The Lie and the Lady (32 page)

“And I know a leading question when I hear it, Mrs. Turner.” Sir Barty twinkled at her. “But in this instance you are correct. I'll let Mr. Blackwell do the honors.”

“Thank you, Sir Barty.” Blackwell beamed. “And it is an honor. An honor to invite you all to my home, Blackwell Arms, for a ball!”

A thrill of excitement went through the ladies grouped around them.

“And not just any ball,” Blackwell continued. “But an engagement ball, for Sir Barty and his lovely bride-to-be, Lady Churzy.”

“Isn't it a treat, m'dear?” Sir Barty cried, coming forward to struggle himself into the seat next to her. “And he did it for you.”

“For me?” she could not help but blurt out.

“I recalled how you said that you and Sir Barty had missed out on some of the celebrations that go along with a wedding. Well, even though this is a second marriage for both, it deserves celebration.”

“What a perfect gift!” Sir Barty exclaimed. “Always thinking of everything, this one.”

“Indeed,” Leticia said as she kept the smile plastered on her face. “A perfect gift.”

She glanced over at Helen, who gave an imperceptible shrug, and then grinned as widely as possible at Blackwell. “How marvelous. Mr. Blackwell, I can speak for my son and say we will be delighted to attend.”

“I would not have it any other way, Mrs. Turner.” Blackwell's grin became predatory.

“And, Sir Barty, you had better rest up your foot,” Helen continued, ignoring Blackwell. Leticia wished she had that older woman's resolve. “You've danced a reel with me at every party since we were sixteen and you get no rest this time. With your permission, of course, my lady.”

“Certainly,” Leticia replied. “I'm sure my darling Barty would not wish to disappoint you.”

“For you, Helen, I will dig out my dancing shoes,” Sir Barty added, and did a quick shuffle, not even leaning on his cane.

Dr. Gray really had worked wonders.

But Sir Barty's quickstep had the effect of making every single lady in attendance giggle and titter. The idea of a dance awakened something primal in them. Visions of fripperies, of shining ribbons and swirling skirts ran through the ladies like St. Elmo's Fire. Of men dressed in their best, and gallantry and champagne punch and lots and lots of dancing.

And with dawning understanding, Leticia realized the true genius of Blackwell's generosity. Not only did it further ingratiate him to Sir Barty, but who on earth was going to care about how well the new Turner Grain Mill was working when there was a ball to dream about?

“And Miss Babcock, may I take this opportunity to ask you for the first dance?”

Margaret's head came up. She had been the only female present not to pink with glee at the idea of a ball. But when she met Blackwell's perfectly composed look of earnestness, she blanched.

The ladies around them tittered again, seeing a love match made before their eyes. Miss Goodhue looked near to fainting from excitement.

“Of . . . of course,” Margaret answered.

He'd guaranteed her answer, asking in front of everyone. He'd made it so Leticia could raise absolutely no protest, nor Margaret, if she'd wished to. But of course, Margaret didn't wish to.

Because Blackwell made her blush just like Turner did.

Or did he? When he asked Margaret for the first dance, she'd gone pale, not pink. For the first time, Leticia saw the situation with a bit of hope. Perhaps Margaret was beginning to see Blackwell's smarm for what it truly was.

Which would be a miracle, and in spite of the fact that Turner had not bothered to show up and woo Margaret for nearly a week!

And while she had been much too busy over the course of the week to think about Turner at all—or his presumptuous kissing—now she was desperate to speak to him.

Because their plan required some adjustment, given the current circumstances. That was all. No other reason.

However, when she thought about how to speak to him, she was at a loss. She could send him a note. But what on earth would it say? Please forget any kissing that may have occurred and call on me at your earliest convenience?

She could call on him herself . . . but there was no way for her to extract Helen from the room when said call occurred. And the idea of invading his kitchen again at three in the morning made her freeze with warning. It would be too different this time. Too . . . intimate. Too easy to let the atmosphere and the closeness play tricks on her.

She needed to be alone with him, but not alone. To be able to speak to him about business without anything messy getting in the way of their purpose.

Unfortunately, there was only one time and place where Leticia could think such a thing would be possible.

“THERE YOU ARE,”
Leticia called out as Helen and Turner entered the arched gateway to the churchyard the following Sunday. “We were about to despair of you.”

“It's my fault we are always late,” Helen said with a smile and a wave. “I make us walk—it's good for the constitution—and I walk much slower than I remember.”

“As do I, Helen, as do I,” Sir Barty replied from his place on Leticia's arm. “Vicar Spilsby has just opened the doors, so you aren't too late to get a good pew.”

“Lady Churzy, Miss Babcock,” Turner said on a bow, his manners perfectly correct. “Sir Barty. Rhys.”

“Mr. Blackwell already went in,” Margaret blurted. “To save seats in the pew behind us.”

“Smart of him,” Helen remarked. “Perhaps you should run in and save seats for us as well,” she said to her son.

“In a moment,” he replied. Then, an impenetrable look passed between Turner and Dr. Gray. Nodding, Dr. Gray turned to Helen.

“I'll help you look for seats, Mrs. Turner,” he said. “Sir Barty, perhaps you should come with us. If you are to spend the whole night dancing in a few days, I prescribe as much rest as possible until that time.”

Sir Barty looked alarmed. “But I've been feeling so much better . . .”

“And we want it to stay that way,” Helen added. “You'll not get out of your dance with me, young man.” She waggled a finger in Sir Barty's dimpling face. “Come along. I'll not be stuck in the back next to Mr. Jenkins and his cabbage breath again.”

