by Cheryl Holt
Fish pointed to Libby’s likeness, and she smirked. “Even when you were five, you were too precocious for words.”
“From the very start, I was amazing. Harry always said so.”
As the navy had advertised for family members to claim them, Harry had blustered in and insisted he was a relative. He hadn’t been though. He’d merely been an acquaintance of her mother’s, but no one had realized it, and he’d been allowed to saunter off with her.
He’d been a lazy, shrewd schemer, so it could have been a dicey situation, but with her obvious flair so prevalent, he’d provided a perfect conclusion.
He’d recognized her many talents, and he’d groomed her for a life on the stage. He’d written hundreds of vignettes and songs about the shipwreck. Most of them were invented. She had scant recollection of the dreadful event, but Harry had had a vivid imagination, and she made the stories genuine during her stellar performances.
All in all, she was naught more than a very gifted fraud. Except that she really had been on a ship that sunk. She really had been stuck on a deserted island with Caro and Joanna. It really was a miracle that they’d survived.
She had no idea how long they were stranded. Captain Ralston had tried to get her to describe the length of the period when they’d been marooned, and supposedly, she’d told him that it had been a very, very long time. She hadn’t been able to quantify it any better than that.
The drawing was a priceless memento, and she slid it from Fish’s hand, folded it, and put it back in the dresser. It was like a secret amulet she liked to hold whenever she was feeling low. It soothed her to gaze at Caro and Joanna, to recollect how fond she’d been of them.
Her separation from them was a wound that hadn’t healed. She’d been yanked away from them without their even having a chance to say goodbye.
One minute they’d been huddled in a hotel room, wondering what would transpire, and the next, she’d been given to Harry—a stranger she didn’t know—and whisked away from them. The so-called experts had counselled that a quick, clean break was for the best, so that was the ending that had been implemented.
Over the years, she’d occasionally asked Harry if he could tell her where Caro and Joanna had gone. He’d maintained that he had no idea where they were, and he couldn’t find out.
Once, when she’d been older and particularly adamant that she wanted to search for them, he’d claimed he’d contacted the navy for her, and they’d lost the records.
Libby had believed him. He’d been her world, her family, and she’d relied on him for everything, so whatever lies he’d concocted, she’d swallowed them. She’d trusted him, being terrified he might vanish when she wasn’t looking. Her fear of being abandoned by him had shaped her existence.
She’d never completely recovered from her ordeal, and she had many problems that relentlessly plagued her. She hated the dark and bodies of water, and she grew incredibly anxious in tight spaces. After the voyage to England, she’d definitely never climbed onto a ship again! She’d learned the hard way that they could sink, and she wasn’t willing to tempt Fate ever again.
“Did I tell you,” she said to Fish, “about that newspaper reporter, Howard Periwinkle?”
“Isn’t he the one who’s been harassing you?”
“He insists he knows where Caro and Joanna are living. He’s talked to them.”
“Didn’t Harry check with the navy and they had no information?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t necessarily assume it was the truth.”
“How about this Periwinkle fellow?” Fish asked. “Might he be lying?”
“He doesn’t seem to be. He’d like to arrange a reunion for the three of us so he can write an article about it.”
“How would you feel about that?”
“I would like to meet with them, but not with him watching my every move. It would have to be quiet and private.”
“You’re a wealthy young lady these days. If Mr. Periwinkle can locate them, you could probably hire an investigator to locate them too.”
Libby scowled. “Should I?”
“Why not? Your parting from them has haunted you for twenty years. Maybe they could fill in some missing pieces of your memory. Maybe you’d finally garner some resolution about what occurred.”
“Isn’t that a pretty notion?”
She stared out the window, trying to envision what a reunion would be like. She was renowned for being flamboyant and charismatic, but still, she could be nervous and shy. Any discussion about the shipwreck always left her breathless with apprehension. It was an odd twist that she publicly performed tales describing the tragedy, but she never talked about it otherwise.
The stage persona of Libby Carstairs was separate from the flesh and blood woman.
“Do you think Caro and Joanna would like me?” she asked.
Fish scoffed with derision. “Is that a real question?”
“Yes. What if we got together, and they wound up wishing we hadn’t?”
“You can be such a dunce. You’re Libby Carstairs, Mystery Girl of the Caribbean, and the whole kingdom loves you. Caro and Joanna will love you too. I guarantee it.”
“Then perhaps I will hire someone,” Libby said. “I’ll have him begin working on it right away.”
“Stop scowling so ferociously. You’re scaring away our customers.”
Caleb smirked at his partner and sort-of mother, Sybil Jones. When he and Blake had been boys and their mother still alive, Sybil had been their maid. Their mother had passed away suddenly, and soon after, they’d learned that their father had died at sea.
In the blink of an eye, they’d become orphans.
Their vicar had sent them to their relatives in England, but unfortunately, no one in Jamaica had realized that Miles Ralston had a wife and children in England. They were his family, his real family, and Blake and Caleb were simply a pair of unwanted bastards.
At the time, they’d been just five and ten years old, so Sybil had been sent too, to watch over them and deliver them safely to their destination. If she hadn’t accompanied them, Caleb couldn’t guess what might have happened. He and Blake might have wound up on the streets.
