The Lie and the Lady (5 page)

She'd give her a few more minutes. Let her make everything perfect.

It had better be worth it, because she could feel the sting beginning in her nose, the thickness in her ears. One of the many reasons Leticia preferred the city was that flowers made her sneeze.

And the east garden was stuffed full of them.

It would be one thing if they were delicate, ladylike sneezes. But her sensitivity to flowers usually left her sneezing raw and angry, generally accompanied by a red swollen nose and eyes so puffed it could become difficult to see.

Perhaps the west garden would be better, she thought, hoping for nonflowering shrubbery, as she moved briskly to the other side of the house.

She wondered where Margaret might be hiding. In all honesty, she was anxious for them to be introduced—it might be a little startling to the poor girl to meet over supper. (And if Leticia had any curiosity about a young girl dining with the adults, it was immediately squashed—obviously, if it was only Sir Barty and Margaret here, they must be accustomed to dining
en famille.
It spoke a great deal about Sir Barty's affection for his daughter and his enthusiasm for adding Leticia to the family.)

She looked around her, but there was no sign of a little girl anywhere. Although there were signs of an incredibly skilled gardener. The hedges were trimmed into perfect cones or rounds, and all lined with violets. The orchard she spied in the distance seemed to be in full fruit. They must have a whole team of experienced men to deal with the variety of plants and flowers she saw in just that one corner of the grounds.

That seemed to be an expense Sir Barty was willing to bear, and Leticia was glad of it.

Oh, not the gardens themselves (her eyes watered just looking at them), but that he was willing to spend the money in the first place—no doubt as an indulgence to his daughter, as she loved to play in them. It made her hopeful he would be willing to splurge on other indulgences.

Suddenly, Leticia spied a greenhouse tucked back against the trees, about thirty yards from the side of Bluestone Manor.

What better place for a little girl to hide? She made her way down a sweetly curving path lined with rosebushes (trying not to breathe in as she passed) to the greenhouse door.

“Hello?” she called out, ducking her head inside. And was greeted with a whole new world.

“Oh my . . .” There was really nothing else to say. It was warm in the greenhouse—that was to be expected. But the air was heavy with damp, misting with it, like after a warm summer rain. Long trailing vines crawled all the way up to the ceiling, reaching for more and more sunshine, greedy little things. One cabinet was lined with vials of tincture in varying shades of amber and brown. An unintelligible set of numbers and letters were written on the vials in wax pencil.

There were rows upon exact rows of pots with dirt in them, each also numbered and lettered. Some had sprouts of green coming up, some did not.

Well of course, some did not—those pots that were barren were in the back row, far away from the light.

“Everyone needs a little light to grow,” she hummed to herself as she picked up one of the back-row plants and moved it to the front. Even she, with her aversion to any plant, knew that.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

Leticia whipped around so fast she nearly dropped the pot she was holding.

There, in the greenhouse doorway, stood an Amazon. A mess of blond hair escaped the braid that ran down her back, the felt hat she wore flopping to the side, the brim bent back. She was wearing a loosely fitted gown on a wiry frame—one that Leticia could tell was wiry because she had the skirt tied up and between her legs, exposing her limbs to the knee. And everything, from the top of her hat to the toes of her work boots, was covered in dirt.

Leticia didn't know what was more shocking—the woman's outfit, or the look of utter murder on her face.

“I said what the hell are you doing?” the woman said again, her eyes falling to the pot in Leticia's hands. “Did you move that?”

“I . . . it wanted light.”

“That's the control group! It's not supposed to have light!” She stalked forward and wrenched the pot from Leticia's hands. Goodness, the woman was as tall as most men. “You idiot,” she mumbled under her breath.

“What did you just say?” Leticia gasped.

“I said, ‘you idiot,' ” the woman repeated coldly and clearly as she meticulously positioned the pot back in its old space.

Leticia's eyes narrowed. She drew her head up, forced her shoulders down. She may not be as tall as this person, but she could damn well make her presence felt. “I don't know what your position is in this house but it has just been seriously compromised,” she said in her coolest, calmest countess voice.

“My position?” The woman's head came up as she eyed Leticia. For the first time, Leticia could see that she was younger than she'd initially thought, with a clear blue gaze that bored into her foe. “My position is daughter of the house. And I'll thank you to get out of my greenhouse!”

Leticia felt all the blood drain from her face. “Daughter?” she said, her countess voice faltering. “You're Margaret Babcock?”

Not a little girl. Not by half. No, Margaret Babcock was fully grown, and it seemed, spitting mad.

“Yes,” Margaret grumbled, taking a little notebook and pencil out of her pocket. “And you're still in my greenhouse.”

“I . . . I believe we've gotten off on the wrong foot. My name is Leticia—Lady Churzy, and I—”

“I do not care,” Margaret cut her off as she began measuring the green shoots in the row of pots against a stick, and then writing down her observations. “This is the third time I'm asking you to leave. On the fourth I'm calling for a footman.”

Oh, that's how it was to be, was it? There was no room for apology, no graciousness. And nothing even resembling ladylike manners. Well, Leticia had just had cold water thrown on her—it seemed that there was nothing to be done but throw some back.

“I'll leave you,” she said, as she moved toward the door. Margaret did not give so much as a grunt as she passed. “But you should care—because my name is Lady Churzy, and I'm to be your stepmother.”

She did not pause to see if there was any reaction. She simply opened the door and swept out, knowing full well that she had been heard. “I'll see you at supper.”

4

S
upper that evening went about as well as could be expected.

Which was to say, not well at all.

