The Lie and the Lady (21 page)

She slipped into his mind at an alarming rate. The calendar no longer reminded him of the days until the harvest, but of how many days that she'd been in town, as Sir Barty's bride-to-be.

A glance into the kitchens and the insane number of tea cakes there told him a countess was coming to call, one his mother hoped to persuade into taking up their cause regarding Sir Barty's grain.

Even the thought of freshly milled flour made him think of her—specifically her skin, soft and white.

It was deeply annoying.

Surely this was why he was not as vigilant as he needed to be with the mill. Surely it was his worry over Letty being in Helmsley—more important, her influence on Sir Barty—that was causing him such trouble.

Thank goodness for Rhys, he decided. Having him installed at Bluestone Manor relieved his mind that Letty was stirring up any trouble for his business.

Or at least, it should have been.

So on Sunday when he escorted his mother to St. Stephen's churchyard he had a plan in mind. Today he would let his mother work her wiles, and invite Leticia and Sir Barty over to the mill yard for tea. Formally returning last Sunday's hospitality, she'd say. Then, while there, he would confidently have Sir Barty tour the mill and its new engine. He would see that they would be capable of taking on ever so much more volume since there would be no days without power. Then he would offer Sir Barty to work at cost for the first harvest season.

That was as long as he could afford it, he'd calculated. But if one is going to do something, then one has to do it fully, mustn't they? There was no chance Sir Barty would pass up that opportunity.

He was a man of confidence. Of determination. Yes, everything would be fine. Brilliant, even, as his friend Ned would say. Marvelous.

And then he saw Palmer Blackwell in the churchyard.

He was standing at the entrance to the church, with Sir Barty and bowing over Leticia's hand. And seeing him made Turner freeze in his no-longer-triumphant steps.

“Is that whom I think it is?” his mother asked.

“I believe so,” Turner replied.

Turner figured that Palmer Blackwell would appear sooner or later—news of the Turner Grain Mill getting close to completion had to have spread, even if there was doubt about its working.

“But what is he doing in Helmsley?”

“What do you think, Mother? He's protecting his business.”

“It was our business first,” she said, harrumphing.

When the Turner Grain Mill had burned six years ago, Blackwell was the one to take over their contracts . . . including Sir Barty's. Blackwell's mill was ten miles away, across the Wolds, but it was the closest option for many. Grinding the grain for the Helmsley area as well as his own had kept him so busy he'd needed to purchase a second mill, this one in Claxby. Then he built another, and another, and soon enough, he'd become quite rich off of their misfortune.

Yes, the last six years had been good to Palmer Blackwell. And he intended to keep his fortunes high by securing his relationship with Sir Barty. Turner couldn't fault him for that.

But he could fault him for the way he was kissing Leticia's hand.

From his vantage point, he could see Leticia smile as her hand was released. Blackwell exchanged a few words with Sir Barty, and then positively leered at Leticia. If Turner had been the man standing next to her, he would have pummeled Blackwell, churchyard or no.

But from what he could see, Leticia just smiled at Sir Barty, completely unfazed, and they went inside.

Blackwell would do anything to secure his position. Flattering Sir Barty's new bride was nothing.

And that was never more apparent than after services ended, when they all inevitably met in the churchyard.

Having arrived later than most of the congregation, Turner and his mother were forced to sit closer to the back, which meant Turner had to watch Blackwell wedge his way into the pew right behind Sir Barty and his family, in the front. From there he could make his presence felt; he could nod to Margaret, and he could lean forward and congratulate Sir Barty when the banns were read.

Turner had almost forgotten about the banns. But there it was, directly after the first blessing, reminding him like a ball of lead to his chest. He had been shot before. Twice. He knew what to expect—the jolt of pain, the shock spreading warm, then hot, too hot through his body. And yet, this second reading of the banns was not as painful as the first. Because yes, he knew what to expect—and he also knew he would survive it.

After a droning sermon that refused to end, the doors were flung open and everyone was released back into their worlds to enjoy this loveliest of summer days. But while the people of Helmsley chattered and smiled at each other, there was a far different meeting taking place under the guise of cordiality just to the side, under the large oak tree.

“Mr. Blackwell,” Turner said as he walked up to the group, Helen on his arm. “What a surprise to see you in Helmsley.”

“And you, Mr. Turner,” Blackwell replied. “I thought you were still in London.”

“I haven't lived in London for nearly a year now,” Turner replied, his gaze going steely.

“Really, has it been that long? One would have thought the Turner Grain Mill would be working by now.”

“There have been some delays,” Turner acknowledged. “It became remarkably difficult to get masons and millwrights and equipment just about a year ago. A coincidence, I'm sure.”

“Hardly a coincidence. My mill in Fennish Moor was being constructed. I'm afraid if you want quick, good work, you have to be willing—and able—to pay top dollar.”

“My goodness,” Leticia interrupted. “When men talk business, the rest of the world melts away. It's as if we ladies are hardly standing here, isn't it, Helen?”

“My apologies, Lady Churzy,” Blackwell said, bowing to her with a flourish. “You are quite right. Such loveliness that you—and dare I say, Miss Babcock—possess should not be ignored.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blackwell,” Margaret said, her voice a shocking squeak.

“Yes,” Turner added, his eyebrow going up. “My apologies as well, my lady. And Miss Babcock, Sir Barty.”

A throat cleared behind the ladies.

“And you as well, Dr. Gray.”

“Good to see you too, John,” Rhys said, hiding his scowl as he bowed.

“Have I thanked you yet for sending Dr. Gray our way?” Sir Barty said. “He's done absolute wonders for my foot—there was hardly any seepage this morning! Isn't he marvelous, m'dear?”

