The Lie and the Lady (44 page)

“It was the day the mill burned,” Leticia said quietly. When all eyes turned to her, she shrugged. “Mrs. Emory told us herself.”

“Yes, Mrs. Emory,” Turner said. “Then suddenly, your son joined the navy—even though the war had by then ended, and the navy has been putting ships in ordinary and discharging qualified sailors left and right since then. Come to think of it, how did your boy purchase a commission?”

“I . . . I . . .” Mrs. Emory's mouth dropped open in her frustration. “This is all rubbish! Give me that!”

She reached for the ledger page in Turner's hand and he quickly pulled it out of her reach.

“Louisa, stop that!” Blackwell snapped.

“Oh, Louisa, is it?” Turner asked blandly.

The crowd
ooh
ed. There was no other way to describe it. “You don't even let me call you Louisa,” Mrs. Robertson said, sounding a little hurt. “And I've known you since we were girls.”

“Oh, be quiet, Moira!” Mrs. Emory was practically crying in frustration. “Nothing he's saying is true. Nothing, not one bit.”

“You know, I had that cousin who said he'd seen Mr. Harold Emory in York a few months ago,” Mr. Jenkins of the cabbage farm (and the keen-eyed cousin) remarked, “and you said it couldn't have been because he was in Majorca.”

“And he was! Is! He is most certainly not living in York. I . . . I write him all the time. He sends me money, that's how I bought the house on the square. Not because of Blackwell. And, how could I possibly have my locket?” She produced the locket from around her neck, prying it open and showing the tiny portrait of her son in his navy uniform.

“But,” Margaret piped up this time, fingering her chin in thought. “A portrait isn't commissioning papers. It's not proof of his joining the navy. It's only proof he sat for a portrait while wearing a uniform.”

“Oh, for God's sake!” Mrs. Emory cried. “This is all ridiculous. And none of it is true—Blackwell, tell them!”

“Yes, Blackwell, tell us,” Sir Barty said, his thick brow one continuous line of disapproval. “And I'll take this moment to remind you that I am the magistrate in this county. So I would like to know if this is true.”

“I'll be happy to show you the paper, Sir Barty,” Turner said.

“No!” Mrs. Emory cried.

“Louisa—I mean Mrs. Emory, for the last time, stop! That paper says nothing of the sort.” Blackwell rounded on Turner, his back most definitely up. He'd sat there and taken everything Turner had to say, and now it was his turn to attack. “Mr. Turner, I think you are trying desperately to confuse Helmsley, and confuse Sir Barty especially. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that your former lover is to be married to him today?”

A cold trickle of dread spread down Leticia's spine. This entire time, Turner had been playing with fire, because Blackwell would retaliate, and he would retaliate against her.

“John . . .” she pleaded quietly.

“Oh, John, is it?” Blackwell sneered.

“You leave her out of this,” Turner said, his brow coming down. “She has nothing to do with your crimes.”

“I think she does. Because I think you concocted this entire story to hide her crimes,” he replied.

“Gentlemen, this is really getting out of hand,” the vicar interrupted mildly. “Perhaps we should go into the church—”

“Not on your life!” Mrs. Spilsby said, effectively shutting up her husband.

“Tell me, Lady Churzy, where did you sleep last night?”

Blackwell's gaze bored into her. She suddenly felt that cold dread slide back up her spine, panic rising in her chest. But she would be damned if she'd let him see that.

“That's none of your business.”

“But it's Sir Barty's business. After all, he's to marry you.” Blackwell was performing for the crowd now, his expression filled with sorrow, his voice filled with pity. “Considering the abject apology he was making just minutes ago, and the trunk with your possessions that I came across at the entrance to town, I would wager that you did not sleep at Bluestone Manor, did you?”

Before she could so much as blink, Turner was between them, his teeth bared and growling in Blackwell's face.

“Get away from her.”

“You are simply confirming my theory, Mr. Turner.” Blackwell smiled.