In fact, as she went to bed that evening (her room still somewhat musty, having only had a few hours to air out), Leticia was kept fitfully awake by the realization that as difficult as it had been to find Sir Barty and get him to propose marriage, the hard work had really just begun.

After she marched away from the greenhouse, she went immediately to the drawing room, surprising Mrs. Dillon, who was shaking the cover off of a pianoforte in the corner.

“Oh, my lady! You gave me a start!” she said when the terrace doors shut. “Had we known to expect you, we should have had the piano tuned! Although I do not know if you play . . .”

Had we known. Those three little words caused a tiny stab of guilt to blossom in Leticia's stomach. That dreaded female guilt, taking on the weight of a man's transgressions. No matter how often Leticia tried to kill it dead, it rose from the grave, making her want to say, “I'm sorry,” at every turn.

It made her feel small.

It made her feel like an interloper.

Leticia squashed those feelings down and pulled herself up by an invisible string attached to the top of her head. There. She was no longer small. She pushed her shoulders down and elongated her neck in one fluid movement, settling a calm smile across her features. She was grace and beauty incarnate once again.

“I play, but only adequately,” Leticia replied. “Pray, do not make a fuss if I'm the only female who can read music.” Then, deciding against making bland conversation, she said, “I've just come from the west gardens.”

Mrs. Dillon froze. “The west gardens, my lady?”

“Indeed. And the greenhouse.”

“You went in the greenhouse, then?” She closed her eyes against the light.

“I did. And I met Margaret.”

Mrs. Dillon sighed. “I imagine that she was quite surprised by you, my lady.”

“I imagine she was,” Leticia said, lowering herself to a rose-colored settee. “However, I did not stay very long to find out. To be honest, I was quite surprised by her. I was expecting a little girl.”

“I am so sorry, my lady—”

“It is not your fault, Mrs. Dillon,” Leticia said. It was Sir Barty's fault. “Tell me, how old is Miss Margaret?”

“She's nineteen,” Mrs. Dillon said. Then with a sigh, she seated herself in a straight-backed chair. “And she is sweet once you get to know her, I promise, my lady.”

The dirt-covered termagant who twice called her an idiot could be sweet? Leticia did her damnedest to cover her snort of disbelief.

But . . . she was here now. And Margaret was someone with whom she was going to have a relationship for the rest of her life, presumably. Best to give the girl the benefit of the doubt.

“I'm sure you are right,” she said, smiling kindly to Mrs. Dillon and watching as that woman relaxed ever so slightly. “Now, where would you like to begin? You mentioned the menus?”

“Oh yes!” Mrs. Dillon cried as she reached for the tea service and offered to pour. Leticia graciously allowed her. “When Cook heard the news, she practically wept with joy! It's been ever so long since she's had any direction, and cooking four out of every five meals with pork was about to drive her mad. Although it is Sir Barty's favorite, you know.”

“Do you mean there's been no direction at all since the late Lady Babcock's death? Not from Margaret?”

Mrs. Dillon shook her head. “Miss Margaret hasn't had an easy time of it since her mother passed,” she said. “She has tried, truly. But she only really has a head for her plants and flowers. Her mother, God rest her soul, tried to give her a lady's knowledge, and Miss Margaret tried to learn it, but . . . once Lady Babcock passed, I suppose she gave up trying.”

“I take it Miss Babcock and her mother were close,” Leticia surmised.

“Oh yes, my lady. They seemed to speak a language only they knew.” The housekeeper began to fidget with her apron again, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle. Then Mrs. Dillon clammed up again, her face turning a red Leticia would guess was rather uncommon for the housekeeper.

“Mrs. Dillon—do not fret about speaking of your late mistress,” Leticia said, trying to set the housekeeper at ease. “Sir Barty told me all about her. He loved her very much. They were very good together.”

“They were a very happy little family,” Mrs. Dillon said, letting her eyes drift to the window—where, some ways down the field the greenhouse was framed against the rolling lawn. “But now that you are here, hopefully we will find a way back to that happiness again.”

For the first time since emerging from the greenhouse, Leticia felt for Miss Babcock. It was very hard to lose a mother—and at an age when one is meant to embark upon the world, perhaps needing their guidance most . . . no wonder the girl retreated into her greenhouse.

No wonder Sir Barty did not write! He would want to delay the shock of a new bride as long as possible. It was a fumble on his part, but an understandable one.

A warm spot of pity began to soften her heart toward the girl. Perhaps . . . yes, perhaps she could see the bright side in a young lady of nineteen instead of a little girl. A girl of nineteen, looking for guidance through adulthood's murky waters, whose interests in horticulture could not prepare her for the world the way a friend like Leticia could.

Yes, she could work with nineteen.

Unfortunately, that warm spot of pity did not last through supper.

After tea, Mrs. Dillon walked her through the house, showing her the living rooms, the breakfast room, the dining room, the little glass-enclosed terrace room that “was ever so pleasant in summer”—all to buy as much time as possible while maids scrambled to get Leticia's bedchamber ready.

Once the curtains were beaten out and the linens refreshed, Leticia was escorted to a lovely room, done up in heavy green silks. A number of pressed flowers hung in frames on the wall, all lined perfectly, all with their Latin names written underneath in an elegant hand.

Finally, flowers she could enjoy without sneezing.

But there was no time to dawdle. She washed and dressed quickly and made her way downstairs, to wait for supper.

Sir Barty joined her presently. Mrs. Dillon popped her head in to make sure they were comfortable and that Leticia was pleased with her rooms. Jameson came in, asking if they would like a glass of wine or port before the meal. And the clock on the mantel ticked away time.