The Lie and the Lady (43 page)

IT WAS A
short walk from the mill to the main square where St. Stephen's sat proud, but with Leticia dogging his heels asking questions every step of the way, it took longer than expected.

“John, we can't go to the church!”

His long, determined strides forced her to trot beside him.

“It was supposed to be my wedding day!”

He grunted but made no other comment.

“Everyone will be there!”

“That's the point,” he replied. Was this what he had to look forward to? The constant arguing? He grinned with relish.

He couldn't wait.

At the churchyard, despite Leticia's running litany, they were relatively early—even with the days beginning later, the sky had only dawned within the past hour. So one might think that most people would still be at their homes, forcing themselves into their Sunday best and gobbling down a hearty breakfast.

Then again, this was no ordinary Sunday.

And Helmsley knew it.

The entire town was waiting in the churchyard. Or so it seemed. When Turner passed through the gates, it was to thunderous applause.

He was momentarily bewildered—especially considering he was wearing little more than breeches with two buttons missing and a fine lawn shirt. Then he realized, Leticia was behind him.

The vicar and his wife leapt down from the steps of St. Stephens, coming forward to greet her.

“Lady Churzy!” Mrs. Spilsby cried. “I should have known you would be so eager that you would precede the groom! Although, I have to admit to some surprise—I should have thought you'd take the carriage.”

“Now, now,” the vicar chided from beside her, his cheeks rosy with pleasure. “There is a great tradition of the bride and groom walking to the church. And since Sir Barty is . . . not a great walker, his bride is obviously upholding the tradition on her own. Ah, Mr. Turner!” The vicar finally noticed Turner standing there. “Welcome. Run into Lady Churzy on the path into town, did you?”

It took a second before Turner could answer, and it was just enough time for someone else to swoop in.

“Yes, Vicar, we did,” his mother said, panting behind him. “John, dear, I know you warm easily, but you simply cannot go into church without your coat.”

She had his coat slung over her arm and practically dragged him two steps away to force it on him.

“I saw you out the window this morning. Making an elderly woman run to catch up to you is not the nicest way to wake up,” she whispered fervently. “You're still wearing the same clothes as yesterday.”

“Not now,” he grumbled as she threw a cravat at him. Instead of tying it around his neck, he simply stuffed it into his pocket. Appearances be damned.

His mother looked horrified. “What on earth do you think you and Leticia are doing?”

“Discovering the truth,” he said grimly.

His mother's brow came down. “The truth about what?”

He had already stepped away, back to where Leticia stood with the Spilsbys. But in his brief absence, a veritable gaggle of townsfolk had rushed to fill the void, and he had to wedge his way past half of Helmsley, several of them exclaiming things like, “Mrs. Robertson's dress is beautiful!” “I love how you left it long and trailing, a new style!” (This because in the brisk walk over—or the brisk activities from last night—she had lost a number of pins from the hem.) And . . . “I love your hair—so simple, so elegant!”

Meanwhile, Leticia was paying little attention to the fawning. Instead, she was focused on the vicar and his wife.

“So . . . Sir Barty is not here yet?” she asked weakly.

“Not quite, my lady,” the vicar replied, full of oblivious cheer.

“So . . . you have not been told,” her voice was little more than a whisper. But absolutely everyone caught it.

Silence descended.

“Told what?” Miss Goodhue asked, squeezing up next to her sister.

Leticia's voice faltered. “That . . . that Sir Barty . . .”

“Ah, there you are, m'dear! Thank heavens!” Sir Barty's voice boomed from across the churchyard. “Thank heavens, we thought we'd lost you.”

“Indeed,” Margaret replied next to him, and Dr. Gray stood beside her. He moved away quickly to stand at Turner's side.

“When the countess left Bluestone Manor yesterday, I did not expect to see her again so soon.” He eyed his friend. “Dare I ask what actually happened?”

“You and my mother are far too nosy for my liking,” Turner replied. “However, I'm more interested in what is going to happen right now.”

“As to that . . .” Dr. Gray took a deep breath. “I think you should brace yourself.”

“Margaret was adamant that you would be here today, and I am glad to see that it is true.”

“She . . . she was?” Leticia asked, bewildered. Her eyes flew to Margaret.

“I told him you have nothing to be ashamed of, and you don't,” the girl piped up, a wide grin showing her pride in her assertions.

If there had been a single ear that was not attended to the dramatics being played out by Sir Barty and his intended, it was most certainly attuned now.

Everyone crowded around, standing in a circle, angling for a better view.

Sir Barty looked at Leticia with more vulnerability than Turner had ever seen on a man of such size before. It was as if the older gentleman had opened his chest and was ready to expose his beating heart to the air.

“I am so terribly, terribly sorry for the things I said yesterday. I hope you can forgive me. I should have believed you. And . . . I would like everything to go back to the way it was. I hope I can take your presence here at the church and in your beautiful wedding dress as the sign I dearly wish it to be. I don't care about whatever past you have with Mr. Turner. I don't care about your past, full stop. I simply hope that you will consider sharing your future with an old man who would dearly like some company.”

He held out his hand to her. The crowd started murmuring.

Actually, the crowd had started murmuring when Sir Barty had said, “Mr. Turner.”

Leticia stared at Sir Barty's outstretched hand. Her mouth tried to make a few sounds, but nothing came out. Then she shifted her gaze to Turner, helpless.

Tell him
, he willed her.
Tell him that you love me and cannot marry him.
But she just looked back and forth between the two of them for interminable sentences more.
Damn it, after last night, tell him!

Turner watched as she found her resolve. As she took those two deep breaths, and straightened her spine, and opened her mouth to speak.

She wasn't going to say it. Oh bloody fuck, she wasn't going to tell him the truth. Shock ran through Turner's body like a wave of pain, cementing his feet like a statue.