“No,” Leticia said. The word just popped out of her mouth. But she was tired. Tired of this farce, and tired of lying. “I didn't.”

“You were with Mr. Turner, weren't you?” Blackwell said.

The world held its collective breath, waiting for the answer. Blackwell, Sir Barty, Turner. Everyone had his or her eyes on her.

She opened her mouth. Tried to speak. Closed it again. If she told them, told the world she was with John, then her future was irrevocably set. She would be a stain on his character. A scandal in Helmsley. A terrible embarrassment to Sir Barty—and it could even reflect poorly on Margaret, her having been under the influence of an interloper. She would be forever tainted.

But maybe, just maybe . . . she would be happy.

“Of course she was!”

Every head snapped around to find Helen, standing next to Sir Barty, hands on her hips, exasperated.

“Helen,” Leticia began, her throat suddenly dry. Heavens, was the air becoming thick in here—er, out here? “That's very good of you, but—”

“Where else was the girl supposed to go after a lover's quarrel?” Helen spoke over her. “I invited her to stay with me. It was so late when she arrived I told her to leave the trunk on the side of the road and my John would pick it up in the morning. Secretly I was hoping that he would be asked to carry it in the opposite direction, back to Bluestone. She stayed in our guest room. Absolutely nothing untoward about it.”

“Are you going to let your mother cover up your actions?” Blackwell sneered at Turner.

“That depends, are you going to let Mrs. Emory cover up yours?”

Blackwell hesitated, glancing at the woman in question. Mrs. Emory was working her way through a rainbow of hues on her cheeks, now a firestorm of red.

“Yes, Mrs. Emory.” Helen rounded on her rival. “How could you stand by Mr. Blackwell? What kind of pain and suffering have you caused? What kind of terrible person would do such a thing?”

That, it seemed, was the last straw for poor Louisa Emory. Because when she spoke, her voice was a good octave higher than it had been, squeaking in hysterics.

“I . . . I didn't. Mrs. Turner. Moira, you have to believe me. I would never . . . it's just that . . . Harold was always in trouble, and . . . and he offered so much money!”

And then the melee broke out. Everyone erupted in either horror, glee, or horrified glee. Electric energy coursed across the churchyard, charging action into all the principal players.

Blackwell took two steps and slapped Mrs. Emory hard across the face, the crack echoing through the morning air. “You utter bitch, I knew I couldn't trust you!”

Helen gasped, as did Mrs. Robertson, Mrs. Spilsby, and Miss Goodhue.

Turner leapt into the fray, throwing himself in front of Blackwell's fist. His own flew into Blackwell's shoulder, and Blackwell lunged at him.

“Mr. Blackwell! Mr. Turner!” The vicar fairly wailed. “Please, you are in a churchyard!”

“Hit him lower, Mr. Turner!” Margaret said. “I'm told the genitals are particularly painful on a man. Is that right, Dr. Gray?”

“Quite painful,” Dr. Gray agreed.

“Blackwell, you are under arrest!” Sir Barty huffed, making the assumption that as magistrate he could arrest people, and leapt forward. He also assumed that his imposing presence would be enough to separate the two brawling men. And it might have been, had he been able to do more than limp to their side with his cane.

“Dr. Gray, Mr. Jenkins, come help me!”

Dr. Gray was already trying to insert himself between the pair (Mr. Turner now had scuffs on his face and Mr. Blackwell was being held by his collar) and Mr. Jenkins inserted himself, managing to pin one of Blackwell's arms.

Meanwhile, all the ladies were gathered around a wailing Mrs. Emory, some supporting and some admonishing. All except Helen.

“Are you all right, my dear?” she'd said, flying to Leticia's side.

But Leticia couldn't answer. Her breath was coming in strange bursts, her vision turning cloudy at the edges. But what focus she did have was on the two men before her, trying to rip each other's throats out.

“How dare you!” Turner managed as his fist flew and struck Blackwell in the shoulder. “You strike a woman, when this is all your doing! You're the one with hell to pay!”

