The Lie and the Lady (38 page)

“What about this?” she asked. “There is a payment to a ‘Mrs. M,' but no reason given.”

“It's not a great sum,” he replied, but his brow came down. Thinking. “Not enough to pay someone to commit arson at least. And a woman?” He sounded skeptical.

“A woman is equally capable of striking a flint as a man.”

“True, but a woman would be far more likely to be noticed in a mill yard,” Turner countered. “And look, it's a continual payment.”

Leticia saw as he flipped pages. Yes, every page had an entry for “Mrs. M,” all the way until the current month.

“It even goes further back too . . . to a full year before the mill burned.” He shook his head. “This is not what we think it is. This is an allowance. He's supporting someone.”

“Out of his business funds?” she mused. “Oh . . . oh, of course! He'd keep it out of the household accounts. He'd want it to remain hidden.”

“What?”

“That he has a bastard. He's paying funds to the mother. The child would be about seven now, I suppose. Do we know any women with a last name M that have a seven-year-old?” she asked gleefully.

“Not that I can recall,” Turner said. “Surely we would have heard something, though. A child is a secret too big to keep.”

“Not necessarily. Men lie, women lie”—she indicated the ledger—“money never lies.”

“All right,” he conceded, “but I don't see how this is helpful to us.”

“If Blackwell has a bastard,” she said, “I can take it to Sir Barty—he would never allow Margaret to marry a man such as that. This is proof of his perfidy!”

“I'm afraid Sir Barty might not see it that way,” Turner replied, shaking his head. “He might see it as proof of his responsibility. After all, everyone has bastards. Not everyone provides for them.”

Her eyebrows went up.

“Everyone has bastards?” she asked.

He blushed. “Well, not me.”

She harrumphed. “I'm still taking one of the pages.” She began to carefully tear out the page that marked the beginning of the payments to Mrs. M. “Just in case. Perhaps I know Sir Barty better than you.”

She delicately folded the page, curved it to her arm, and slid it into her long glove. Then, as perfectly as she could manage, she placed the ledger back underneath the papers, its spine facing out the same way, its title obscured exactly as it had been.

She straightened to find Turner watching her intently.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“No.”

“What's amiss?” she asked. “The pile by the door? I'll move it back as best I can upon exit, but—”

“You still haven't answered my question,” he said. “In fact you have assiduously avoided it.”

“What question?”

“Why are you doing this?” he asked solemnly. “Why are you trying so hard? Since the ladies in the town toured the mill, my mother has not heard one ill word about it in Helmsley. We've even received some contracts from smaller farmers—we have a chance of success. And even without that ledger page, you were determined to not allow Blackwell anywhere near Margaret. The man is no longer a threat.”

“Yes, but now I don't have to worry.”

“About him?”

“No—about you.” Leticia turned to him. Sighed deeply. He was asking her for the truth, and in this moment—and possibly only in this moment—she wanted to give it to him.

“I can't do what you want me to do,” she said simply. “I'm not that brave. But I can do this. I can help you get rid of Blackwell. I can help your business thrive. That's what I can give you, before we . . .”

His hand came out, almost of its own accord, and gently touched her cheek. “Before we what?”

“Before we say good-bye.”

His hand stilled.

“Upon my marriage, I won't be your Letty anymore.” Until now, she'd refused to allow that she ever was, but in the dark of the study, the moonlight making fireflies of the dust on the air, honesty won out. “Our past will become memory, more and more distant. You'll work your mill, and I'll be Lady Babcock. We'll be friendly acquaintances, of course. Sir Barty and your mother will play cribbage until the end of time, but—”

“But time will separate us.”

She nodded slowly. “And someday, you'll meet a young lady who makes you smile, and your mother will be ecstatic. And Sir Barty and Lady Babcock will even attend your wedding, throw flowers, and wish you every happiness on that day. And that is what I want for you. Every happiness. But for that to happen, we have to say good-bye.”

“I see,” he said, and perhaps he did see. Perhaps he realized that “every happiness” was not something he could attain with her. Perhaps he looked down the road of their lives, and saw their various tortures not ending, per se, but fading away.

His eyes met hers. His thumb began to caress her jaw, slowly. “I suppose you are right,” he said. “This is good-bye.”

She nodded. Unable to break away from his gaze. Spellbound.

“Then . . .” He leaned forward, and his lips pressed to her forehead. Kindly. Reverently. “Good-bye, my Letty,” he whispered.

His forehead pressed against hers, replacing his lips. She closed her eyes and let herself memorize the feel of him. The sharp lines of his face. The strength of his forearm under her hand. The steady beat of his heart. The way his thumb wiped away the tear that had somehow slid down her cheek.

Then . . . their lips were together. It was not her doing, nor was it his. It was simply what happened. His mouth pressing against hers. Her arms winding around his neck. His hands grasping at the back of her dress, pulling her to him.

The kiss deepened. They pulled each other under, needing this as much as they needed air. The room they were in slipped away, the music drifting up from two floors below became nothing more than a whisper. There was only Turner, and Letty, and their final good-bye.

It was difficult to say who came to their senses first. Leticia only knew that one moment she was lost, feeling the rough calluses of his palm along her jaw, his fingers twisting in the tendrils of hair that escaped down her neck—and then suddenly, something broke them apart. Left them staring at each other, gasping for breath.

“I was wondering where you'd gone.”

Leticia's heart stopped as her head whipped around to discover . . .

Helen Turner standing in the doorway of Blackwell's private study.

They leapt apart. Air rushed to fill the void between them, cold against her skin, which had gone hot with shame.

