The Lie and the Lady (7 page)

Her punctuality was observed with surprise from Margaret—who came down precisely on time, wearing the same simple frock from the night before, with a neat blue spencer over it, and a practical, unadorned bonnet—and with delight from Sir Barty.

“I knew I had chosen a good woman, but one that won't keep me waiting for hours on end before we go out? You, m'dear, are priceless.” He placed a chaste peck on Leticia's cheek as he led them out to the carriage, and she was satisfied to see the shock of it on Margaret's face. But they were both widowed after all, not naive virgins blushing at the idea of holding hands. Best the girl got used to the idea.

On the drive into town, Sir Barty peppered the carriage with facts about the people they would meet at the church—people, it seemed, he had known his entire life and knew every little detail of.

“And that building there is owned by Mr. Fisher—who is not a fisherman, as you might have thought, but rather an attorney. He tried to be a puffed-up Londoner for a bit, but came back here when his father died and he inherited the building that now houses his solicitor practice. Mrs. Emory is his neighbor next door. And there's Helen Braithwaite”—Sir Barty pointed to a woman out the carriage window, but they turned a corner so quickly she missed seeing more than an older woman walking along with a man—“although she's not called Braithwaite now, but I've never been one to use her married name. Seems strange to do so when you can remember playing sticks and hoops with someone, eh? Anyway, she and her son run the grain mill—you remember, the windmill with the fresh coat of paint that we saw as we came into town yesterday? Well, they will run it, provided they get it working again . . .”

Leticia sprinkled her own
hmms
and
oh yes, darlings
into the conversation, watching as Sir Barty got more and more enthusiastic and verbose. The pride he felt in his town—and in his fiancée—was palpable.

Margaret, of course, said nothing.

When they arrived in the churchyard, it was to a large crowd of people standing in small clusters, conversing politely. Ordinarily, such pleasantries would be exchanged after the sermon, once everyone's sins were absolved for the week and they could begin anew. But ever since Sir Barty's carriage drove through town yesterday—and ever since the servants of Bluestone Manor no doubt rushed into Helmsley with the news . . .

Leticia assumed that church this morning was suspiciously well attended.

They disembarked, Sir Barty handing both ladies down. Then, pride puffing out his chest and making him walk just a bit easier, he introduced Leticia to the town of Helmsley.

Men came up to greet them, pushed forward by their wives. As the gentlemen exchanged pleasantries with Sir Barty, the wives moved into position.

“Hello.”

“Good morning.”

“So pleased—”

“Charmed, my lady—”

“Where did you meet?”

Oohs and ahhs followed.

“Paris, you say? That's so . . . cosmopolitan! You must be so worldly!”

“Worldly enough to know that Helmsley is absolutely lovely—”

Titters of appreciation broke forth from the ladies.

“We are far too humble here for—”

“But beautiful, Mrs. . . . I'm sorry, what was your name again?”

“Emory,” she said with a tight smile. “We are happy to welcome you to Helmlsey, my lady. And if you should ever need anything, anything at all, we have some fine craftsmen here—a market town and all.” Eyebrows were raised, and hints dropped. “Milliners too—”

“Oh, but Lady Churzy is going to London for her fashions.”

This last from Margaret. Leticia froze in place.

“She told me so last night. London is the only place to purchase anything worth wearing.”

Every smile shut down as the ladies of Helmsley turned accusing glares on Leticia. Except for Margaret, whose small, fixed smile spoke volumes.

“For a wedding,” Leticia added hastily. “I only said it in context of—”

But the ladies had begun whispering among themselves, with Mrs. Emory's voice carrying, and her stiff manners being copied by the others. “Too fine. I told you, Moira . . .”

For the second time since her arrival, Leticia felt herself scrambling. How had she had fallen into disfavor with the women of Helmsley in less than a sentence? And of course ladies go to London for their fashions! Why was this such a terrible thing to say?

But it was a terrible thing to say, and Margaret, for all her focus on her plants, knew it as such.

“We are very proud of what we make here. Do not sell the country short so soon after your arrival, my lady,” said Mrs. Emory, her smile turning from tight to ingratiating. She was an imperious type, and everyone cowed around her. The queen bee of Helmsley. And Leticia got the feeling that no matter what she said, or whom she purchased her dresses from, she would have ended up transgressing this woman.

Well, it was a stumble. But at least it showed her who she was going to have to overcome, if not why.

It also showed her Margaret's cards. And she would need to address that first.

“I'm sure you are right,” Leticia said, soothing. Then, “Margaret, may I have a word with you for a moment?”

Leticia and Margaret made their curtsies and moved off, finding their way to the shade of an oak tree. Leticia tried to ignore the not-so-quiet whispers of the ladies at their backs.

But she was Leticia Herzog, Countess of Churzy. There was no way an awkward country girl like Margaret was going to undermine her.

But the situation would require some finesse.

“Oh dear,” Margaret said, unable to keep the snit out of her voice. “Did I say something amiss? Am I to be scolded now?”

“Heavens no,” Leticia replied, her expression all innocence. “I wouldn't dare scold you. I am not your parent.”

“No you are not,” Margaret harrumphed.

“No I am not,” she agreed. “Nor do I have any desire to be.”

That got Margaret to look at her.

“I have no desire to replace your mother in your heart—if I did, I have no doubt I'd do a very poor job of it.” Leticia gave her best exasperated smile. “I don't have the memories that she would have and you have of her—I haven't the knowledge or patience, and . . . can I tell you a secret?”

Margaret nodded slowly.