“I . . . I . . .”

“A past with Mr. Turner?” came a dark voice from the churchyard gate. “Oh dear, what ever could Sir Barty be speaking of?”

Every head turned to see Palmer Blackwell striding up into the churchyard—Mrs. Emory toting poor Mrs. Robertson conveniently behind him.

Turner's brow came down as he remembered the reason he had marched to the church that morning.

Now the real tornado would begin.

LETICIA FELT HER
tongue go dry, her entire body numb with shock. Sir Barty had just . . . had just given her everything she'd ever wanted—the security of his name and the blind faith of someone who trusted her word. She could still be Lady Babcock, the sharp edges of scandal muted by the padding of a title and a wealthy estate.

All she had to do was deny Turner and the night they had shared.

“What kind of past do you mean?” Palmer Blackwell said as he oozed through the crowd, which seemed to part for him. Mrs. Emory was behind him, looking at once apart and still apace with him. Mrs. Robertson lit up upon seeing her gown.

“Oh, your ladyship!” she said, then glanced down. “The hem!”

Mrs. Robertson's protests would have to be ignored for the moment, because John Turner, who until that point had been staring at Leticia most intently, gave his full attention to the new arrivals.

“Mr. Blackwell—and Mrs. Emory. Just who I wished to see.”

Mrs. Emory looked quite flummoxed. “You wished to see me? Why? Er, I mean . . . how very obliging, I'm sure.”

“How is your son, Harold?” Turner asked. “Have you heard from him recently?”

Before Mrs. Emory could do more than stutter, Sir Barty interjected himself in the scene.

“Blackwell,” Sir Barty said, moving his entire body between Leticia and the new arrival. It was the most gallant act of chivalry she'd ever seen from him . . . well, she guessed he was still her fiancé if no one else was made aware of their falling-out—and it made her well up a little bit.

But only a little bit. Because while Sir Barty had wished for everything to go back to the way it was, it seemed that included Palmer Blackwell.

“It's good that you're here,” Sir Barty continued. “It seems that you and my intended have gotten off on the wrong foot. Some nonsense about rumors and muck. But since you've come to the wedding, I can assume that you're wanting to make amends.”

Sir Barty grinned affably, puffing out his chest. Certain that all would be well.

“I suppose that depends on the lady,” Blackwell answered. “Do you wish me to make amends, Lady Churzy?”

Leticia stood, rooted to the spot. Her eyes turned to Blackwell. She saw the hate there, the power.

“If you should be making amends to anyone, Blackwell, it should be to me,” Turner said, in a voice loud and clear enough for everyone to hear. “After all, you've been the cause of all my misery.”

But Blackwell just smiled, seemingly at a loss. “Mr. Turner, now is not the time for your perpetual sour grapes. I'm a businessman. I refuse to be held responsible for profiting from your misfortunes.”

“Even when you are responsible for said misfortunes?” Turner said.

Her heart leapt with fear, and with excitement. John Turner, it seemed, was done wasting time.

Everyone gasped. Only Sir Barty's good nature made him late to the conclusion everyone else had already arrived at. “What does he mean? Helen, what is he saying?”

“I mean that Palmer Blackwell burned down the Turner Grain Mill six years ago. And again, three years after that. And I have the proof.”

He held up the ledger page in his hand, still folded, still innocuous. But Blackwell looked at it as if it were a blazing torch.

“There's no proof,” he said. “Give me that!”

“Oh, I am sorry, I did not make myself clear. This isn't for you,” Turner smiled, then let his gaze fall on Mrs. Emory. “It's for you.”

“For me?” Mrs. Emory said, her voice thready, her eyes nervously flicking to the paper. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

Leticia, much like Mrs. Emory, was uncertain of what Turner was saying. Mrs. Emory does not have a seven-year-old child, her mind practically screamed. What are you doing?

But she would have to trust Turner. And right now, he was holding court like a master of the stage.

“Well of course you don't. I haven't told you what it is yet,” he said, his lips pressing together in a tight smile. “This is a page from Mr. Blackwell's business ledgers. It's a page from the month of August, approximately seven years ago. Of course, you know why that month is important, don't you Mrs. Emory?”

“N-no,” Mrs. Emory stuttered. “I haven't a clue.”

“It's the month your son, Harold, was hired to work at the Turner Grain Mill by my father.”

Mrs. Emory turned as pale as flour. But she said nothing, forcing Turner to continue.

“Harold was never a very good worker. But the war was still on, so workers—good or no—were needed come the harvest. He was paid a good wage by my father. So it leaves one wondering why Mr. Blackwell should be paying your son too.”

“He . . . he wasn't!” Mrs. Emory replied, huffing. “I think I should know if my Harold was being paid twice!”

“Actually, you're right, Mrs. Emory.” Turner smiled. “He wasn't paying Harold. He was giving the money to you. And according to his ledger, he's continued to do so ever since.”

Suddenly, all the pieces fell into place in Leticia's mind. Mrs. Emory hadn't been being paid because she bore Mr. Blackwell's child, but instead because Mr. Blackwell had uses for her child.

They had been right all along. The means was just a bit more convoluted than initially thought.

“As I was saying, Harold was not a particularly good employee. He was always late, always causing errors—”

“Once he even dropped a pail of water into an entire vat of newly ground flour,” Helen added, her eyes alight with understanding. “We had to refund the entire price of the wheat.”

“Yes. I'm somewhat surprised my father did not sack him on the spot. What's interesting is there was one day that Harold Emory did not show up at all. Slept in, we were told. That, my parents remembered very clearly. Would you venture to guess what day that was?” he asked Mrs. Emory, who had gone from pale to a sort of purplish-blue, like she was holding her breath to keep from screaming.