by Cheryl Holt
“I see what you mean.”
“I’m vexed, Libby, and I don’t have anyone to confer with about it. I can hardly mention it to Lord Barrett.”
“No, that wouldn’t do at all.”
“My aunt would just say Father is always right and I should listen to him.”
“What is it you’re actually asking me?” Libby inquired.
“What sort of husband would you imagine he’d be?”
“I couldn’t make a prediction. No bride can ever be certain. Women roll the dice when they shackle themselves. It’s the reason I’ve never considered it.”
Penny stopped and pulled Libby around to face her. She looked serious and concerned. “If you could marry him, would you?”
Libby laughed breezily. “Me? Marry Lord Barrett? Well, yes, if he proposed, I’d probably jump at the chance. Who wouldn’t want to wed a rich earl?”
“Forget about his wealth and title. Why would he be a good husband? Men like him have affairs and mistresses. They sire bastard children and have second families. What if I proceeded only to discover that he loved another woman?”
Libby was frightfully glad she’d spent so many years on the stage. She was adept at hiding her emotions. “I really can’t answer you, and I hate that you’re worrying. Are there any other acquaintances here who know him better than I do? Perhaps there are others who could supply the information you seek.”
“Yes, there are others, but I couldn’t ask them. Just tell me your opinion about him in general. You’re constantly surrounded by handsome men, so you’re an excellent judge of character. Would you wed him if you could?”
Penny was studying Libby intensely, and her severe expression was unnerving. What, precisely, was Penny trying to learn?
“How about this?” Libby said. “I would never wed him. I’m not a romantic, so I can’t envision an ending with someone like him. I’d have to believe in fairytales and persuade myself that I could become Cinderella.”
“Have you heard any rumors about him? Might he have a . . . a . . . mistress to whom he’s inordinately attached?”
Libby blanched with dismay. “I’m sorry, but you and I shouldn’t gossip about such a scandalous topic.”
Penny took a deep breath, then she eased away from Libby. They started strolling back toward the party. Whatever the purpose of Penny’s odd interrogation, it appeared to have concluded, and Libby couldn’t figure out if she’d responded correctly or not.
As they approached the tents, Penny said, “May we walk again in the future?”
“Of course.”
“And if I think of other issues, about being an adult and about matrimony, may I raise them?” Libby must have looked as if she’d refuse, for Penny hurriedly added, “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but I’m anxious to receive guidance only you can furnish.”
“I’m delighted you assume I can guide you, but I don’t feel I’ve offered a single remark that was helpful.”
“You’re been incredibly helpful,” Penny said.
Several of her friends rushed up to greet her, and Libby shifted away, eager to let her be swept off. She had no idea why Penny would quiz her about Luke. Had they been seen together? Were stories swirling? If so, how could she tamp them down?
She went to a nearby table and had a footman pour her a glass of punch. She stepped to the side and was drinking it when she sensed she was being watched. The person’s focus was so penetrating it was like a dagger in the back.
She glanced around and there, skulking behind the bushes, was Luke. He was trying to be inconspicuous, but there was no way to conceal his heightened regard.
After her peculiar discussion with Lady Penny, she couldn’t have him hovering and staring. What if he came over to her? What if he insisted they chat?
At the moment, she simply couldn’t oblige him. She sidled away and headed for the house, keen to reach her bedchamber where she could claim she needed to change her clothes. She might be able to waste hours and not be found.
She kept on at a brisk pace, and she didn’t peek over her shoulder to check if Luke had followed her. In broad daylight, he wouldn’t dare.
Would he?
Charles was loafing by the window in his bedroom suite, peering down at the garden where the afternoon festivities were just beginning. Lawn games had commenced, but he hadn’t yet mustered the energy to put in an appearance.
He’d spent the night with Fish, a development that was shocking and thrilling. It had been an eternity since he’d enjoyed such a wicked assignation. Not since he’d shackled himself to Florence. He’d sworn to her—and to himself—that he’d give up his vices and doxies. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have married him.
He’d lived modestly and discreetly in the country, being determined to never cross paths with a female he might find tantalizing. But now, Fish was in residence, and her presence had stirred every depraved impulse he’d ever possessed.
He’d sneaked away from her at dawn, but he’d only departed after wringing a promise from her that they’d have a private breakfast later. It had been a reckless request, but he’d tendered it anyway. He hadn’t expected her to show up, but she’d tiptoed in right on time. She was over at the table in the corner, finishing her tea.
With his not wishing to fuel speculation in the kitchen as to who was joining him for the meal, he hadn’t ordered breakfast for two. He’d had a tray delivered with one plate, napkin, and fork, so they’d had to share everything. The entire interval had been amazingly romantic in a way he’d relished much more than he should have.
Though it was ridiculous to admit, he felt as if he’d been reborn, as if he’d been unconscious and had been violently shaken to life. Colors were brighter, sounds louder, the sky so blue, the sun so vibrant. For once, he was disgustingly happy.
Two women were strolling in the park, away from the other guests, and as he assessed them, he realized it was Penny and Miss Carstairs.
