The Lie and the Lady (16 page)

“Careful! There are several breakable glass tubes and bottles in there!”

The driver simply shrugged and climbed back onto the carriage. “Oi! Nearest place my horses and me can get a drink?”

“No, don't go yet, if you plea—”

“The Drum inn and post house, about a quarter mile back down the road,” Turner replied, and stepped over to the driver, fishing a coin out of his pocket and flipping it up to the man.

The driver tipped his hat and flicked the reins, taking the poor horses toward the Drum at a blessedly slower pace than that at which they'd arrived.

When he turned back, it was to face a now-sputtering Rhys.

“You're fine.”

“Physically at least,” he joked. “I did not expect you to come so quickly.”

“I'm afraid I'm not in a position to help with any mental problems you may have,” Rhys bit out. “And what the hell else was I supposed to do? You wrote me a letter saying you were gravely ill!”

“I did not,” Turner replied. Then he conceded, “Perhaps I implied it, but—”

“I thought you were dying!” he yelled.

“How else was I supposed to tear you away from your laboratory?”

“John—I wrote to Ned. And when he gets that letter he'll be on the first packet back from France.”

Turner's eyebrow rose. Ned was touring the Continent with his wife, Phoebe. Phoebe wanted to see some of the world before any little Earls of Ashby were conceived and inconvenienced the ability to travel, and Ned was utterly smitten by his bride and happy to indulge her.

It's a wonder Leticia hadn't run into them in Paris. Perhaps their paths crossed in the English Channel. But no matter—the Earl of Ashby showing up in Helmsley was the last thing he needed.

“I'll write him immediately, send it express. If we're lucky it will arrive before your letter does.”

Rhys scoffed, but added nothing. Then he looked about the yard, as if realizing for the first time that the carriage was long gone, and he was stuck here.

“You said you needed my help. My medical expertise.”

“And I do. Just not for me,” Turner said as he picked up Rhys's trunk. “What's in here?”

“Equipment. To hopefully diagnose and treat an undefined illness I thought my best friend had contracted,” Rhys replied.

“It's heavy . . . oof!” Turner adjusted his weight to one foot and the trunk bobbled, sending a visible shock of panic through Rhys.

“Please be careful! Everything is custom-made to my specifications. I'll never get replacements out here!”

“Well, then, perhaps you should help me before I fall over,” Turner grunted. Rhys came over and took one end of the trunk, and together they carried it across the bustling mill yard. “Come on,” Turner said as soon as he was able to catch his breath. “I'll explain everything at the house.”

They headed past the granary and toward the Turner home—a two-story brick structure with a slate roof in the far corner of the mill yard. The home he'd been raised in had thankfully survived two fires (the fact that it survived said fires was the reason that Turner insisted that the windmill be rebuilt with brick this time around). However, Rhys was not content to wait for explanations.

“Is someone dying, at least?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Oh,” Rhys sighed, disappointed. “Then what do you need my expertise for?”

“A case of gout.”

“Gout?” He glanced down at Turner's legs, his confident strength carrying his side of the trunk. “You don't have gout.”

“No, but Sir Bartholomew Babcock does. And he needs your help with it.”

Rhys's eyes narrowed. “Sir Bartholomew Babcock.”

“Everyone calls him Sir Barty.”

“Uh-huh,” Rhys replied. “And Sir Barty is . . . related to royalty? A man of great importance? A man whose gout is interfering with his ability to run small nations?”

Turner barked out a laugh. “No. Local gentry.”

“I've attended the queen, you know.”

“I do know. And we are all impressed.”

His shoulders slumped—either in resignation or from the weight of the trunk, Turner couldn't tell. “Is it at least an interesting case of gout?”

“I have no idea what an interesting case of gout would look like.”

“Neither do I, and I've seen hundreds.”

They reached the door of the house and were about to struggle their way through, but before they could, Turner's mother emerged, pulling on her gloves.

“What on earth are you carrying into my house?” Helen said, before looking up to see Rhys at the other end of the trunk. “Dr. Gray! What a joy to see you!”

“Lovely to see you as well, Mrs. Turner,” Rhys replied, shifting the trunk so he could tip his hat. “Although why do I think it's not much of a surprise?”

“Because you always were the smartest of the lot,” Helen said, reaching forward to pinch his cheek like a schoolboy. “Are you staying with us, then?”

“For tonight, yes,” Turner answered for him. “But with any luck, he'll be staying at Bluestone Manor after that.”

His mother's eyebrow went up, but she said nothing. “Well, then tell the girl to fix up the best guest room for him—the one that faces north. I'll be back before tea. I'm meeting Leticia in town. I never would have thought a countess would have this much trouble winning over the women of Helmsley, but they are a stubborn lot.”

Before Turner could once again warn his mother against trying to be friends with Leticia, Helen maneuvered past them with a little wave, then pulled her bonnet forward to shield her eyes from the sun as she marched toward town.

“Did she just say Leticia?” Rhys asked. “A countess named Leticia?”

Turner nodded.

“It wouldn't happen to be your Leticia, would it?”

“Shockingly, it would. Leticia Herzog, the Countess of Churzy, happens to be engaged to Sir Barty. Who needs your medical expertise.”

Rhys considered him for a long moment. Then he raised a hand to his chin, thoughtful.

“I think that this is going to be an interesting case of gout after all.”

10

F
or her first full week in Helmsley, Leticia had two specific goals. Unfortunately, she had thus far failed spectacularly at both of them.

First, she was of a mind that the only way out of this predicament with Turner was through it. To that end, it would be best to move things along as quickly as possible. Which meant moving up the date of the wedding.

