The Lie and the Lady (34 page)

But she was to be thwarted on both counts.

“I don't know,” Margaret said, a furrow across her brow. “At first, when he tucked the violet behind my ear, I thought that was enough of a sign of affection. But then, his attentions have been so sporadic . . .”

“True,” Leticia replied with a sigh. Last week she was livid with Turner for ignoring Margaret, this week she was grateful he did not show up at Bluestone. Luckily, Mr. Blackwell had also had to absent himself from Helmsley, to go and prepare his home for the ball, so they had not had to deal with his attentions either—wanted or unwanted, it was hard to tell.

“But when he does look at me, I feel like he's the only man in the world. Does that make sense?”

Leticia's heart folded in on itself. “Yes,” she heard herself say. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“But the problem is . . . I don't think he sees me as the only woman in the world.”

Leticia's pulse quickened. “You think Mr. Turner . . . has a sweetheart?”

“No. If he did he shouldn't call upon me at all, should he?” She waved that thought away, too innocent to think anything else. “But the other problem is, when I look at . . . someone else, sometimes I see him as the only man in the world too. So how could two men be the only man in the world?”

“That is a conundrum,” Leticia had to acknowledge.

“I suppose further analysis is required.” Margaret shrugged. “And the ball should afford me ample opportunity to do so.”

“That seems a little unfeeling,” Leticia said. “To approach a ball as an experiment. Wouldn't you rather just enjoy yourself?”

But a queer look passed over Margaret's face. A disappointment, and then it shuttered.

“I should try these on,” she said, holding up the trousers. “May I?”

Leticia nodded, and Margaret, for all her height and determination, practically tiptoed out of the room.

Leaving Leticia to her thoughts. Which was a terrible fate.

Because with her duties and worries compounding—the wedding planning, the upcoming ball, whatever she had just done to cause Margaret to close off again—the only thing her mind wanted to linger on was John Turner.

At first, her entire body felt heavy from his admission. From the truth they had both been denying since she walked into Helmsley. Then, the giddy hysteria began. Because of course he would do this now. Of course—on top of everything else, he had to fling his love at her feet, and not giving her a damn thing she could do about it.

Then came the anger.

Because how dare he? How dare he do this to her now? In the midst of trying to save his mill and secure her future, he decides to make his feelings her problem! How is that kind, or fair? How is that the action of a gentleman?

He had said in the beginning that he would be happy to keep her at arm's length, hadn't he? When he came to her room—heavens, was it just over a fortnight ago?—and they made their bargain. Their first bargain, that is.

But circumstances changed.

She'd changed them. By needing him.

And she had needed him. But not to hatch a plan against Blackwell, like she'd purported.

She found herself again wishing for a confessor—Molly was still too new to be trusted with such an admission, Mrs. Dillon was far too loyal to Sir Barty, and Margaret, for all that they had been negotiating a kind of friendship, this was not for her ears.

She wanted someone she could talk to. That she could lay bare the honest tumult of her own feelings and . . .

She realized with stark clarity that Turner was the only one who fit.

And suddenly she was indescribably sad, because she would never be able to confide in him again.

This entire gamut of emotions was run through in the time it took Vicar Spilsby to read their banns on Sunday.

Sir Barty was beaming, even going so far into impropriety as to squeeze her hand as they sat next to each other in the pew.

Words Turner had refused to hear.

Ever since then, Leticia had been placing concerted effort into moving forward. If that meant burying her rocketing feelings and concentrating on the many details she had to attend to this week, so be it.

She would plan her wedding breakfast. She would go to this ball, discover something nefarious about Palmer Blackwell, and use it to get him away from Margaret and out of her hair. If that got him out of Turner's way as well, she would consider it her parting gift.

Because at the end of the week, she was going to marry Sir Barty and say good-bye to John Turner, and any old dreams she had of him.

Such dreams were folly, anyway.

DR. RHYS GRAY
was bored. Again. Hard to believe with all the intrigue and furtive looks going on, but it was true. He longed for a good medical mystery. A strange influenza, an outbreak of consumption . . . hell, he'd even take a curious rash if one presented itself. (In fact, he'd noted that Lady Churzy had a strange reddening on her neck a week or so ago, but it unfortunately cleared itself up before he was able to investigate.)

His purpose in being at Bluestone Manor was ostensibly to spy on Lady Churzy, but she had been in such a distracted state since Sunday there was nothing to spy upon. He'd tried to call on Turner to find out what he'd said to her in the churchyard—because he must have said something to her—and to ask if he was relieved of his spying duty and could go back home. But Turner was far too busy with his mill to see his old friend.

The one he had summoned here. For his help.

Rhys was of half a mind to decamp on his own, to simply declare to Sir Barty that his foot was as well as it could possibly be (although Rhys thought that if the man gave up his beloved pork he might feel a great deal better) and write Turner a letter from the road telling him of his escape. Back to his laboratory, and his studies, and away from any further intrigue that his friends embroiled themselves in.

But he couldn't.

The look that had passed between Turner and Rhys in the churchyard—the one that told him he needed to speak to his countess alone—told Rhys that soon enough, he would be needed.

Not as a doctor, of course. But as a friend.

He'd almost written to Ashby when he saw Turner after that Sunday—wrapped up in his mill, a fevered determination driving him to work harder and harder, until he collapsed each night from exhaustion.

