The Lie and the Lady by Kate Noble Page A

Margaret asked, her eyes going wide.
    â€œI did?” Turner muttered.
    â€œIndeed,” his mother said, her smile firmly in place. “My daisies, in my window boxes . . . they simply aren’t blooming anymore. I have no idea why all the blossoms fell off, and you are the only person John thought to ask.”
    â€œI’ve seen them.” Margaret nodded fervently. “I believe they are too crowded. If you split the contents of the boxes into two, you would get blossoms again, I’m sure of it.”
    â€œOf course!” Helen crowed, as if Margaret had just given her the secret for spinning gold. “I don’t know if you’re aware, my lady, but Miss Babcock has quite the green thumb. She inherited it from her mother.”
    â€œI am aware,” Leticia replied, trying to keep her voice even. “What I’ve seen of the grounds are . . . full of life.”
    â€œOh, the grounds are especially lovely,” Helen was saying. “Also done under Margaret’s care. Although I have not yet seen them this summer.”
    â€œYes, they are . . . at a distance,” Leticia agreed hesitantly. “I have no talent for growing things, but a fond appreciation for their beauty.”
    â€œIt occurs to me, Miss Babcock,” Helen said suddenly, “that now that it’s summer, you must have some very interesting species flowering. How are your violets? In bloom?”
    Turner cleared his throat. “Mother, we should—”
    â€œThey are,” Margaret replied, matter of fact, then her gaze averted again, either distracted or embarrassed.
    â€œMy son,” Helen continued, her fingers biting into her son’s coat, “was expressing an appreciation for your violets just the other day, Miss Babcock.”
    â€œHe was?” asked Margaret.
    â€œHe was?” echoed Leticia, forcing his eyes to fly to her face.
    â€œYes,” Helen replied, her smile telling him to not argue. “He was. He simply loves violets.”
    If Turner had ever expressed an opinion on violets in his life, Leticia would eat her hat.
    â€œHe can come see them,” Margaret said suddenly. “If . . . if you would like, that is.” Then, her eyes turned to Sir Barty. “Father?”
    â€œYes of course! You all should come and . . . see the grounds. Margaret always has them, er, blooming. And you and I still have a game of cribbage not yet won.” Then he glanced to Leticia. “M’dear?”
    She blinked twice before smiling. “Of course. It would be wonderful to have you.”
    â€œExcellent—we shall run home and follow you in our cart, then.”
    â€œOh! Today. Of . . . of course.”
    â€œWonderful!” Helen exclaimed. “Isn’t that wonderful, John?”
    For the first time all morning, their eyes met.
    Anger. Heat. Hate. Reserve. Longing. Everything swirled there, in those hard brown depths. She wondered what he saw. What of his she reflected back. What she could possibly say to get him to heed her warning. Please don’t, her eyes pleaded. Don’t intrude on my life.
    â€œIndeed,” he’d finally said. The first words he’d said to her. “It shall be wonderful.”
    So now Leticia was going to have her ex-lover and his mother over for tea with her new fiancé and his daughter.
    Wonderful.
    It was times like this that Leticia wished she had a confessor. A friend that she could confide in, who knew all her secrets. A lady’s maid would be ideal. But Leticia refused to press Sir Barty for a lady’s maid until the wedding was closer and she could argue the need for one.
    Perhaps she should argue for one now. She dearly needed a confidant.
    As soon as the carriage pulled up to the front of Bluestone Manor, Leticia called out for Mrs. Dillon.
    â€œWe are having guests for tea, Mrs. Dillon, and . . . where do you think