But here she met with her first failure. For when she attempted to talk to Sir Barty about it, he simply laughed.

“Special license? There's no need for that!”

“But darling, if we got a special license we wouldn't have to wait to be wed.” She tried to say it as seductively as possible, but considering it was first thing in the morning and Sir Barty was enjoying his breakfast ham, there was little that would distract him from it.

“M'dear, to get a special license we would have to apply to the bishop, who is miles and miles away. Then, if he says yes, which he wouldn't do without inducement, the paper has to be delivered back to us! So even if we went to the trouble—and expense—of a special license, chances are the banns will be finished being read by the time the license arrives.”

She could not fault him for his logic, as much as she wanted to.

“Well, what about Gretna Green?” It would only take a day or two from here to get to Scotland . . .”

“We just got out of the carriage, I cannot fathom getting back into one,” Sir Barty said with a sigh. “Besides, by the time we pack to go, and get on the road, and then get married and get back, it will be our original wedding day! It seems so silly.”

He came over to her chair, leaning only slightly on his cane as he did so, and placed a hand on her cheek. “I know you are eager, and so am I,” he assured her with a little brow waggle. “But the wait shall be worth it, I promise.”

And he returned to his ham.

Well, that was that, it seemed. But Leticia would not be cowed. Instead she moved on to her second challenge: Margaret.

“Are you headed into town?” Margaret's voice carried as she came thumping down the hall, still covered in dirt from the garden where she'd been since dawn.

“Yes. Would you like me to get you anything?” Leticia replied.

“No,” replied Margaret. “In fact, you should wait until tomorrow, when it's market day.”

“I'm returning a call, waiting until market day would not do.”

While Turner seemed happy to avoid her like the plague, Helen had pestered her where her son had not. She had called on Monday, and sent a note on Tuesday, inviting Leticia to tea with her on Thursday. Really, Leticia was afraid the woman would turn up and force her to join a tatting circle if she didn't show.

“But if you went on market day I could go with you and . . . run into people.”

“Run into people?” Leticia asked, and watched as Margaret blushed furiously, shifting from foot to foot in an awkward dance. “What, with a cart?”

“No!” Margaret cried, her brow coming down. “Just, run into people, on the street. People that we know, and that would tip a hat to us . . . or, or . . . kiss a hand possibly.”

Ah. Now Leticia understood. “Someone like Mr. Turner, perhaps?”

The blush that burned on Margaret's face was all the answer she needed. And while Turner had said he had no interest in Margaret, the fact was, Margaret was utterly unaware of it.

There would be several intricate dances necessary to make Leticia and Margaret's relationship what she hoped it would be, but right now, the most important was to convince Margaret that Turner was not at all an appropriate match.

Luckily, Leticia had just the right kind of finesse.

“The call I'm paying is on Mrs. Turner,” she said. “I'm sure her son will be there.” In truth, Leticia prayed he wouldn't be. “If you would like to join me, you could change and—”

“
No!
” Margaret cried. Then, calmer, “No. I, ah . . . I will see her on market day, I'm sure.”

“There's no reason you could not see Mr. Turner two days in a row, Margaret. After all, for affection to flourish, a young couple needs to be near each other.”

“I know that, but . . .” She bit her lip. “Well, men go to war or to sea all the time and they still have sweethearts.”

“Yes, but . . . their affection is already established.”

“So is mine for Mr. Turner.”

“Because he makes you blush.”

Margaret nodded.

“But do you make him blush?” she asked, for once seemingly giving the girl pause. “An indicator of affection from a young man would be calling on a lady quite often. And Mr. Turner hasn't called on you since Sunday. He is . . . conspicuous in his absence.”

Margaret seemed happy to ignore that statement, as she simply said, “I'm sorry, but I have things to do today,” and trotted out the door to the gardens and her beloved soil.

Or so Leticia had thought.

It was after dinner that evening. Sir Barty had claimed that his leg was bothering him, and thus once the pork stew was consumed, made for his library, his footstool, and a bit of brandy by the fire. Leticia fully expected Margaret to stand and leave without more than a perfunctory “excuse me,” as had been her custom. So when Sir Barty made his exit, Leticia made hers to the sitting room.

She was just about to begin drafting a letter to her sister (she would say everything was utterly wonderful, and absolutely nothing else) when a voice from the doorway stilled her hand.

“Theoretically,” Margaret said. “If one wanted to make Mr. Tur—I mean, someone blush when they saw one, how would one go about it?”

Margaret had her arms crossed over her chest, her tall frame hunched over and protective. But she was here. She had opened up to her in a way that warmed Leticia's heart.

It made her almost sorry for what she had to do.

But really, it was in everyone's best interests. Especially Margaret's.

“You've come to the right place,” Leticia said, smiling widely, turning away from the desk and moving to the settee in the center of the room. “When it comes to matters of the heart, I have had some experience.”

“Not experience with Mr. Turner,” Margaret grumbled.

Leticia became very still. “No, of course not. I never met him before this week.”

“I mean with men like Mr. Turner. He's . . . different from Father.”

“Yes, it is true that I am used to dealing with men of a certain refinement. But most men, I've found, are the same.”

“He's not,” Margaret said defensively. “Most men ignore me. He gave me that violet.”

Yes, he had given her the violet. And done more harm than good, she thought jealously.

No . . . not jealousy. Of course not jealousy. That was ridiculous.

“But . . .” Margaret had continued. “I haven't seen him blush. Ever. Such a physiological reaction should be as important if not more so than a voluntary action like giving a flower. One can have ulterior motives for flower giving, but not blushing. Although, he did seem to go excessively pale upon seeing us at church this past Sunday—”