“You had everything handed to you!” Blackwell was raving, spitting mad. “Everything! You inherited your business. I built mine up from nothing! Now you think you can wave around a goddamned ledger page and go home and fuck your countess? You don't get to win!”

Leticia's eyes fell to where the ledger page had landed in the dirt at her feet. But when she looked up, it was to discover that the ledger page was only of interest to herself.

No, everyone else was looking at her.

Even Turner and Blackwell had paused in their fight, finally (mostly) restrained by Dr. Gray and Mr. Jenkins. Sir Barty's eyes were wide enough to see their color beyond his bushy brows, and everyone else just stood there, mouths open in shock.

And then it became clear why.

Because of what Blackwell had just very crudely said.

And everyone was waiting for her to either confirm or deny it.

Therefore, Leticia did the only thing she could think of in that moment.

The one thing she had promised herself she would never do.

She fainted.

24

W
hen Leticia came to, she was in a familiar room, with a familiar voice bursting into her thoughts.

“Good, you're awake!” Margaret said. “Dr. Gray said you would be soon enough.”

“What . . . what happened?” Leticia said, blinking up at the ceiling. She recognized it. It was the one in the little sitting room she had taken as her own in Bluestone. How had she gotten from the churchyard to Bluestone Manor?

“You fainted,” Margaret said practically, wringing out a cloth from a nearby basin, and slapping it on Leticia's forehead. “Now I know why you said one should never faint if they can help it. You collapsed like a felled tree. Just went down in a giant whoosh!”

Margaret raised her forearm and let it fall, landing with a solid thud against the pillows of the sofa.

“Wonderful. I suppose at least I've given Helmsley something to talk about other than a churchyard brawl.”

“Oh no. It's all anyone is talking about,” Margaret replied, wide-eyed. “Well, that and your having a past with Mr. Turner. Which I think you should have told us about, don't you? It would have certainly explained some things.”

Brilliant. If the molded ceiling fell on her now, she would welcome it.

“It's really not as bad as you think,” came the voice of Helen Turner from the doorway. Then she turned a pointed gaze on Margaret. “Right, Miss Babcock?”

But Margaret just cocked her head to one side. “It would depend on how bad she thinks it is.”

“Am . . . am I permitted to sit up?”

“Careful now. Dr. Gray said you did not hit your head, so you should be fine with some air and water,” Helen was saying as she crossed the room to assist Margaret in pulling Leticia to a seated position. “But I shouldn't wonder that you felt a little poorly. I can't imagine that with all the excitement that you'd had anything to eat since yesterday. Everyone will understand.”

“Everyone thinks you fainted because Mr. Blackwell said—”

“Margaret!” Helen said as kindly but firmly as possible. “Perhaps you can pour Leticia some tea?”

Margaret's jaw shut firmly and she went over to the little tray that had materialized in a corner of the room.

“Where is Dr. Gray?” she asked.

“He had some business to attend to,” Helen said, wrapping a shawl around Leticia's shoulders.

“He had to go speak as witness to the constable for Mr. Turner, and get him released from his charges,” Margaret added, handing Leticia her tea.

Tea that Leticia promptly almost spilled. “His what?”

“Oh, Father was livid after you collapsed in a heap—did you know that your skirt flew up over your knees?” Margaret said. “Anyway—once Mr. Blackwell and Mr. Turner were separated, he had Mr. Jenkins run for the constable, and when the constable arrived, he just arrested everyone. Blackwell, Turner, Mrs. Emory—I believe he dispatched a few men to go look for Mrs. Emory's son in York too. Everyone was brought to the cellar of the church—since we haven't a gaol in Helmsley—and the constable was left to parse it out there. Dr. Gray told Father, Mrs. Turner, and me to bring you back here. So we did.” Margaret took a sip of her tea. “Heavens, this is good tea—I wonder if they grew it with lavender in the soil?”