The Lie and the Lady (39 page)

“That”—she nodded toward the door—“is most improper.”

“I didn't think you would want simply anyone to hear what I have to say,” he replied. “Don't worry. I'm not here for any reason that your fiancé might interpret as untoward. You can even stay on your pedestal. Simply give me what you took from me, and all will be well.”

“What I took?” Leticia blinked at him. “I've taken nothing from you.”

“You're not stupid, my lady, please don't do us both the disrespect of acting like it. I knew you had gone into the study the minute you appeared back at the party with your eyes watering from the dust. Your sensitivity to flowers and such is well known.”

He wandered over to the window, running his finger along the window ledge. “Not a speck in here.”

Damn. And she'd been so careful, trying to hide her presence in the study.

“It took me a little while to discover what was missing, but discover it I did. So, simply return the ledger page, and there is no need for us to part as anything other than friends.”

“What—”

“Don't you
dare
say ‘what ledger page' like a simpering moron!” he hissed at her. The veneer of geniality dropped away, revealing his true visage—anger pulsed from the vein in his neck, radiated from the contempt in his eyes. “Don't lie to me, Countess. We are past lies, you and I. Now, I want my ledger page back, and you are going to give it to me, or else.”

Leticia took a deep breath. Two. Then rolled her shoulders back. Let the disdain drip from her voice. It was time to do battle.

She hadn't intended to confront him with the ledger page—not yet. Turner had been right, the proof that a man had fathered a child out of wedlock was not exactly the damning evidence they had hoped to uncover (nor was it nearly as damning for a man as it was for a woman, but that was a societal point of contention she simply did not have the time to deconstruct at the moment). However, the fact that he had sought her out . . . the fact that the ledger had been hidden . . . the fact that he was letting his façade of nicety drop and show his teeth . . .

It mattered to him.

And that meant the balance of power was tipped in Leticia's favor.

“Or else what?” she asked.

“Or else I tell Sir Barty your biggest secret,” Blackwell replied, a serpent's smile spreading across his features.

“You mean about my late husband?” she asked sweetly. “I'm afraid that won't work, as you well know. Besides, Konrad's sins are not mine, and a two-minute conversation can make that clear, even to a man of such uncomplicated tastes as Sir Barty. So if you don't wish me to show the man proof of your payments to the mother, then you should perhaps remove yourself from the premises.” She cocked her head to one side. “Forever.”

“Forever?” he repeated, almost amused.

“Yes. Forever,” she said, stepping down from her footstool. “Your presence at Bluestone has become quite tiresome. Go back across the Wolds and leave us be. Stay away from me, stay away from Margaret, stay away from Helmsley. If Sir Barty reaches out to you, send no note of regret. Of course, you'll have to resign yourself to the loss of his business, but that's the price you pay.”

“The price I pay.”

“For trying to blackmail me,” she said through gritted teeth, her pleasant demeanor falling away. But only for a moment. Then her smile was firmly back in place, her posture perfect. “Really, when you look at it, I'm being quite kind. Now, I assume I won't be seeing you at the wedding tomorrow, so I'll thank you for the compliment about my dress and bid you good-bye.”

She walked over to the door and yanked it open.

And waited.

His eyebrow went up, and he crossed the room to where she stood.

And closed the door.

“That is in truth, a very reasonable list of demands. And I would happily acquiesce to them . . . if only your biggest secret involved your late husband.” He bore his teeth, like a predator having found its supper. “But what I was speaking of happened just last summer.”

She held her breath.

“Surely you don't need me to jog your memory,” he said in mock astonishment. “You were at your sister's house in Leistershire. An earl of some standing came to stay at a house party. He made promises to you, and quite publicly too. And he turned out to not be the earl, but his servant.”

“Not his servant,” she said automatically.

“Regardless,” he said, waving that aside. “You were played for quite the fool. I don't think Sir Barty would like a foolish wife. Or one that would make a fool out of him.”

But Leticia, far from freezing in fear as he'd obviously hoped, simply shook her head.

And laughed.

Long enough and loud enough to have the simpering smile drop from Blackwell's features.

“You have very little imagination, don't you?” she said, once her laughter subsided. “Once again, you are trying to visit the sins of a man upon me. It's expected from those of your ilk, that a woman would cower and cover, taking on someone else's shame. But perhaps what you didn't expect was that Sir Barty knows.”

One eyebrow went up.

“I told him all about how I was lied to, before we ever became engaged. And amazingly, he still wished to marry me. That's the kind of man Sir Barty is—trusting. And trustworthy. So unless you have something else to add . . . again, I say good day, Mr. Blackwell.”

Again she pulled at the door handle. But only managed to open it a few inches before Blackwell took its edge and held it in place.

“You say Sir Barty knows all about how you were tricked.”

“I told him all about how I was lied to, yes.”

“Does he know it was John Turner doing the lying?”

She stopped. Her triumphant smile slid from her face. And this time, it was she who shut the door.

“I did not think you would be an issue for me,” Blackwell said, stepping infinitesimally closer to her. “I thought Sir Barty's bride would be like him—simple, and easy to cull. After all, it only took me a few weekends of sport and revelry to turn him into my boon companion, willing to overlook long-standing friendships in his business dealings.

“But by the time we met, you had already become so close with the Turners, already so decided against me . . . you became a problem I was determined to resolve.”

He winked at her, his face far too close to hers for comfort. But she couldn't look down. Couldn't step back. She had to hold her ground. Finally, he realized he was not cowing her, and so stepped away with a little shrug and began examining the little trinkets that adorned her rooms. Nothing exceptional, nothing truly valuable. But all extremely personal.

