The Lie and the Lady (40 page)

“No,” she said finally. “I mean yes, I don't want it wrinkled, but, darling, I have something to tell you. Something that cannot wait the twenty-four hours to marriage either.”

His joviality fell away as he finally realized she was serious. “What is it? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” she replied. “Physically, at least. But I am afraid I cannot marry you tomorrow.”

There was nothing, only the sound of her breath, to fill the silence that had descended.

Then, he laughed. “What is this? Cold feet, I gather. M'dear, don't spout nonsense, everything will be well.”

“It's not cold feet.” She shook her head. “It's more important than that.”

“M'dear, Leticia . . .” He leaned forward, taking his foot off the stool with some difficulty. “If you're nervous about tomorrow—er, after the wedding I mean . . . I am too.” He looked at her imploringly. “I know I'm not a young man . . . nor a handsome one. I'm fat and old. And worse, I'm resigned to it. Not exactly what young brides dream of on their wedding night. But I'll do my best by you, know that. I will be as kind and gentle as a man can be. I'll not disgrace you.”

He reached for her hand, sitting before her in much the way he had when he proposed. So very eager. And now she had to show him the fool he'd been for asking for her hand in the first place.

“I am not worried about you disgracing me. Rather, if you marry me, I will be the disgrace to you.”

He let go of her hand. But kept his eyes on her face. Calm, but not understanding.

“I'm afraid the past I tried to outrun caught up to me,” she began, taking a deep breath. “I lied to you. I told you that last summer a man had deceived me, pretending to be a man of quality and courted me.”

“He was little better than a servant, you said,” Sir Barty said. “And that he had done it to be cruel, to play a trick.”

“He . . . he didn't do it to be cruel. It's hard to explain why he did it, but what matters is that he did, and I fell prey to his charms. And he was very charming. You wouldn't know it when you speak to him now, he's so terribly focused on his work, but when he was someone else he was free to be himself. Does that make sense?”

“None at all,” he replied. “What do you mean, ‘when you speak to him now'? Has he . . . have you spoken with him?”

“Yes, quite often since we arrived,” she answered plainly. “The man who deceived me is John Turner.”

Sir Barty drew still, a look of complete bewilderment on his face.

“I . . . I don't understand,” he finally said.

“John Turner . . . he was secretary to the Earl of Ashby. For a fortnight last summer, they visited my sister's home in Leistershire and they decided to switch places while they were there,” she explained haltingly. “It was a wager, which Turner won, and that's how he managed to have enough money to rebuild his mill.”

“I . . . I'm still . . .” Sir Barty suddenly stood, needing to pace. “Where the hell is my damned cane?” he shouted suddenly. “Jameson!”

“It's right here, darling.” Leticia quickly grabbed it from the arm of the sofa and handed it to him.

“So . . . so he's the one who hurt you,” he said, rising and stalking across the room in long lengths. “But you've never—you never said anything. Unless . . .” A dark look overtook his features. “Did you come here for him?”

“No,” she replied immediately, but he did not—or could not—hear her.

“Have you two been laughing at me this entire time?”

“No!” she cried.

“I never could understand how someone like you could want someone like me. You're too pretty and refined. I thought you needed someone to take care of you. But if it was just to be near someone else, I . . . I . . .”

“Sir Barty, listen, please. I had no idea that Turner came from Helmsley. When we met in Paris it was a complete coincidence. It was . . . fate.”

“Fate,” he repeated. “You were fated to come here and pretend to want to marry me?”

“I wasn't pretending,” Leticia said, her nose stinging with tears. “I did want to marry you. I do! I thought I would have been very happy to never see John Turner again. He just happened to be here, so I was forced to.”

“Forced to. You were not forced to tell me of this when you realized he was here, were you?” Sir Barty spat out. “If it truly was coincidence, why didn't you tell me then? Instead, you kept that secret, so now when people find out, they will look at me as . . . as a fool for bringing you into my house! That poor lonely Sir Barty, taken in by the first pretty face to smile at him. What an idiot.”

She took a deep breath, tried to stall her tears. “That's exactly what Mr. Blackwell was counting on.”

“Blackwell? What does he have to do with this? Did you make love to him too?”

Her tears dried quickly. “Of course not. Mr. Blackwell is a despicable man. I know you consider him a friend, but you are mistaken in that friendship. He uses people for what he can get from them.”

“And you don't?”

That hit her like a slap in the face.

“Mr. Blackwell,” she said shakily, “tried to blackmail me with the information about Turner, promising to spread it far and wide, should I not . . . well, I suppose it doesn't matter now. But I won't live my life afraid of him. And if nothing else, I hope this clears up your perception of him. And that you never allow him anywhere near Margaret.”

“I'm much more likely to let Mr. Blackwell dance with my daughter now than I am John bloody Turner!” Sir Barty ground out. “Damn it all—he was courting her! You told me so!”

“Yes,” Leticia replied, suddenly quite tired. “He was, in a way. It became quite complicated very quickly.”

“I should imagine. Holding up lie after lie for you must have been very tiring. Good God, Leticia. You made friends with his mother! Does Helen know?”

“She didn't then, no,” Leticia answered honestly.

