I even left the note out in the hall, should someone pass by and see it. Sir Barty said I could take a gig whenever I please, so I had the stable lads rig one up, making certain to tell them my purported mission—”

“Of course you did.”

“And drove it myself. I picked up your countess at the edge of the property, none the wiser,” he finished proudly.

“No one saw me,” Leticia added. “I made certain of it.”

“None of that answers the question of why she is here,” Turner said.

“She is here because she needs to speak with you,” Leticia replied archly. “Privately. And if I called during the day there would be no way to ensure your mother would leave us by ourselves. In fact, I'd wager she wouldn't.”

“Indeed,” Turner agreed, his hands falling to his sides. He too seemed unable to find a suitable place to look. But while she focused on the makeup of the room, he was overly concerned with the floor.

“I thought it best that you not hear this information secondhand,” Rhys said quietly. “Although to complete the façade I need to attend to someone here. Do you mind if we simply tell everyone you were laid low with a stomach complaint?”

“Actually, there is someone in need of a doctor,” Turner answered.

“Indeed?”

“One of the draft horses,” he replied. Dr. Gray's face fell. “He threw a shoe while pulling a cartload of wheat into the mill yard.”

“I'm not a blacksmith.”

“True, but then a splinter was discovered deep in the hoof. We took it out and packed it with clean mud, but poor thing can still hardly walk.”

“First of all, there's no such thing as clean mud. Secondly—”

“So you'll have a look, then,” Turner interrupted. “Excellent.”

Dr. Gray looked as if he had another, more tart answer on his lips, but then his shoulders sagged and he picked up his medical bag from the floor. “I'll be in the stables then, when you are ready.”

And with that, Dr. Gray slipped quietly out the door.

Leaving Leticia alone with Turner.

“Poor Dr. Gray,” she said, in an attempt to fill the silence that had suddenly surrounded them. “He seemed so eager.”

“I know,” Turner replied. “It's long been my duty to crush his spirits.”

“Your duty or your delight?”

“Why not both?”

She smiled, a little. So did he. And then . . .

There it was again. That silence.

Leticia found herself staring at a loose thread on her cloak.

Turner ran his hand through his hair.

“Why don't you sit and tell me what brought you here at three o'clock in the morning.” Turner said. “The fire is not very warm, but I didn't wish to alert anyone to my . . . to our meeting.”

He brought over a stool and placed it next to the one in front of the abandoned tea. Then he ushered her over.

“You have a very nice room here,” she blurted—yes, blurted!—as if she were a naïve debutante.

“It's a kitchen.” His feet shuffled against the chair. “A small one at that.”

“It has all you need. It reminds me of the kitchen where I grew up,” she said, and immediately felt stupid for doing so. Why on earth bring that up? Who cares what the kitchen was like where she grew up?

“Would you care for some cold but strong tea?” he said, indicating the pot in front of him. “I can get another cup.”

“No, thank you,” Leticia said, clasping her hands in front of her. She had no idea what else to do with them. “You are being awfully polite.”

“What would you have me be?” he asked.

“Honest.”

“I'm not the one here with a story to tell,” he said, his eyebrow going up.

“But you don't want me here,” she replied.

“And yet, you are here. And so politeness seems like the thing to do.” He leaned his elbow on the table. “Tell me why you are here, Letty.”

“Don't—” she began, but then let her body slump. She didn't have it in her to have their usual argument. She wasn't there to spar with him. And in the wee small hours, every defense she had—her title, her grace, her wit—was stripped away, leaving her with only the truth.

“I need your help,” she said finally.

“My help?” Both eyebrows were up now. “With what?”

“Getting rid of Mr. Blackwell.”

Turner was silent a few moments. Then he took a large sip of what must have been very cold tea. Once he put the cup back down, he laced his fingers and returned his gaze to Leticia.

“Now, when you say ‘getting rid of,' you don't mean—”

Her jaw dropped. “Of course I don't mean that. Do you take me for a murderess?”

“I didn't think so, but I wanted to be certain.”

The look she sent him spoke loud enough that he held up his hands in defeat. “All right, all right. What do you mean then, by ‘getting rid of Mr. Blackwell'?”

“I mean, I would prefer it greatly if he never had cause to darken Bluestone Manor's door again.”

“Why?”

It was such a simple question. But one that hung in the air above her, ready to fall like the sword of judgment.

But damn it all, she had come this far. She had let Dr. Gray write his note and set foot into this kitchen, and the moment she had done that, she'd committed to this. To this confession.

“Because of what he knows about me,” she stated as calmly as possible. “Or, what he thinks he knows.”

Turner sucked in his breath.

“He knows about you and me, then? And the lie?”

“No!” she exclaimed. “As far as I can tell, Mr. Blackwell has no idea that we know each other.”

“Or how well,” he added, and she felt her face flame.

Oh yes, she was given to blushing. Under the right circumstances.

“I find this all very strange,” Turner said, idly playing with the handle of his cup. “Because after church this morning—actually, I suppose it would be yesterday morning at this point—you seemed to be very receptive to Blackwell.”

“Sir Barty is quite friendly with Mr. Blackwell. And Margaret . . . well, I'll get to that. I only gave him the benefit of the doubt. But to me something seemed . . . insidious about the man.”

“Really?”

“Truly. Perhaps you cannot read my feelings as well as you think,” she said.

He considered her for a moment. “I read them well enough to know that you did not wish me or my mother anywhere near Bluestone today.”

“That was a mistake on my part. If you had been there today, perhaps Blackwell would have not felt the need to threaten me this evening.”

Turner's face darkened. His hand tightened on the teacup. “He threatened you?”

“Warned me, rather,” she replied, her voice as calm as she could make it. “That should I take it into my head to come between him and Sir Barty—and possibly him and Margaret—that he would reveal things about my late husband I may not wish to have known.”

She waited.

And waited.

“You're waiting,” he said finally. “But I'll not ask the question.”

“Don't you wish to know?” she asked, her hand rising absentmindedly to her neck.

“Only if you wish to tell me. We did make a pact to avoid each other as much as possible. One assumes that includes a ban on prying into each other's lives.”

“One that you broke already by sending the good doctor to keep an eye on me.”

“And to attend Sir Barty's foot. Don't forget that.”

“Mr. Turner,” she sighed. “Can we please stop talking circles around each other?”

But Turner just threw up his hands. “Leticia, I lived in London long enough to be bored by most gossip, and eventually just outright ignored it. I have little care for what your late husband did that Mr. Blackwell might know, except that it is making you scratch your neck raw.”

Her hand immediately froze, covering her neck with her palm. Damn it all, she had been scratching. She forced her hand down into her lap, letting the air attack her screaming skin.

Turner stood up abruptly and walked over to the larder. There, he pulled out a jug of cream.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “You don't take cream in your tea.”

Instead he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, shook it out to make certain it was clean, and soaked it in the cream.

“Allow me,” he said, bringing the cloth over to her.

Then he placed the cool cloth against the red of her neck. She closed her eyes as the relief soaked in.

She remembered this. His gentle touch. His attentiveness.

And then, just as quickly as it had come, it was gone.

“Hold that in place,” he said, taking his seat again at a respectable—and safe—distance. “It will help.”

“How did you—” she started to ask.

“Something my mother used to do when my father's hands would go raw from the ropes and pulleys,” he replied. Then he cleared his throat, and with it any trace of softness. “Now if you're going to tell me, tell me. If I don't need to know, then don't. But if you're just going to sit in my kitchen, it's three in the morning and I have a bed calling my name.”