The Lie and the Lady (27 page)

He waited. He sipped cold tea as he did.

“By courting Margaret,” she said.

There was a distinct sound. A low, choking sputter. It bridged into a coughing fit, and then a pounding on the chest, to clear the path for a chuckle that grew and grew into full-fledged laughter.

“Shh!” Leticia said, lurching forward to cover his laugh. “Do you want to wake the house?”

“I'm sorry,” he said, taking her hand down from his mouth. “But it strikes me as odd, seeing as only a week ago you dictated that I should stay far, far away from Margaret.”

“Currently, you are the lesser of two evils,” she replied.

“So you want me to marry Margaret . . .”

“I did not say marry,” she corrected quickly. “I said court. Return her interest to you and only to you, so Blackwell does not stand a chance there.”

“So you want me to lead the poor girl into thinking I wish to marry her.” Turner crossed his arms over his chest. “To keep your secrets safe.”

“Yes! I mean, no!” Leticia said, exasperated. “Look, it's not a fully formed plan.”

“I'll say,” he said.

“Just pay enough attention to her to let her think her plan to ignore you worked.”

“She had a plan to ignore me? Why do I think that idea came from elsewhere?” The corner of his mouth picked up as he squeezed her hand.

He was still holding her hand. She'd covered his laughter, and he'd taken her hand in his to release his mouth, and . . . just not let go. And it was so easy, so comfortable, so right, that she simply didn't notice. She was sitting in a kitchen at three in the morning holding hands with John Turner like it was the most normal, natural thing in the world.

But it wasn't normal and natural. Or at least it shouldn't be. She did not belong in this kitchen. She belonged in a drawing room at Bluestone Manor.

She belonged with Sir Barty.

And that thought had her pulling her hand free. And he let it go.

“You, Sir Barty, my mother,” he said. “All have this half-cocked idea that my courting Margaret would solve all of our problems. Never mind my feelings on the subject. But you seem to be forgetting that Margaret is a creature of her own mind. Why don't you trust her to see through Blackwell on her own?”

“I have no doubt that she would, eventually.” It was true, for as much as Margaret kept her head down and her attention firmly on her plants, she could be disconcertingly observant. “But by then it could be too late. A marriage hastily done simply because she's nineteen and does not know how to separate affection from flattery? Trust me, therein lies disaster.”

“Fair point,” Turner said, leaning his chin on steepled fingers. “I think you're right on one score—that the best way to rid ourselves of Blackwell is for me to win Sir Barty's business. But I would prefer to do it without playing a young woman for the fool.”

“It would not be forever—just long enough to foil Blackwell's plans,” she replied, leaning in with earnestness. “Margaret, I'm certain, would recover.” Although she wasn't all that certain, but hoped it would be the case. “It would be for the greater good.”

“Funny. That's what I told myself last summer.” His eyes searched hers. “With you.”

Leticia's head came up. Was that an apology? But before she could ask, he let out a long sigh.

“I'll do it,” he said, his hand going to his chin again, calculating. “But you must do something for me.”

Leticia knew better than to agree to a bargain when the terms were not defined. “What is that?”

“Two things, actually. First, invite my mother over for tea,” he said. “She would find it very pleasant. I know she was hurt by our exclusion today.”

Leticia felt that little slice of guilt go through her. “Of course. It will be strategic to invite you both. You will be able to spend time with Margaret, and with any luck Blackwell will—”

“Letty, did you hear what I said?” Turner laughed. “I would not have you invite her over for strategic purposes. My mother likes you. Not everything need be a play in a game. Lord, the two of you are birds of a feather.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “My mother does not have many friends. Sir Barty and Lady Babcock had been friends for so long, but ever since Lady Babcock's death things have been strained . . . it's hard not to notice.”

Yes, things were oddly strained. On both sides. But Leticia need only remember the way Sir Barty lit up when he pointed out Helen on the way into town that first Sunday, happy to see a friend.

“I will happily invite her—for friendship as well as strategic purposes,” she added quickly. “But when she comes for tea, she cannot mention the mill.”

Turner looked taken aback. “She cannot?”

“That's why there is tension.” At least, she thought it was. “Sir Barty practically ducks out of the room every time she comes in, because the hints she drops could level Parliament. He does not want to be pressured by one of his oldest friends. In fact, all he wants to do is enjoy her company and play cards.”

“The mill is the only thing that consumes her thoughts these days. If I've been under pressure to bring it back to its former glory, she has been under exponentially more, because she's had to deal with the town and its censure by herself while I was away.”

Hence the lack of friends. Oh, the town was polite to Helen, but there was no confidant. No comfort. Mrs. Emory had seen to that.

Everyone needed someone to talk truths with at three in the morning.

“What is the second?”

“Hmm?”

“The second thing I must do for you,” she clarified.

“Convince the rest of Helmsley to trust the Turner Grain Mill with their business.”

She stared at him blankly.

“That's all?” she asked finally. “You don't want me to fetch you the crown jewels as well?”

“I've been running over the books, and if Sir Barty cannot be won over this harvest season, we will manage to survive until the next harvest if there are enough of the smaller farms willing to trust us to mill their grain.”

“Surely once the crop starts to come in, they will see that your mill is superior . . .”

“No they won't. Not if the sermon this morning was any indication.”

She had to confess, she hadn't really heard the sermon. She'd been too busy watching Blackwell out of one eye and Turner out of the other. It's a wonder she didn't require spectacles.

“It was about constancy. And the old ways being the best.”

“That doesn't mean it was about the steam equipment at your mill.”