His mother had pasted a smile on her face and told Rhys that she was certain it was just because the harvest was about to begin. Everything had to be ready. But the worry behind her eyes told him that she had her own concerns.

But other than those vague notions, that creeping feeling at the back of his mind that something in Turner's life was about to come to a head, Rhys had nothing to occupy him.

So, as he waited for something, anything to happen, he found himself again where he felt least in the way: in Miss Babcock's greenhouse.

“Hello?” He knocked on the door, ducking his head in. Over the course of the past week or so, Miss Babcock had gone from being standoffish to being actually rather accommodating.

“Don't come in!” Miss Babcock's voice was filled with panic. Enough that it alarmed Rhys into throwing the door open automatically.

“What is it? What's wrong?” he said as he came through the door.

His sharp eyes saw only a blur of movement as Margaret ducked behind a long table in the center of the greenhouse.

“I told you not to come in!” she cried.

“I'm . . . I'm sorry!” he said, backing away toward the door. “You sounded distressed, I thought . . .”

What had he thought? Oddly, Blackwell had popped into his mind. Or perhaps, not oddly. Ever since that night he had approached the countess, Blackwell's presence had been less and less tolerable. A natural sort of protective instinct came out whenever the man was around Miss Babcock. A silent agreement had been reached between him and the countess—as she could not keep eyes on the girl all the time, and Margaret seemed to be at relative ease in Rhys's presence—that he take up the slack.

And again, he hadn't minded. Margaret, though shy, was an interesting person. He always found people who were interested in things interesting.

Also, he had very little else to do.

“I, ah . . . I apologize, Doctor,” Margaret said weakly. “I'm just not supposed to be in company right now.”

“Why ever not?” he asked, turning back. “Are you unwell?”

“No,” she replied, still beneath the table. “I'm fine.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. Well . . . oh hang it. Do you promise not to tell anyone that you saw me? Not even Leticia?”

Now he simply couldn't leave. He was too curious. Academically, of course.

“You have my word.”

Margaret Babcock rose slowly from behind the table. The table was lined with piles of pots and jars of dirt, formula, and other botanical experiments, so he could only see her from the waist up. But she looked completely normal. She wore a plain blouse with the bib of a muslin apron over it. Her hair was in its normal long braid down her back. Her eyes however, were on the table in front of her.

Then, she stepped out from behind the table.

Interesting.

“Do I look . . . ridiculous?” she asked.

The apron fell to her knees, so it was only from the calves down that he could see she was wearing trousers. Not skin-tight trousers like gentlemen found fashionable, but quite thick and durable. And said trousers fell past her ankles, where they met her sturdy walking boots. For such a tall person, she was much more slim than he had realized. And her legs, now that he had a proper view of them, were quite long. She reminded him of a willow reed. An extremely nervous one.

“No. You look . . . comfortable.”

She immediately relaxed, a small smile and blush spreading over her face. “They are comfortable. I can bend and work freely. Leticia got them for me, but with the express instruction that I not wear them in company.”

“I understand.” Rhys nodded, forcing his eyes to her face. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Good,” she said, nodding. “I was about to repot these cuttings. They are outgrowing their current situation.”

“I would be happy to assist,” Rhys offered. She nodded and he took off his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

They worked side by side for a number of minutes in silence. Margaret had shown him previously how to gently loosen the roots from the dirt so they could grow out in their new space. The sounds of dirt falling to the table and the spade spooning out new earth into the larger pots filled the air, until . . .

“It's odd,” Rhys said. “You don't strike me as someone who cares if you look ridiculous. Not that you do,” he added quickly. “But most ladies in my experience care deeply about their appearance, at all times. You seem much less concerned.”

“I know,” she answered flatly. “Most people don't think I care about anything.”

“What?” Rhys's head came up. “Why do you say that?”

“It's true.” She shrugged. “Because I spend all my time with plants, not people. I would rather approach things scientifically.”

“There's nothing uncaring about approaching things scientifically,” Rhys said as his brow came down. “In fact, such thoroughness could be construed as incredibly careful.”

“Exactly!” she exclaimed. “It makes perfect sense to me. Because how else are you going to be sure?”

“Of course,” he replied. Apparently he had hit a strange nerve when he mentioned her lack of concern over her wardrobe.

“Still, they think that since I approach things with logic, that I do not have feelings.” Her head stayed down, but he could still hear her whisper. “All I do is feel.”

“Something has upset you,” he stated quietly. “Can I help in some way?”

“No. Maybe. Leticia said something to me,” Margaret admitted. “About the ball. That I should just have fun and not worry about anything else.”

“Ah,” he said. He was tiptoeing dangerously close to what could be termed “women's issues” and had spent enough time suffocated by ruffles in Lady Churzy's sitting room over the past week that he knew well enough to not make any more comment than that.

“But I have to worry,” she continued. “Because it's what I do. And I've never been to a ball before and of course I want to have fun, but I also would like to discover answers to certain questions that I don't know if I will be able to find anywhere else and I don't know how else to do it but approach it scientifically!”

Two things flashed through Rhys's brain. First, that before his very eyes, Margaret Babcock had transformed into a woman. Which, for all her obviously female attributes, he hadn't really classified her as such. But it seemed that beneath that practical, interested exterior lurked the vulnerable center of your average nineteen-year-old young lady.

The second thing was . . .