She was a decade older than he was, so she’d been twenty when their troubles had commenced. She’d taken her role as their guardian very seriously, and she’d been a fierce warrior on their behalf. Due to her incessant nagging, the navy had negotiated with Miles’s wife, Esther, for Caleb and Blake to attend boarding school. Then, once they’d turned sixteen and their educations were complete, she’d paid for navy commissions.
Blake was in the navy and pursuing the career they’d loved. Caleb was sitting in his posh gambling club and raking in money hand over fist, but when he was feeling peevish, he thought Blake had ended up with the better conclusion.
The main benefit of his current situation was that he’d never have to go begging ever again. And he’d always be able to care for Blake and Sybil. He’d never have to depend on the pricks from the Ralston family to buy them food or clothes.
“Blake tells me you fell in love at Grey’s Corner,” Sybil said.
“Blake is an idiot. You know that.”
“He claims the woman is gorgeous, and you were absolutely besotted.”
“I wasn’t,” he lied.
“You can admit it. I’d be thrilled to have you married and happy.”
“Since when do you believe matrimony makes a man happy?”
Sybil was a confirmed spinster who’d never been interested in having a husband. She was forty and aging well. At five-feet-five in her slippers, she was plump and curvaceous, her brown eyes merry, her brown hair showing just a few strands of gray.
She’d wasted her good years, arguing with various adults to behave themselves, demanding he receive financial support from his father’s estate. She was a fighter, a winner
, and she was loyal to a fault.
She’d expended her energy ensuring he and Blake were treated as was appropriate to their station as Miles Ralston’s sons. In exchange, he would spend his life protecting her.
Because she’d exhaustively bickered and pleaded for him and Blake, she’d seen the very worst side of men. Their owning a gambling club hadn’t helped matters. She deemed men to be reckless fools, and he could hardly insist they weren’t.
“I think Blake has a new paramour,” she said. “Have you heard any rumors?”
“He hasn’t mentioned it to me.”
“Apparently, it’s very hush-hush. He might even be keeping her.”
Caleb scoffed. “He is not keeping a mistress. If he considered it, he’d have to request a bigger allowance, and I wouldn’t give it to him for such a frivolous reason.”
Blake had his sailor’s salary, but Caleb furnished him with a hefty stipend every quarter too. He was frugal with it and never liked it to seem as if he was taking advantage of Caleb’s wealth. After all, Blake’s antics were the catalyst for Caleb growing so rich.
“The young lady in question is hiding from her father,” Sybil said. “Blake is assisting her, and evidently, she has some of her own money. He might not have had to seek any extra from you.”
“Is she an innocent miss who’s run away from home? If Blake has involved himself in that kind of dicey predicament, he’ll wind up dragged to the altar by her male kin.”
Sybil chuckled. “Should I start planning a wedding?”
“I’ll ask him about her. Luckily, his furlough will be over shortly, so if he’s engaged in mischief, it can’t last long.”
“A fellow doesn’t need much time to plant a babe in a girl’s belly. I’m quite sure it can occur after a single romp under the covers.”
Caleb winced. “Don’t even say it. I’m not ready to be an uncle, and he’s definitely not ready to be a father.”
It was a Saturday night, and the club was packed. He and Sybil were up on the stairs and staring down into the gaming room, watching all the negligent dunces throw their fortunes away.
He never permitted anyone to quarrel, imbibe to excess, or be too obnoxious. A man who resorted to fisticuffs was banned forever. For the moment, his establishment was novel enough that no one wanted to be exiled from it.
A kerfuffle erupted by the door, and they glanced over to find that it was Gregory Grey, presuming he could simply stroll inside. Caleb had footmen working as guards, and they dressed as befitted the ostentatious surroundings, but they were ruffians, mostly ex-soldiers. They’d been notified to block Gregory.
“There must be some mistake,” Gregory said, his words drifting up. “I’m a member. You ought to check your records rather than annoy me.”
“Sorry, sir,” his footman answered, “but you should come in during morning business hours. You can discuss the problem with Miss Jones. She’s in charge of the clientele list.”
Gregory had arrived with a group of acquaintances, and they bustled by him and hurried out to the tables. Nary a one peeked back to worry about Gregory.
He had a heated argument with the footman, and when he made no headway, he peered into the room, frantically searching for an ally. He saw Caleb up on the stairs, and he hollered, “Ralston! This dolt won’t let me in!”
It was all the complaint he could manage. The footman grabbed him by his collar and yanked him out—as if he were a mongrel dog. A few members noticed Gregory’s shout, and they frowned, curious as to what had transpired, but the din of noise concealed any signs of a scuffle. Their attention quickly reverted to their cards and dice.
After the commotion settled, Sybil said, “What a hideous little man. I’m so glad we’re shed of him. I never understood why you played with him in the first place.”
“Temporary insanity?”
She laughed. “It’s as good an excuse as any.”
“I thought he owned that bloody estate of his. He bragged about it constantly. And that trust fund! He constantly boasted about it too. I have no idea how I’ll ever recoup even a fraction of what he owes us.”
