The Lie and the Lady (37 page)

A rising panic began to swell in her chest. She had no idea what to do. None of the theoretical scenarios she had envisioned had accounted for something like this. Instead, she'd only planned for (1) Mr. Turner asking her to dance, so they do, allowing her to gauge his interest and find common subjects on which to speak; (2) Mr. Turner not asking her to dance, so they do not, allowing her to realize his lack of interest and not needing to find common subjects on which to speak; or (3) Mr. Turner being coerced into asking her to dance by their parents—which did occur—and having to once again confront the ambiguity of his interest and wonder if her own interest in him would be enough to—

“Did he finally leave?” Dr. Gray asked, his voice filling her ear. “Thank heavens, I could not watch him put you through that misery any longer.”

She turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“His terrible dancing. John has always had two left feet, and no amount of practice could solve that. I can see the misery it caused on your face.” His voice became just a touch louder, for all those nearby to hear. “Obviously he did not wish to embarrass his partner any further.”

“He . . . he didn't leave because he was dancing poorly,” Margaret said, fearful that her chin was wobbling. She hated when her chin wobbled. But it wobbled because she knew it to be true. He'd left her in the middle of the dance floor not because of his own ineptness, but instead because . . .

“Nonsense,” Dr. Gray said jovially. “He does this all the time. Causes a mess and leaves me to clean it up. Which”—he waved a hand at the musicians. They nodded, and suddenly the quadrille became a fast-paced waltz. Suddenly, Margaret was swept up into Dr. Gray's arms and sent spinning across the floor—“I intend to do now.”

As they spun in time to the music, the air catching up around them and creating their own whirlwind, Margaret felt a small smile begin to replace her misery.

“This was not a scenario I had pictured,” she said as Dr. Gray guided her through the steps.

“Dancing with me? But I told you we should.”

“Yes, but the variables . . .” Oh, how to explain? But then she saw that Dr. Gray was nodding at her, and she realized she didn't have to.

“Unknown variables at an event like this are terribly difficult to account for. There are simply too many possibilities.”

“Yes, exactly!” And she laughed as they spun. And spun and spun.

“Now, tell me about all the scenarios you worked through.”

“Really?”

“Really. I'm interested.”

20

T
he first thing Leticia realized when she entered Palmer Blackwell's study was that the man was not as fastidious as she'd hoped. There was no labeling of files, documents ordered neatly on his desk. Instead, things were piled on the floor, on the overly ornate desk, on nearby shelves, and strewn about with an order likely only the man himself knew.

The second thing Leticia realized was that Palmer Blackwell, while in no way fastidious, was incredibly secretive. Even going so far as to ban his staff from ever entering his offices. Her first clue was the fact that when she pushed the door open (she entered from the main hallway, only noticing once inside the auxiliary entrance from what must be Blackwell's bedchamber) she inadvertently pushed a pile of books and papers, and oddly a stuffed cormorant, out of the way. The second clue was—

“Ah-
choo!
”

—all the dust she kicked up as she did so.

She quickly shut the door behind her, praying that no one heard or saw her. The initial wave of dust wafted over her, and it was all she could do not to give into the urge to indulge in a fit of sneezes.

This was worse than being in the gardens in full bloom, she thought as her eyes began to water fiercely.

Oh, this was hellish, but she had to find Blackwell's ledgers. She had no idea what she'd find in them, but she needed to know. It was a strange focus driving her, blinkered and yet clear.

She had to do this.

It was not only dusty but deeply dark in the room, but she dare not light a candle and have the light seen from under the door. So once her eyes adjusted enough to navigate (barely), she made her way over to the long windows on the far wall and threw open the heavy draperies.

Causing another shower of dust to be released into the air.

Really, she thought, would it have killed the man to allow one maid in here to at least dust? He could have supervised, made sure nothing was taken or seen.

But then a moment of clarity struck, and Leticia felt that delicious thrill that only ever comes with being right. Because if Palmer Blackwell was this secretive, going so far as to not even allow his servants into his study, that meant . . .

Palmer Blackwell had something to hide.

And he'd hidden it here.

But where to begin?

If she touched any of the piles of papers and books and the occasional stuffed bird, she risked not being able to put them back in the correct order, exposing to Blackwell that someone had rifled his things.

Not to mention, she chanced another plume of dust being released into the air.

She was so caught up debating her next move (and trying to suppress a rather gigantic sneeze) she did not notice when the door behind her swung open silently. However, when a hand came down upon her shoulder, she noticed.

Then she screamed in surprise.

“Oh hell, Letty, it's me! It's Turner!” he whispered fervently, wrapping an arm around her waist, stilling her.

“Turn—ah-
choo!
—Turner?” she asked, twisting herself around. Then, once the shock had faded, relief filled her chest.

Then, annoyance. “You scared me!” she said, swatting at his arm. “And you can let go of me now.”

“You're the one holding on to me.”

He was right. She had her hand in the crook of his elbow, her body bent into his. Quickly she extracted herself. No need for temptation. Not now.

“You shouldn't be here,” she said instead.

“No, you shouldn't be here,” he replied. “Blackwell has gone missing from the ballroom. He could be anywhere. We should go. Now.”

A shimmer of cold dread ran down her spine. But she squashed and thoroughly ignored it.

“Feel free.” She waved, stepping out of his reach. “I'll meet you back there in a few minutes.”

“No you won't.”

“How well you think you know me.”