And he was touching them. Acting as if he had the right.

Daring her to stop him.

And damn it all, that creeping, crawling path he traced on her dressing table was being drawn on her skin at the same time, leaving a growing terrible itch on her neck.

“So I did some simple research. And of everything, your humble beginnings, your scandalous marriage, who'd have thought it was your banal sister in Leistershire that would bear such fruit?”

“My sister told you?” Leticia asked, aghast.

“No. My investigator only had to walk into their town—Hollyhock, was it?—and mention your name to hear the full story from so many eager sources. And then they mentioned the name Mr. Turner. And suddenly, everything made sense.”

“I can't imagine what you mean.”

“That's because you can't see yourself when you look at him,” Blackwell replied. “And the way he looks at you—I assume Sir Barty's been cuckolded already? No? Well, I suppose waiting until after the wedding is better politics.”

“How dare you—” she bit out, her temper finally flaring. She took two steps away from the door before she stopped herself. Blackwell was watching her, his beetle black eyes alight with triumph.

“I dare because I can. All I have to do is whisper the truth in Sir Barty's ear, and you will be out the door, my lady, and at the mercy of a cruel world. Add to that—do you think he would ever do business with John Turner knowing the man had tupped his fiancé? Do you think Mrs. Turner is going to be invited over for cribbage anymore? No, the Turner Grain Mill will be done. And I'll buy it up for scraps.” Blackwell looked aside for a moment. “Actually, come to think of it, my silence costs me quite a bit, in a business sense. You should make it worth my while.”

Her voice was ice cold. “What do you want?”

“My ledger page back, for starters,” he replied.

“For starters?”

“Oh, I'm certain that as time goes on, I will have other uses for you.” His gaze flicked over her body, like it was a possession. She ignored the itch spreading from her neck to her ear and instead settled for a shudder of revulsion. “After all, we are going to be great friends, you and I. But for now, I will have my ledger page back, or else you won't be getting married tomorrow. Which would be a shame. I do love a wedding.”

He had her at checkmate. And what was worse, he knew it.

“I don't have the page myself,” she said, telling her final lie.

“Safely tucked away at Turner's Mill, is it?” Blackwell clucked. “Leaving your evidence in a location with a history of flammability is a bit of a misstep, but that's neither here nor there any longer.”

“I will need some time to retrieve it,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Of course. Take all the time you need—up until your wedding tomorrow morning. If I don't have it in hand by then . . .”

And with that, Blackwell straightened his coat, fussing the wrists into idle perfection. He then gave a short bow and moved past Leticia to the door.

“See you at the church,” he said, and was gone.

Leaving Leticia alone, standing in the wreckage of her perfectly constructed, long-sought, and hard-won life.

And there was only one thing she could do.

“DARLING, I NEED
to speak with you.”

Sir Barty's head came up from his paper as her voice floated over from the library doorway.

“Of course, m'dear! What is it?” He blinked at her, smiling.

And it made her heart crack.

Because Leticia was about to smash that smile into a thousand pieces.

She could have given in to Blackwell's demands. She could marry Sir Barty, and be comfortable if not happy. However, the entire time, she would be under Blackwell's power. Inviting him to dinners. Catering to his wants. Allowing him to run her life. All because he knew the truth.

She simply would not live in the shadow of a lie.

Not anymore.

Sir Barty had his foot up on its stool, dressed in a fresh wrapping. As she approached, he made a minimal effort to rise, saying, “I'd stand, m'dear, but I want my foot to be in tip-top shape for tomorrow. Nothing is going to stop me from walking with you down the aisle.”

“Don't even think of it,” she said, waving him back into his seat.

“But I do wish to think of it,” he said, his grin coming through beneath his mustache. “We will be presented as man and wife for the first time. I want to do it by your side. Margaret insisted.”

“Margaret?” Leticia had to ask.

“Yes,” Sir Barty said with eyes as wide as hers. “Margaret. She said something about declaring your intentions, and not hiding behind a game. And since she was demanding it, I thought I had better listen.”

Leticia felt a smile breaking through her solemnity. Three weeks ago, when she arrived, Margaret would not have said boo to her father, let alone have an opinion about anything to do with a wedding, unless it was to express shock that there was to be one.

Oh, Margaret. She would have to live with the pain of this too, wouldn't she?

But it would be far, far worse if she learned of it later. If she was her stepmother and the disgrace befell her by association.

Ironic, that.

“Is Margaret back from town yet?” she heard herself ask. Knowing she was stalling.

“Not yet,” Sir Barty replied. “She said she had to pick up some lace to match your dress for the bouquet. So . . .” He gave an exaggerated wiggle of his eyebrows. “We are all alone. For the first time since . . . since Paris, almost.”

He patted the seat next to him on the wide leather sofa.

“I . . . I cannot,” she began, her smile weak.

“Why?” he asked, looking like a hurt puppy. “In less than twenty-four hours we will be man and wife, and a quick cuddle is not against the law.” His eyes roved over her, assessing, looking for clues. Then—“Oh, of course! The lace!”

“The lace?”

“Is this your wedding gown?” he said, pointing to her dress. “Don't want it crumpled, do you?”

Leticia glanced down. Yes, she was still wearing her wedding gown, with pins still in the hem. Once she was certain Blackwell had left the building, she had gone directly from her rooms to Sir Barty, without even thinking of her dress.