“But she does now,” Sir Barty concluded. “Wonderful. My fiancée has been playing me for a fool and even my oldest friend knew about it.”

“I never intended to play you for a fool,” she whispered. “But Mr. Blackwell will make certain that you are. That's the kind of ‘friend' he is.”

Sir Barty turned to her. “Perhaps Blackwell is doing me a favor. Forcing you to tell me the truth before I make a mistake.” He shook his head. “I thought this was a story buried in your past. A bit of shame, but understandable and weathered,” Sir Barty said, drawing up to his full height. With his size and the cane, he looked imperial, impenetrable.

Her judge, jury, and executioner.

“But to have it be a man we know? A man who you have spoken with publicly and privately, and God knows what else? A man you promoted to my daughter? You bring your shame into my house. And you don't even ask my forgiveness for it.”

“You're right,” she replied, her voice becoming cool, equally imperial. She was, after all, a countess. “I don't. I was doing what I must.”

Sir Barty turned an ugly shade of red, but before he could unleash any of the number of invectives he must have bubbling over, Jameson popped his head in the door.

His timing was far too impeccable. He had to have been listening on the other side.

“You called for me, sir?” Jameson asked, keeping his eyes on Sir Barty.

“Yes. Lady Churzy will be leaving. Immediately. I just . . . I can't have you here right now.” Something flitted across Sir Barty's face. Hurt. Confliction. “Er . . . do you need any money, m'd—my lady?”

Leticia shook her head. “No.” She still had her sapphire ring. Hocking that would take her to her sister's easily. And give her a little to eat off of for a few weeks, at least. “As you said, I'll find my way.”

And she would. As she followed Jameson out the door, she turned back to give Sir Barty one last look. He was pacing, pivoting on his bad foot and crumpling over in pain. But instead of standing tall or being sensible and sitting down, he grunted, and used his cane to strike his footstool, knocking it over in frustration. Sir Barty was lost to his own pain—both from his gout and from what she had caused him.

She would go upstairs and pack her meager belongings. She would go to York, and leave Lincolnshire to let the rumors about her disappearance swirl and the Lie begin to take root again. And once she had recuperated at her sister's for as long as she could stand to be around Fanny, she would fly as far as the wind would take her. New shores. A new life. No longer Letty Price, no longer Lady Churzy. She would start over, and become new once more.

Yes, she would find her way.

She just had one stop to make first.

WHEN MARGARET AND
Dr. Gray walked into Sir Barty's library an hour later, they were shocked to discover the footstool overturned. Not only that, but all the papers from the desk were all over the floor, and an overturned inkwell was staining the carpet. In the middle of it all was Sir Barty, a large plate of pork loaf sitting untouched before him.

“Father?” Margaret asked. “We just saw the carriage leaving. What has happened? You're not eating your haslet.”

“You shouldn't be eating haslet,” Dr. Gray added, but a look from Margaret had him amending. “That is . . . you seem to be upset.”

“Margaret, pet,” her father said on a sigh. “I've been played for a fool. Lady Churzy has . . . well, we won't be getting married tomorrow. She has been keeping secrets from me. From both of us.”

Margaret stood. Then she looked around the room. The mess. Her father's sorry state.

“Father . . . what did you do?”

Sir Barty blinked. “Did you not hear me, child? Leticia has been—”

“I heard you,” Margaret said, holding up a hand. “But secrets don't cause tornadoes. Anger does. So I'll ask again . . . What. Did. You. Do?”

Sir Barty blinked in the face of his daughter's vehemence. She stared him down until he threw his head into his hands.

“Oh hell. I think I botched everything.”

22

T
urner had just locked the door of the mill when someone knocked on it. Chances were it was his mother. And he did not want to talk, or not talk, with her at that moment.

His mother had been not-talking to him since the night of the ball.

Oh, she'd sat across the breakfast table from him. She'd brought the tea tray to his little office in the mill at exactly four o'clock, and sat next to him while he slurped tea and ate sandwiches, working on a bit of knitting while she did so, chatting about innocuous things all the while. Never once mentioning what she saw in Blackwell's private study. Although he could see it in every look she gave him, the words, the questions itching to leap off her tongue.

Instead, she brought him the news that the wheat from Mr. Jenkins's farm was ready to be culled, and since it's a little early, he can't get it into Blackwell's mill immediately. Therefore, he's bringing it to theirs.

Their first work for the season. For the new mill. Come Monday morning, Jenkins's wheat would be delivered and the sails of the windmill would be spinning.

They just had to get through Sunday first.

And that was the reason John Turner really would rather not have a nonconversation with his mother at that moment. Because it was the evening before the woman he loved was going to marry another man, and he had rather hoped he'd be allowed to be miserable on his own. He'd have gotten drunk if he thought it would help, but he knew it wouldn't.

Besides, he resided in a seven-story windmill, with moving parts weighing tonnes. Being unreasonably inebriated while in the building could only cause trouble.

She'd said good-bye to him, and he to her. It was like mourning a death.

He couldn't even tolerate seeing Rhys. His friend had stopped by while escorting Margaret into Helmsley. While she was speaking with Mrs. Robertson at the millinery about the best flower to match to a lace wedding dress, he made his excuses and came by for a few minutes.