“Perhaps we forgo the coy responses and for once acknowledge that yes, I do in fact know you. I know you so well that I know you are bent on uncovering something that may not be there, even risking discovery to do so.”

“So what?”

“So what?” he repeated.

“So what if I am discovered? I will play it off as having gotten a little tipsy and lost in this ill-designed house.”

“Letty.” He shook his head. “You're on the third floor. In the family rooms. If I'm not mistaken, that door over there connects to Blackwell's private quarters. Being drunk and lost does not explain how you got up here.”

She thought that over. She'd come up to the study first, because she figured that she could explain away being missing from the party for a longer period of time, earlier in the night. There were so many people downstairs, having her missing would not be as noticeable as it would be when a number of people had already begun to take their leave. It was simple math.

But now that she was here, she knew she was in the right place, and rifling the library would not be necessary. She knew it in her bones.

And if Blackwell discovered her, well . . . that was the risk she took.

So, again, she waved off Turner's concerns. “What on earth do you think Blackwell will do to me? I've already made it clear to him that his threats to tell Sir Barty about my late husband are baseless.”

“What about Margaret?” Turner asked. “What about his intentions toward her?”

She paused, took that in. “I won't let it happen,” she said simply. “Whether or not she responds to his intentions—that girl is impossible to read—once I am her stepmother he will not be allowed anywhere near her. And he won't be able to stop me.”

No, he would not be able to stop her, but something strange had crept up Leticia's spine as she'd watched Margaret dance her first dance with Mr. Blackwell. For all the girl's talk of seeing two men as the only men in the world, she hadn't blushed with Mr. Blackwell. Not ever. Not while they danced, and Leticia was beginning to wonder if she ever had, or if her memory played a trick on her.

“Then why are you doing this?” he asked quietly.

She didn't answer, and didn't meet his eye. Instead, she put her gaze solidly over his shoulder, focused on assessing the room.

The task at hand.

“I left Margaret in the middle of the dance floor to come and find you,” Turner breathed. “Even if your absence isn't noted, mine will be.”

Her eyes flew to his face then.

“Why on earth would you do a thing like that?” she cried. “Margaret must be so heartbroken.”

“I did it because I . . . I needed to find you,” Turner replied, running his hand through his hair. “I knew you had this foolish plan—”

“It's not foolish.”

“And even though you have pledged yourself to another man, you seem intent on thrusting yourself in my business. And I have no idea why—it seems to be almost compulsory on your part.”

She blinked at his rush of words. This was no time for an argument.

“Do you think that I'm impulsive?” she asked hotly. “That I rush blindly into things? No. I plan. I plot. All very carefully. I would not be here on a whim. Now, there is something to be found in this mess of a study, and I intend to find it. You can either help me, or you can leave.”

He threw up his hands. “And how do you propose to find anything here? Everything's covered in papers and dust!”

“Not everything.” Her head cocked to the side as she peered over his shoulder.

The recently opened windows allowed for something other than a proliferation of sneezes. As the light fell on the desk and the piles randomly assembled around it, she could see that there were spots not covered in dust.

The leather chair was shiny from use. On the desk there was a path carved out of the dust to the inkwell and back again. And to the left, a tall pile of papers and leather-bound books were notably absent of dust.

And then she laughed.

“What is it?” he asked, worry in his voice.

Then she sneezed.

“The dust,” she said finally. “It's showing us the path. Anything covered in dust is not something Blackwell uses on a regular basis. Those parts that are clean are used often.”

She moved around the desk and gently lifted a few of the papers off the top of the nondusty pile.

“Bill of sale, bill of purchase . . .” she said, rifling through them. Then, below all the papers . . .

“
The Production and Uses of Barley,
” she said, pulling out a large volume from the bottom of the pile. She wrinkled her nose. “I could not imagine a more boring book if I tried.”

But flipping open the cover, she did not find an index of uses for barley. Instead, she found tightly handwritten entries, with corresponding dates and numbers.

“Hello,” she breathed. Then sneezed.

“What is it?” Turner asked, coming over to her. Then, reading over her shoulder, “Twenty shillings for delivery, two pounds six for bottle weight manufacture . . .”

“It's a ledger. A business ledger!” she cried happily. “But why would it be in a book about barley?”

“Because these are his real business ledgers. Ones that he does not want the world to see.” Turner just shook his head. “Of course you have this kind of luck. Just skip over a dozen steps and find what you're looking for in the first book you pull from the pile.”

“What luck?” she scoffed as she flipped back pages. “This is all talent and practicality. If I had any luck, I should not have ended up engaged to a man who lives in the same town as my ex-lover.”

“We were never lovers,” he said, his voice a whisper in the dark. “Unfortunately.”

Leticia prayed that her hands were not shaking as she flipped through the book. Begged her eyes to stay down, and her voice to not shake with feeling. “This seems to be a monthly ledger. That is, each page is a month—and it goes back years.” She flipped back six years. “Which month was it that your mill burned? The first time, that is.”

He told her, and she flipped to the appropriate page. But now, the shuffling of paper had dissipated the tension between them to move his interest from her to the contents of the ledger.

Although it did not dissipate completely.

Instead, she felt his warmth at her back, his arm brushing up against her shoulder, a constant reminder of his strength and presence.

“Everything seems to be quite ordinary,” he mused, panning down the ledger page. “Purchases of grain, a contract to hire a worker to repair a sail.”