“You’re calling in your markers, aren’t you? You have to ruin him once and for all. Tell me you haven’t changed your mind about that.”
“I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Then I guess Mr. Grey’s life is about to grow quite a bit more unpleasant.”
Caleb started down the stairs, Sybil walking with him.
“I’ll be in the office,” he told her, “but I won’t be busy. Fetch me if you need me.”
“You can head home if you like. You’ve been in a bad mood since you returned from the country. Maybe if you got some sleep, you wouldn’t be so grouchy.”
“I doubt it would cure what’s ailing me. Besides, I never sleep, remember?”
“What’s ailing you? Has your heart been broken? Is that what’s wrong?”
“If it had been, I’d never confide in you. You’re too nosy, and I’d never hear the end of it.”
“Will I ever meet the gorgeous woman who tempted you?”
“No,” he said. “You’ll never meet her.”
“What’s her name?”
“If you must know, it’s Caroline Grey. She was Gregory Grey’s fiancée.”
Sybil’s jaw dropped. “You wicked boy! You interfered with their engagement?”
Caleb shrugged. “It was over before I appeared on the scene. Caroline had already had her fill of him.”
“I don’t blame her, but why leave her there? Why not bring her to London? Wouldn’t you like that?”
“I’ll never bring her here. She believes gambling is a terrible sin, and I would hate to have her see how I carry on.”
“It may be a sin, but it pays well.”
They reached the floor, and she sauntered away. It was a gentleman’s club, but she managed it for him. The men who were members had to accept her presence or they could wager somewhere else. There were plenty of spots in London where a fellow could destroy himself, and it was all the same to Caleb.
He went down the hall, the sounds of merriment fading, and he entered the office. Technically, it was Sybil’s office, so she’d decorated it more comfortably than he would have. It was cozy, with plush chairs, warm rugs, and pretty paintings on the walls. It looked like a library in a country cottage.
She had numerous vices, one of them being a penchant for hard spirits, so she kept a stocked liquor tray. He poured himself a whiskey and sat behind the desk. He sipped his drink and pondered the recent past.
His trip to Grey’s Corner seemed like an event in a dream. Had he really crossed paths with Caroline Grey? Had he really led her on to where she’d assumed they might have had a future?
It was horrid of him to have behaved that way. He never should have trifled with her, but for inexplicable reasons, he hadn’t been able to resist her. She was beautiful, smart, sweet, and interesting, and she exuded a vulnerability that made a man anxious to take care of her.
He had certainly been riveted by that notion, and he shouldn’t have abandoned her to her awful relatives. On that final day, she’d told him she’d always watch for him, that he could come back and she’d be waiting. Why didn’t he do that? Why didn’t he ride to Grey’s Corner and abscond with her?
His problem was that he was so stubborn. He’d convinced himself that they couldn’t be together, and he couldn’t persuade himself to crawl off that ledge. He had to stop pining away and questioning his every action with regard to her. Otherwise, his low mood would never wane.
He had to buck up and recollect who he was. He didn’t bond with females, and he wouldn’t ever attach himself to her. After a few more weeks had passed, he’d likely be wondering why he’d been so smitten. After a few months, he likely wouldn’t remember her at all.
Sybil knocked and poked her nos
e in. “You have a visitor.”
He grimaced. “It better not be Gregory Grey. If the guards let him in, I’ll have to murder somebody, and I’d rather not commit a homicide this evening.”
“It’s not Mr. Grey, but when you discover who it is, you might murder me. Promise you won’t.”
“That depends on who it is.”
“I think this is a good idea or I wouldn’t have pushed it on you.” She stepped into the hall and spoke to whoever had accompanied her. “It’s nice to see you again. Feel free to call on us whenever you like.”
“I will,” a man replied, and Caleb sighed, figuring he knew who it was.
She glanced in at Caleb and said, “No fighting! You’re not children, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t act as if you were.”
Then she strolled off, and his guest entered the room. They glared, not shooting visual daggers, but not exhibiting any fondness either.
“Jacob,” Caleb said to his half-brother, “this is a surprise. What brings you by?”
“I was in the neighborhood, and I simply walked through your door.”
“Aren’t I lucky?” Caleb muttered, and he gestured to the liquor tray in the corner. “Help yourself or must I summon a footman to serve you?”
“Don’t be an ass. I’m tired, and I don’t want to quarrel.”
Caleb reined in his snotty attitude, silently fuming as Jacob poured himself a whiskey. He refilled Caleb’s glass too, then set the bottle between them. Apparently, this was a conversation that would require copious amounts of alcohol.
He pulled up a chair, and they sipped their beverages, studying one another as if they were strangers or enemies, but those two words failed to describe their connection. Caleb wasn’t sure what they were, but they definitely weren’t friends.
Jacob was dressed for a night on the town, wearing a formal black suit, the velvet jacket expensive and perfectly tailored, his white cravat stitched from the finest Belgian lace, so he’d wisely left his navy uniform at home. Thank goodness.
It was bad enough for Blake to strut around in his naval garb, but to witness Jacob in it too, to be reminded that he was captain of his own bloody ship. . .