He glanced over at Fish and said, “Have you noticed how Penny and Miss Carstairs look alike?”
“No.”
“Come here. They’re out in the garden.”
Fish walked over, and he draped an arm over her shoulders and snuggled her to his side. He was intrigued by how easily they’d fallen into their prior pattern of fond acquaintance. It seemed as if they hadn’t been parted a single day.
She studied them, then said, “They do look alike, don’t they?”
“In a few years—when Penny is a bit older—she’ll be Miss Carstairs’s exact double.”
“Yes, but Libby is much more flamboyant than your daughter. There are similarities in their features, but they’re not really that similar.”
The girls were having an intimate discussion, the resemblance becoming more pronounced. They were standing with the same posture, their heads cocked at the same angle, and a shiver slid down his spine. Suddenly, there was the eeriest perception in the air that powerful forces were at work and that he ought to pay attention to them.
“What can you tell me about Miss Carstairs’s past?” he asked. “I don’t remember how those three lost girls resolved their fates. Was there ever any news about her family?”
“She was claimed by an uncle. Her parents were missionaries, sailing for the Caribbean, but their ship sunk in a storm. He raised her.”
“Is that the fellow to whom you were attached? Harry, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Harry. He’s mostly responsible for how she turned out. He honed her talents so he could make money off them.” Fish snorted with disgust. “He was never one to let a financial opportunity go to waste.”
“She probably would have burst out into some sort of fame no matter what. Somehow, I can’t imagine her being ordinary. I can’t see her tucked away in a cottage and rearing a dozen brats.”
Fish chuckled. “No, neither can I.”
<
br /> “You’re sure her parents were missionaries?”
“It’s the story Harry always told, but with him, you could never be certain if he was being truthful.”
“She’s simply so stunning. I can’t picture her springing from humble beginnings.”
“I agree. It’s utterly possible that she has lofty kin. If I ultimately discover that she’s actually a king’s natural child, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“You don’t suppose . . .”
A demented notion riveted him, and his voice trailed off.
His crazed first wife, Amanda, had fled England with her lover, and she’d taken his daughter, Little Henrietta, with her. He’d been a detached, disinterested father, and when Amanda had vanished, he’d been separated from them for months. He’d cut ties so he’d had no idea where they were living or how Amanda was supporting herself. Weeks had passed before he’d learned they were gone.
He’d been too angry at Amanda to keep track of her, but he should have. Henrietta hadn’t been safe with her, yet he’d left her with her mother anyway.
He’d barely known Henrietta and hadn’t exhibited any paternal tendencies toward her, but he’d fretted over her plight. Where was she? How was she faring? Was she still alive?
No, she wasn’t, and in fact, she’d been declared deceased by the courts.
Now, on observing Miss Carstairs with Penny, he wondered about her. Was there a bizarre chance in the universe that Miss Carstairs might be Henrietta?
He shoved away the fantastical prospect. As if Henrietta would waltz into his life after twenty-three years! As if Libby Carstairs was his long-lost daughter! The whole scenario was preposterous.
“Suppose . . . what?” Fish inquired when he didn’t finish his sentence.
“Nothing. I was woolgathering. Don’t mind me.”
He continued to watch Miss Carstairs though, his disquiet increasing as they returned to the party, and Penny was whisked off by her friends. Miss Carstairs tarried and drank some punch. After a bit, she frowned and peeked over her shoulder.
Luke was lurking a few feet away and avidly staring at her. They shared a heated visual exchange that was so torrid and filled with lust and yearning that he noticed it even though he was quite a distance away.
Miss Carstairs scowled at Luke, flashed a warning, then rushed off.
“Did you see that?” he asked Fish, but she’d briskly slithered away and was seated at the table and pretending not to have witnessed the odd encounter.
“No, what?” Her tone was much too casual.
“Lord Barrett and Miss Carstairs appear to be very cordial.”
“Do they?”
Her nonchalance was alarming, and he said, “Spill your secrets, Fish. Are they . . . involved?”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t really want the answer to.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. How close are they?”
Fish shrugged. “Close enough, I guess.”
“What does that mean? I’m hoping he’ll propose to Penny. If it comes to fruition, will there be a third person in the middle of their matrimonial relationship?”
Fish was silent forever, pondering the situation. She’d always been very loyal, and she would never disparage Miss Carstairs.
“I don’t have a comment on that topic,” she said.
“Your reply terrifies me.”
“If you’re curious about Lord Barrett and his habits, you should speak to him directly.”
“I intend to.”
“But again, Charles, are you sure you should pry? It might be better to leave well-enough alone.”
Fleetingly, he tried to envision having a conversation with Luke on the issue of monogamy and adultery. He simply couldn’t fathom it, and he realized she was correct. He couldn’t bear to hear the answers Luke might supply. He’d offered Penny to Luke because Luke had claimed to possess Charles’s same aversion to scandal and vice. Had the younger man been lying?
Luke was rich, titled, thirty, and he’d been a navy sailor. It was entirely expected that he would have affairs, but if he would, was it wise to push Penny into his arms?
Apparently, the subject had been too much for Fish. She tossed down her napkin, sauntered over, and kissed him on the mouth.