“And I'm not the only one,” Helen continued, her unblinking gaze swinging from her son to Leticia and back again. “Your friend Dr. Gray covered for you when you rudely left Margaret on the dance floor, John. I told her you must have had a sudden stomach complaint.”

Turner's jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

“Helen, I—” Leticia tried, but any excuse she could make died of improbability before it could be spoken. “How . . . how long have you been there?” she tried weakly.

“Does that really matter, dear?” she said, a pitying smile flitting across her stony expression. Then she turned back to her son. “I think you should go apologize to Margaret, make your excuses, and go home. Don't you?”

He glanced down at Leticia, hesitating.

“I'll stay with Lady Churzy,” his mother said calmly. “She obviously got lost on the way to the retiring room. Didn't you, dear?”

“She's right,” Leticia added quietly. “Go.”

His expression darkened, inscrutable. Then his hand reached out and lightly slid down her arm to grasp hers for a moment.

He nodded at his mother as he passed. He did not look back.

“Helen, I . . .” Leticia began. She tensed, ready for the fury that was about to be unleashed. After all, she was jeopardizing not only her own marriage, but also Turner's standing in the town, everyone's futures. All for a moment of indulgence. A heartbeat, frozen in time.

But time hadn't frozen. It had ticked on, and much to their disadvantage.

Helen's expression was as unreadable as her son's, but as soon as she was face to face with Leticia she let out a long sigh.

And promptly choked on a plume of dust.

“Heavens, you must be dying in here!” Helen said once she was finished coughing up her innards. “Just look at your nose! Red as a beet. Come away, shall we?”

Numb with shock, she let Helen guide her out of the study and down the hall—pausing only long enough to arrange the books behind the door as best she could before closing it again.

“The back stairs, I should think,” Helen said, pulling Leticia with her.

“Helen, I . . . I'm sorry,” Leticia said. It was the only thing she could think of to say.

Helen pulled to a stop, her hand on the door of the stairs. “Whatever for?” she asked blithely.

“For . . . Helen, I know what you saw, and I feel I should explain. Your son and I met before—”

“There's no need to explain, dear,” Helen said, patting her hand.

Leticia searched the older woman's face and found nothing there but kindness.

Kindness and intelligence.

“I've been thinking, Leticia. It would be a crime if you did not get a wedding trip to London, simply because Sir Barty is Sir Barty.”

“I suppose,” Leticia replied slowly.

“You'll learn this once you're married, but the way you handle that man is that you make plans and then let him catch up. Go ahead and make arrangements to stay in London for a few months. I'll help you convince Sir Barty of the benefits of town. Think of all the culinary delights that await him. Margaret too.” Helen looked at her, her eyes sharp and clear. “It's what's best for everyone.”

“Yes.” Leticia nodded. “Yes, it is.”

21

N
ow, stay absolutely still, my lady. I don't want to rip the lace.”

Leticia held in place as Molly knelt at her hem, delicately placing pins in the lace of her wedding gown. Her wedding was tomorrow. But oddly, ever since she came back from Blackwell's ball, she found all the minute tasks she had to accomplish before the big day to be burdensome. Her lethargy had grown to the point that she had put off having her gown fitting until this morning, when Molly practically wrestled her onto the little footstool and forced the dress over her head.

The girl was turning into an exemplary lady's maid.

“Luckily the bodice fit like a glove,” Molly was saying, pins stuck between her teeth. “There's so much material of the skirt, I'm going to have to stay up all night on the hem alone.”

“Yes,” Leticia sighed. “We all realize the sacrifices you have to make due to my delinquent nature.”

“I'm just saying, if you'd let me fit the dress yesterday, or earlier . . .”

“It's not smart to admonish the woman who pays you, Molly.”

“It's not smart to admonish the woman holding a half dozen pins either,” a voice said from behind.

An oily voice.

Leticia turned, a small squeak coming from Molly as she shifted the dress and the girl scrambled to keep the lace from ripping.

“But then again, a countess is forgiven for so much, I imagine,” Palmer Blackwell said from the doorway.

“Mr. Blackwell,” Leticia said, pulling herself up by the invisible string on the top of her head, looking down her nose at the little man. “Are you lost? Sir Barty should be in his library. Margaret went into Helmsley with Dr. Gray—unfortunately you've missed her.”

“Actually, I'm here to see you,” Blackwell said, looking her up and down. “You make a stunning bride.”

“Perhaps you would consider waiting in the drawing room, then?”

He wandered over the threshold. “I don't think so.”

“These are my private rooms. You should not be here.”

A smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Sound advice. But a little wobbly, no? Coming from you, that is.”

Leticia's focus sharpened to a razor point. “Molly,” she said, her gaze never leaving Blackwell's face. “Give us a moment, please.”

“But—” Molly began, the wheels visibly turning in her head. On the one hand, her mistress was still in her wedding dress. On the other, a man not Sir Barty had invaded her private quarters. Both of theses things sat with equal disturbing weight in the girl's mind.

“Please, Molly,” Leticia said, nodding at the girl, dismissing her. Molly stood, curtsied, and ducked her head as she passed Blackwell.

“Oh, and if Mr. Blackwell hasn't left in five minutes,” Leticia said, calling after her, “send up Jameson with three footmen to escort him out.”

“That won't be necessary. This won't take long at all,” Blackwell said, winking at the girl. It was hard to tell if a meek servant such as Molly shuddered with revulsion, but Leticia certainly did.

Once Molly was gone, Blackwell gently shut the door behind him.