As everyone in the churchyard was quickly moving into the church itself, it would be a miracle if Helen didn't have to deal with Mr. Jenkins's cabbage breath (it seemed not only his horses feasted on the stuff), but Leticia wasn't about to mention it. Whatever got them into the church faster and left her and Turner to themselves.

Sir Barty, Helen, and Dr. Gray moved toward the doors. She and Turner had little recourse now but to follow themselves . . . albeit slowly. Still, the number of steps from where they stood by the oak tree to the door . . . Leticia reasoned that she and Turner could have a good ten, fifteen seconds of private conversation before their lagging behind was noted.

Not enough time.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, Letty thought, as she slipped her hands behind her back and pried the sapphire ring off her right ring finger, letting it fall to the grass.

“Oh dear! My ring!” she cried, bringing her hand forward. “I was playing with it while we were waiting. It must have fallen to the ground.”

“Where?” Margaret asked as she began to peer at the grass and dirt. Good thing Leticia had stepped over the ring, lest the girl find it immediately.

As it was, Margaret was halfway on her hands and knees about to begin scouring when Leticia's cry of “No!” caused her to realize her mistake and straighten. “Margaret, go tell your father the reason for my delay. And don't let the vicar keep his sermon waiting. I'll find my ring.”

“Allow me to assist you, my lady,” Turner said.

If Margaret thought anything was amiss, she didn't say anything. Simply bobbed her head and moved with a determined stride into the church intent on her mission.

“Did you really lose your ring?” he asked.

“I strive for authenticity in all my fictions,” Leticia replied. “But I have it under my shoe. Still, better to root around a bit, in case anyone should . . . well, I guess the church doesn't have any windows facing this way, does it?”

“No. No one is watching us,” he said. “We need to talk.”

“Yes, we do,” Leticia agreed. “And we could have spoken anytime this week if you had come to call, like you were supposed to!”

He seemed taken aback by her vehemence. Even though she kept her voice low and soft, there was no mistaking her exasperation. “Really, Turner. We had only just solidified our plans, and once I help you show your mill to good light, you renege on your part? I needed you this week.”

“Did you?” he growled.

“Since you made such a good showing of the mill, Blackwell has redoubled his efforts with Margaret and Sir Barty. He's even going so far as to throw an engagement party for us. Now Barty thinks the sun rises and sets with Palmer Blackwell, Margaret is dancing the first dance with him, and no one is talking about your mill anymore.”

“None of that could have been prevented by my attendance.”

“I disagree. But regardless, now we need to figure out what to do about Blackwell,” she said in a rush, the excitement causing her to become slightly breathless. “But I think he made a misstep.”

“Leticia . . .”

“No, listen . . . I think that by inviting us to his home, he has opened himself up to a scrutiny that he does not expect. Because he cannot know that you suspect him of having burned your mill—it's been so long. Perhaps this is our chance to look for proof. Any man who runs three mills must keep meticulous records. All we have to do is find it. Then, he'll be gone, you'll have Sir Barty's business, and no one need ever worry about Palmer Blackwell darkening any of our doors again. We can go on as we are meant to.”

“You think things are that simple?”

“Of course they are. Now agree with me, apologize for not having shown your face at Bluestone for a week, and come inside.” She bent down and picked up her sapphire ring, none the worse for wear for being under her shoe for a minute or two. “We'll be missed if we are out here much longer.”

“No.”

Her head came up. “No, I promise you we will be. No matter what Margaret tells the vicar, he will delay starting until we're in the church.”

“I mean to say no, I cannot agree with you. I cannot apologize for not keeping up my end of our bargain. And I cannot come into the church.”

“Why not?”

He took a deep breath. “Because today, in that church, the last of your banns are going to be read. And if I hear them . . . if I hear the vicar ask if any know of an impediment to your marriage to Sir Barty, I will not be able to stop myself.”

“Stop yourself . . .” Her mouth hung open.

“I won't be able to stop myself from telling everyone that I'm in love with you.” The corner of his mouth tilted up in a rueful smile. “So I think it better if I don't go to church today.”

There are certain words that can make the world stand still. Words that root feet to the ground and force eyes to meet. The birds still chirped in the oak tree. The wind still moved its branches. But everything else, things tied to the earth, was held in that moment. There was nothing else but herself, Turner, and what he had to say.

“I thought I could do it,” he began. “I thought I could hate you enough to tolerate your living in my town. Wife to Sir Barty. I'd kept my head in my work long enough that I figured I'd just keep doing that. But you . . . infected everything.”

“Infected?” she asked weakly.

“I mean that in the best possible sense,” he hastened to assure. “But you did. My mother lights up every time your name is mentioned. We meet in my kitchen at three in the morning and it smells like you for days after. You march into my mill and launch a strategy worthy of Wellington. I cannot separate you from any part of my life, because you've seeped through every layer. And the more and more I saw you, the harder it became to hate you. And if I can't hate you, I have to love you, because there is no in between for me.”

No, there was no in between for them. Their last encounter in his little office proved that. Damn him and his presumptuous kissing!

She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted so much for this not to be happening. Not now. Her heart couldn't take it now. She . . . she needed him to ignore everything that had happened between them and simply go along with the plan.

She needed him to lie.

But he couldn't. Not anymore.

“I know you don't want to hear this. And I fully realize the folly of it. After all, we are the worst possible people for each other.” That corner of his mouth ticked up again, and if her feet had not been rooted to the spot, she was certain she would have closed the distance between them, and . . . she didn't know. Hold him? Slap him? Prove him right . . . or prove him wrong?