“Yes,” Leticia said through a tight smile. “It's simply a wonder that he's staying with us.”

“Have you had the chance to peruse the grounds?” his mother asked Rhys. “They are simply lovely, and a credit to Miss Babcock.”

Turner felt his mother's toe come down hard on the top of his boot. She had rather steely toes.

“Quite,” he added.

“I have heard tell of your horticultural prowess, Miss Babcock,” Blackwell said, his eyes on Margaret. “I understand your violets are in full flower.”

It was an innocuous phrase. True, even. Then how, Turner wondered, did Blackwell manage to make it sound so . . . oily?

But instead of being put off by it, Margaret turned a tooth-aching smile to Blackwell. “Thank you. That is quite the compliment.”

Something must have been caught in the girl's eye. Because she began batting them furiously.

“Yes, the—er, violets are indeed blooming, Mr. Blackwell.” This from his mother. “We were so lucky as to be able to tour them last week. And perhaps we could invite Sir Barty and Leticia,” she emphasized, reminding everyone of their closeness, “to tour our grounds today? My son has just finished putting the final touches on the engine house, and you should be our first guests!”

Sir Barty shot a look between his daughter and his wife-to-be. Leticia as always remained quite inscrutable.

“That would be quite the treat,” Leticia said eventually. “I think—”

Again, it was Margaret who jumped in. “But it will have to be on another day. We are having Mr. Blackwell for tea. That is, if he's amenable.”

“I should like nothing better.” Blackwell blinked, and then smiled. And Turner wanted nothing more than to punch his perfectly straight teeth into a more natural arrangement.

“Well,” his mother said, visibly flustered (and Helen Braithwaite Turner did not fluster easily), “I could . . . did I tell you how much we enjoyed seeing the violets? I imagine they change much in a week.”

“Actually, yes,” Margaret said, but she was quickly silenced by a gentle hand on her arm.

“Perhaps we can arrange to see the mill this week sometime,” Leticia said with finality. Then, curtsies and bows were made, and the group parted.

But Blackwell hung back for a moment.

“I wouldn't mind taking a tour of your mill either, Mr. Turner. In the future that is. After all, I'll be acquiring it soon enough.” Then he called out, “Wait for me, Lady Churzy!”

And John realized, with a flash of feeling, that Blackwell was going to get the advantage. Because Blackwell was going to win over Leticia.

After all, he was the answer to all her problems. If he held on to Sir Barty's business, he'd be able to push out the Turners. From the grain mill business. From Helmsley. And if he was gone from Helmsley, Leticia was free.

Turner would be damned if he let that happen.

“That was a setback,” his mother said at his side. “But we'll have them come see the mill this week. You'll see. Leticia will make it happen. I'm going to go say hello to Mrs. Robertson—she's finally stepped away from Mrs. Emory . . .”

And with that his mother moved off. She'd always been more resilient than he. Able to brush off a defeat, accept the new paradigm, and start turning it back to their advantage. Meanwhile Turner stood there, still and silent as the grave.

He should really start taking a page out of his mother's book.

“Rhys!” he called out. Rhys stopped and turned. Then he said a few quick words to Sir Barty, who nodded and stepped into his carriage after Margaret and Leticia. Rhys made his way over.

“Make it quick. They're holding the carriage for me.”

“I need you to keep an eye on things,” Turner said.

“I thought that was the entire point of installing me at Sir Barty's beck and call,” Rhys said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I keep an eye on your countess while attending to Sir Barty's gout—which is a sadly mundane case, by the by. I was hoping for at least a small medical mystery, but no—he eats too much rich food and—”

“Not on Leticia. On Blackwell,” Turner interrupted. “And Leticia. The two of them together.”

“You know I don't have any experience as a spy?” Rhys said, his brow coming down. “My time in the war was spent cutting off limbs and stitching up foolhardy soldiers like you.”

“Rhys . . .” Turner warned.

“Why do you need me to keep an eye on both of them now?”

“Because I'm afraid that she . . .” How could he explain? That he thought Leticia would jump at the chance to side with his greatest enemy? But he didn't think that. He was just . . . terribly afraid of it. “Just do it. Please, Rhys.”

“Fine.” Then, after a moment, he leaned in closer. “I haven't seen or heard anything from your countess that would give one alarm, John.”

Turner's mouth pressed into a hard line.

“She's been nothing but kind and welcoming. She seems to dote on Sir Barty, tries very hard with Miss Babcock, and has never even once said your name.” Rhys's head cocked to one side. “But that's what you're truly afraid of, isn't it?”

Turner stared off into the distance. “You should get going. They are waiting for you.”

Rhys glanced over his shoulder and saw Sir Barty's carriage idling. “What should I tell them when they ask what we were discussing?”

“Tell them I needed a liniment or some such thing.”

Rhys shot him a look of utter contempt. “Yes, because that's what I do. Make liniments.”

“Well, hell, what is it that doctors of your stature do, Rhys?”

“Apparently I take care of gout and spy on friends' lovers.”

“You're perfectly situated, then.”

And with that, Rhys turned on his heel and walked briskly back to the carriage.

Leaving Turner standing in the churchyard . . . in the unfortunate position of having to wait.

13

D
r. Rhys Gray was not a man used to being around strangers. Well, that was not true, precisely. He was used to being around strangers—people who were in some kind of distress, whether it be crying out in pain from being shot on the battlefield or quarantined due to some mysterious illness. Those people were in his control, and oftentimes unconscious. What he was not accustomed to was being in the presence of strangers with whom he had to converse.