“I haven't a clue how to garden. In fact, most flowers make me sneeze.”

The corner of Margaret's mouth ticked up for the barest second before she squashed it down.

“I have no doubt I would make a horrible mother for you, not the least because you already have one,” Leticia concluded. “But I think I would be a very good friend.”

“You intend to be my friend?” Margaret asked, unable to hide her skepticism.

“If you would let me. We are going to be a part of each other's lives from now on, so it would be best for us to start out on the right foot. And disliking each other would be the decidedly wrong one.”

“I don't dislike you,” Margaret grumbled. “I don't know you well enough to dislike you.”

There was something in the way Margaret glanced at the ground. Something quiet in the way she spoke.
I don't know you.
Something that made her seem very much alone.

Then Margaret straightened her shoulders and let her gaze fall to the bark of the tree they stood under. Idly, she picked at some moss on its side. “Although I am unsure I can like someone who sneezes at flowers.”

“I like flowers very much,” Leticia replied. “At a distance.”

“Does that mean you won't invade my greenhouse again?” Margaret asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Not unless I'm invited.”

“You won't be,” Margaret said in a rush. Then her cheeks pinked. “I mean, no one goes in my greenhouse. It's my . . . it's my space.”

“Understood.” Leticia held up her hands. “However, from what I saw you are incredibly talented. Your greenhouse could put some of those in London to shame.”

Margaret pinked even further.

“You know that last night I mentioned the idea of London because I thought it might be fun,” Leticia said. “For you.”

“How would it be fun for me?” Margaret asked, her brows coming down.

“Margaret, a young lady should experience London!” Leticia laughed. “It's terribly exciting. The latest fashions and on-dits and the theater! Balls and parties—men to flirt and dance with! Who knows, you might even meet a man who catches your attention . . .”

She said this last bit gently. True, in the eighteen hours that she had known Margaret, she hadn't mentioned the opposite sex once. But there wasn't a nineteen-year-old in the world who didn't at least ponder the subject.

And instantly, Leticia knew she had struck gold. Because while Margaret had been blushing at the praise Leticia had ladled upon her, she turned positively scarlet at the mention of men.

“Unless of course . . . your attention has already been captured,” Leticia said, a smile taking over her features. And she was rewarded by watching Margaret turn a deeper red still. “Oh, it has . . .” she said in a whisper, conspiring.

Margaret hunched over so far she looked as if she was trying to hide inside herself. “My attention hasn't been captured. I . . . I just have no desire to go to London, that's all.”

“Now, Margaret, don't be silly,” Leticia replied. “Every girl wishes to go to London. And it's perfectly all right to have a beau. Or beaux! In fact, it's expected.”

“He's not my beau.”

“So there is someone.” Leticia grinned, and Margaret covered her face with her hands, realizing her misstep. “Now, this is something for which you might find a friend useful. Someone you can talk to about him. And who can help arrange circumstances where you might meet, and flirt . . . or dance.”

Margaret seemed to consider that. So Leticia decided to go for the ultimate confidence.

“Now, who is he? Have we been introduced?”

Margaret's head shot up. “I'm not telling you that!”

“Well I should like to know who it is so I don't make a cake of everything with him accidentally. Forewarned is forearmed, after all.”

“Oh God . . .” Margaret buried her face in her hands again. But Leticia had the small suspicion that the girl was laughing.

“Appropriate for a churchyard, but not necessarily in this context,” Leticia concluded. “All right, you don't have to tell me who he is. Instead, I will guess. I assume he's a local gentleman, given your reluctance to travel, and therefore is quite likely to be here now. Could it be Mr. Fisher? No, too old for you, I should think. And attorneys have no appreciation for growing things. The vicar is married . . . there's a young man over there by the gate, he's quite tall and looks handsome . . .”

At that Margaret turned a red so deep it was a wonder her skin remained—her insides practically being worn on her outsides.

“That's him, isn't it?” Leticia felt triumphant. “That's . . .”

And suddenly, Leticia felt all the blood drain from her face.

It was as if the ground gave way beneath her feet and left her grasping for purchase. Because approaching from the entrance to the churchyard, walking with the older woman they had passed on the road before (Helen, was it?), was the one man who could undo her tenuous grasp on the life she was so close to having here.

And what's more, he saw her too.

His name is Mr. John Turner,” Margaret said in a small voice, her cheeks remaining scarlet. “He owns the windmill.”

5

J
ohn Turner was not someone who could be easily surprised. After all, he'd spent time on the battlefield, where one was always on edge, waiting for the next surprise in the form of cannon fire. Then he'd spent several years as the secretary to his friend the Earl of Ashby—and what Ned got up to when he was bored was enough to keep a clairvoyant guessing.

Finally, John Turner had faced the accidental burning of his family business—not once, but twice. So, suffice to say, while John Turner might have had the worst luck known to man, he had the benefit of never, ever being surprised by anything.

Until now.

Because for some reason, Leticia, Lady Churzy—his Letty—was standing under the great oak tree in St. Stephen's churchyard.

What is she doing here?

“What is that, John?” He hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud.

He turned to look down at his mother, asker of the question. Helen Braithwaite Turner blinked twice at him, expecting an answer.

“I . . . I did not expect to see Miss Babcock at church this morning. That's all.”

His mother was not one to suffer lying, or indeed, foolishness of any kind. So if someone was going to call him on the oddity of his statement, it would be she. But she instead latched on to a different part of his sentence.

“Taking notice of Miss Babcock, are we?” Helen replied. “Good.”