Turner simply looked at her like she was missing her nose. “The steam equipment is the only thing in Helmsley from this century. They don't trust anything new. Beside that, no one trusts me to run the business, since it's burned twice and hasn't ground an ounce of flour under my leadership.”

“But you can lead the business,” she cried. “You are!”

“I've convinced you, at least. And now I need to convince the town. With your help.”

“How do you expect me to do that?” she asked. “You said it yourself, they don't trust anything new. And I am quite new.”

“You are also Leticia Herzog, Lady Churzy,” he replied. “You can charm entire continents. I've seen you, in the churchyard. Mrs. Robertson, the vicar's wife . . . they all want your favor, but are too proud to approach you for it.”

“Or they are too under Mrs. Emory's rule. Who hates you for her son losing his job.”

“God save me from another Harold Emory.” Turner rolled his eyes. “But if people could simply see the mechanisms working—hell, we were going to show you today, but then . . .”

“Then Palmer Blackwell arrived.” Leticia thought for a moment. If she could get the vicar's wife on their side, she could influence the vicar. And Mrs. Robertson would be able to tell everyone who came into her store . . . and Miss Goodhue would tell her students, who would in turn tell their parents. It could be done. But it would take more than finesse. It would take . . .

“You say you were going to offer Sir Barty and myself a tour of the steam equipment?” she asked suddenly.

He nodded.

“So it's all ready. It's working properly? No more explosions?”

“Yes,” he replied. “At least, I've done everything I can to make sure of it.”

“That will have to do.” She hopped down from her stool, straightening her skirt and fitting the hood of her cloak over her head. “I suggest you have your equipment running in tip-top condition by Tuesday. This has been an incredibly edifying evening, Mr. Turner. I thank you for your assistance.”

She moved toward the door.

“Wait . . .” he called after her.

“I'm sorry, but Dr. Gray must be waiting in the carriage by now and I have a great deal to do today and tomorrow. As do you.” She pulled on her gloves. “I will send around a girl with a note after breakfast, asking you and Helen to attend us for tea. Don't forget what I told you to tell your mother.”

“I won't . . . but, Letty.” He reached her and took her elbow, gently but firmly, turning her back to him. “What on earth is going to happen on Tuesday?”

“The same thing that happens every Tuesday, or so I'm told.” She dazzled at him, the sparkling plan fomenting in her mind. “Mrs. Emory receives callers.”

And with that, she marched out the door, a veritable bounce in her step.

Leaving Turner behind, completely bewildered but smiling. Smiling like a daft fool.

15

M
rs. Emory! A pleasure.”

Mrs. Emory looked up from where she was surrounded by a gaggle of women from the town, including her usual retinue of Mrs. Robertson, Mrs. Spilsby, and Miss Goodhue. There was shock on her face.

There was also a piece of cake half in her mouth.

Well, Leticia thought, smiling. This is a promising start already.

“Lady Churzy,” Mrs. Emory said, once she swallowed her cake. “And Miss Babcock. This is . . . quite the surprise.”

“Is it?” Leticia replied. “After all, you told us of your receiving callers on Tuesdays.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“She said there was no way you would actually come!” Miss Goodhue piped up, only to have her arm swatted by Mrs. Spilsby.

“Indeed?” Leticia purred. No wonder Mrs. Emory looked so shocked. She'd obviously interrupted her gossiping time—and it was not difficult to guess the subject of her speculations.

“What my sister means, my lady,” Mrs. Spilsby said smoothly, covering for Miss Goodhue with the practiced peacemaking of a true vicar's wife, “is that Mrs. Emory assumed you would leave a card first, and then have the call returned. Like the fashionable ladies one reads about.”

“Oh, standing on ceremony is so very dull, don't you find?” Leticia replied, waving a hand in the air as she seated herself next to the sandwiches. “Oh, watercress, lovely. Margaret, what is your opinion?”

Margaret looked as startled to be included in the conversation as Mrs. Emory was to have them in her parlor. But the girl took her cue and showed herself to be not completely inadequate in social situations.

“I—ah—I am not one for standing on ceremony either?” she replied, and Miss Goodhue scooted over to offer her a seat on the couch.

She'd had some difficulty convincing Margaret to come with her to pay this call. Leticia had arrived back from Turner's kitchen in the wee hours of Monday morning with a plan forming in her mind. It could work. It would work. But unfortunately, she had other responsibilities—one of which was making certain that Mr. Blackwell and Margaret were not alone together, for the girl's own sake, whether she realized it or not.

And also unfortunately, that seemed to be the sole aim of Mr. Blackwell, all of Monday.

He'd come over for tea, just as Helen and Sir Barty were taking out the cribbage board. Came in with all the bounding determination of a man desperate to be liked.

“Miss Babcock! I have been thinking all day about your orchard! I decided to forgo my afternoon appointments so I could ask you about it. Is there something magical you put in the soil to boast such marvelous fruits?”

“That's my tea, Mr. Blackwell.” Margaret shifted in her seat to face the new arrival.

“Tea?”

“Yes, you should try some, Blackwell,” Turner said from Margaret's other side. “I'm told it's most refreshing.”

Turner had glanced at Leticia then, and she did her best to hide a smile. But soon enough Turner had returned Margaret's attention to him by asking about the various plants Margaret was busy experimenting with.

She'd felt safe that Turner would be able to keep himself between Blackwell and Margaret, but all it took was one moment where Turner had moved to speak to Dr. Gray, and Blackwell was at Margaret's side, convincing her to go on a tour of the gardens.