“Libby will change her clothes for the picnic,” she said. “I have to help her.”
“I refuse to let you go.”
“It’s not up to you, and we’re lucky no servants have knocked. I can’t imagine being discovered in here with you. It might rock the house to its foundations.”
“I don’t care if we’re discovered.”
“Of course you don’t. You’re a man, and it’s your home. You can act how you please. I, however, am a woman who’s little more than a servant. I can’t be caught with you.”
“Let’s spend the day in my bed.”
“You are deranged, my dear Lord Roland, and I have chores.”
“Ignore them. Miss Carstairs can dress herself for once.”
“I don’t want her to have to tend herself. She might figure out that she doesn’t need me.”
“You’re aware of how vain I am. I view myself as being much more important than her.”
Fish scoffed at that. “You know where my room is located. I’m certain you can find it again—whenever you’re in the mood.”
She went over and peeked into the hall. Seeing no one, she winked at him, waved goodbye, then hurried out. He dawdled in the empty room, irked that the fun and excitement had ended with her departure. It had been so long since he’d succumbed to carnal temptation, and he’d forgotten how overwhelming it could be.
With her having left, he was too depressed to tarry. He grabbed his coat and headed downstairs, and he wandered through the mansion. It was quiet, the servants busy with the outside activities. Finally, he slinked to a side door, thinking he might sneak to the stables, saddle a horse, and take a ride, but as he was about to exit the manor, Miss Carstairs was approaching.
He was delighted to bump into her. Since she’d arrived, they hadn’t had an opportunity to chat in a meaningful way, and he was dreadfully curious about her. He didn’t believe the story her uncle had spread about her parents being lowly missionaries, and he agreed with Fish that he wouldn’t be surprised if she had drops of noble blood running in her veins.
He wondered too whether a Pendleton relative might have sired her.
Before he could hail her, a man stepped from behind a carriage that was parked in the grass. He was a fussy-looking fellow, short and rotund, wearing a brown suit, bowler hat, and spectacles.
“Miss Carstairs!” he gushed. “Fancy meeting you here!”
She halted. “I apologize, sir, but I don’t recognize you. Are we acquainted?”
“I’ve watched you on the stage in London. I’m your biggest admirer.”
“How nice.”
She flashed a tight smile and attempted to walk on, but the oaf wouldn’t allow her to pass by.
“Actually, Miss Carstairs, my name is Howard Periwinkle. I write for the London Times.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “How did you track me to the country?”
“It wasn’t hard. I stopped by the theater in town, but your booking there was over. I asked one of the actors where you were.”
“You’ve been trying to talk to me, haven’t you? My cousin has chased you off on several occasions.”
“Yes, but it’s about the anniversary! Surely you’d like to reminisce! You can provide a few remarks for me to quote.”
“My cousin has been very firm with you, Mr. Periwinkle. I don’t wish to discuss my past with you.”
“It’s been twenty years, Miss Carstairs! The whole kingdom would love to hear how you’re faring.”
She chuckled. “I doubt that very much, and you’ll have to excuse me. I
’m needed at an event, and I must get ready.”
Periwinkle was undeterred. “Have any new memories come to light? Have you uncovered information about your parents? About your real parents?”
“My parents were missionaries, Mr. Periwinkle. You’re aware of that.”
“What if your Uncle Harry lied about them? He was a cad and a bounder. That’s what I’ve been told. What if he tricked everyone—especially you?”
“My uncle was kind and generous”—Charles had learned from Fish that that wasn’t true—”and I won’t listen to you denigrating him.”
She pushed by him and, when she saw Charles in the doorway, she sagged with relief.
As he stared into her eyes, he suffered the strangest wave of vertigo. He grew incredibly dizzy, as if the ground had shifted under his feet, but as swiftly as the unsteadiness bubbled up, it vanished when Periwinkle called to her again.
“Should I tell you about your two companions from the shipwreck? Caroline and Joanna, right?”
Miss Carstairs blanched and whipped around. “No, I’m not interested.”
Periwinkle was a nuisance who wouldn’t shut up. “My newspaper would like to arrange a reunion for the three of you.”
“I wouldn’t consider it,” she responded. “Not it you paid me a thousand pounds. Now please leave me be—or I’ll have my cousin speak to you. He’ll be quite a bit less polite next time.”
Periwinkle would have continued his harangue, but Charles blustered outside, saying, “Miss Carstairs! There you are! I’ve been searching for you everywhere.”
“I’m so glad you found me,” she said.
“Is this dolt bothering you?”
He cast a scathing glower at Periwinkle, but the cretin had no shame and didn’t slither away.
Miss Carstairs cast a glower that was very similar to Charles’s own. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he is bothering me.”
“I am Lord Roland, Mr. Periwinkle,” Charles said to him. “You’re trespassing, and you’ve been harassing my guest. Depart at once or I’ll have my footmen escort you off the property.”
“Hello, Lord Roland,” the cheeky dunce replied. “How about you and your anniversary? Hasn’t it been twenty-five years since your . . . troubles occurred? Would you like to reminisce for me?”
