by Cheryl Holt
With Harry, if Libby had voiced the most paltry complaint, he’d ordered her to buck up and cease her whining. He’d remind her she had a great life and she ought to be more thankful for it. His heartless disposition had pushed her to develop a very hard shell, but deep down, she was a gentle soul, and emotional issues wounded her.
Fish didn’t possess the traits necessary for this type of discussion, but if Libby didn’t talk to her, who would she talk to? It wasn’t as if she had a dozen confidantes waiting in the wings. Her immoral act was sinful—and illegal too. She could be arrested and prosecuted for her night of debauchery.
“Could you simply commiserate?” she asked. “Could you be sorry for me?”
“Why would I be sorry? You philandered with a rich, handsome scoundrel. It’s not the end of the world.”
“It feels like it might be.”
“Well, it’s not. Don’t read so much into it. Just . . . relax.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Has Lord Barrett returned to Roland with you?”
“No. I snuck out at dawn and came back by myself. I’ve been agonizing all day.”
“About what? About Lord Barrett?”
“Yes, I can’t bear to ever see him again, but I can’t bear to not see him again either. I’m a complete mess.”
Fish tsked with disgust. “I’m so surprised to find you in this agitated state. Aren’t you tougher than this?”
“Usually, but I never had anything like this happen to me before.”
“You can’t let him have such a potent effect on you.”
There was a liquor tray on the table, and Fish stood and filled a glass with brandy. She handed it to Libby.
“Drink that,” Fish said. When Libby wrinkled her nose, Fish added, “Drink it all. You can’t force yourself to calm down, so the liquor will do it for you.”
Libby downed the contents, shuddering at the strong taste, but it worked quickly. She felt warmer and more in control.
“Better?” Fish asked.
“A little.”
“Then are we finished? If so, I’m busy and need to leave.”
Libby sighed. She’d never had anyone to empathize over any situation, and Fish had definitely never been her mother. Why would she have anticipated a different result?
“What has you so preoccupied?” Libby asked. “Are you hoping to jump back into Lord Roland’s bed?”
Fish grinned. “Yes—if I can catch him in it—but I don’t believe he’s still there. I think he’s down in the front parlor, pretending he’s enjoying the party.”
“What if his sister-in-law stumbles on your mischief? Hasn’t Miss Pendleton sunk her claws into him? I doubt she’d be keen to discover you’d horned in on her territory.”
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
“It might wind up hurting you though, and I’m betting she’d be a vicious adversary.”
“I’m not worried about it.”
“Perhaps you should be.”
Fish rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Are we finished, Libby? I won’t be scolded by you. I’m happy about what’s occurred with Charlie.”
“Charlie! Is that what you call him? Oh, my lord.”
“He’s very fond of me, so if you simply intend to complain and chastise, then I can’t listen.”
Libby gazed at her old friend, and she was sad for her. Nothing good could come from her infatuation. It would lead to grief in the end, but under Lord Roland’s shower of attention, she’d forgotten what she’d learned about men. She was eager to forge ahead and damn the consequences.
“I can’t bear to quarrel,” Libby said.
“Neither can I.”
“But I have to tell you a story.”
“Fine, but would you get on with it? From the minute I walked in, you’ve been wringing your hands like a trembling virgin, but you’re not a virgin any longer, and your new condition won’t kill you. You have to regroup so you can figure out how to deal with Lord Barrett. I wish I could help you with your dilemma, but you’re not ready to hear the advice I’d supply.”
“Which is what?”
“You should grab hold of him and have as much fun as you can—for as long as you can. It’s what I’d choose.”
“I want him to fall in love with me. It’s the only way I could keep on with him.”
Fish finally displayed some sympathy. “He won’t ever love you, Libby. You have to lower your standards about it. He seems besotted though, and you have to persuade yourself that you can be satisfied with that level of attachment.”
Libby could just picture that sort of arrangement. He’d rent a house for her in London, and she’d see him a few times a month when he traveled to town on business or for social events.
She’d strut about on his arm at decadent soirees, where the rogues of High Society brought their own mistresses. All the while, back at Barrett, he’d be married to Penny and working hard to plant a babe in her womb and get his nursery started.
She absolutely could not live like that.
“I couldn’t abide a tepid relationship,” she said. “It’s not enough for me, so we need to leave Roland. We’ll go in the morning. Yes?”
“No. The party is scheduled to continue for another week, and I intend to revel until it’s over.”
“We can’t stay here.”
“Maybe you can’t, but I certainly can. Head to London if you’re so anxious. I’ll join you there later. If you decide to vanish, write me a note so I have some idea of where you are. I’ll chase after you once I’m done.”
Libby blew out a heavy breath. “There’s a secret I must tell you about Lord Roland. It’s important.”
“There’s no secret you could share that would change my mind about tarrying, and I wish you could be glad for me. My romance will be over soon.”
“We shouldn’t have come to Roland.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m tickled silly to have arrived.”
Suddenly, a knock sounded on the door. She and Fish jumped as if they’d been caught engaging in illicit behavior.
“Who is it?” Libby called.
“Libby?” Simon jangled the knob. “For pity’s sake, why is your door locked? Let me in.”
Libby went over and spun the key, and he strutted in as if he owned the place. He was naturally flamboyant, plus he had a flair for fashionable clothes—inherited from Harry—and with wardrobe guidance from Fish, he always looked amazing. But Libby thought, on this occasion, he appeared particularly dazzling, as if he was walking on air.
“Why are you two hiding up here?” he asked.
“Libby is upset,” Fish said, “and she had to discuss it with me. We’re finished though.”
He frowned at Libby. “Who upset you? It better not have been that roué, Lord Barrett. If he was awful to you, I’ll pound him into the ground. Should I?”
“I don’t need you to pound on Lord Barrett.”
Fish chuckled with amusement. “Definitely not—since she’s in love with him. If you rearranged his pretty face, she’d be devastated.”
“What are you talking about?” Simon asked. “Libby is not in love with that wastrel. She’s too smart for that.”
“She spent the night in bed with him at Barrett,” Fish announced.
“Fish!” Libby scolded as Simon said, “Really? How wildly marvelous!”
“How is it marvelous?” Libby inquired, not liking his cunning expression.
“If he’s sweet on you, he’ll delay his betrothal to Lady Penny, and I’d like it to be postponed.”
“Why?”
“Because I have a few plans of my own for dear Lady Penny.”
“What plans?” Libby demanded, her alarm rising.
“She doesn’t want to wed him. He’s old and stuffy and
too much like her father. In fact, at the moment, she and Lord Barrett are fighting.”
“Why?” Libby said again.
“Because he doesn’t dote on her. Because he doesn’t treat her as if she’s special. Because he will never love her.” He grinned a dangerous grin. “It didn’t take much convincing. They’re a horrible mismatch.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning she’s decided she might not be cut out for a cold, impersonal aristocratic marriage. It’s dawned on her that she deserves a husband who is young, dashing, and fun.” He snorted with delight. “I’m available.”
Libby’s heart literally skipped a beat. “You’re running a scheme on her?”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t refer to it as a scheme. We’ve been flirting, and she’s becoming besotted. With a tad more effort, I’ll be able to persuade her to do whatever I suggest.”
“To what end?” Libby said. “Are you thinking you could get her to marry you?”
“Maybe.”
Fish chimed in with, “Her father might have quite a vehement opinion about that.”
Simon scoffed. “It’s not as if we’d ask him.”
Libby gaped at him, wondering if he’d actually elope with the wealthy heiress. Could he really be that brazen? That reckless?
It was exactly the sort of thing Harry would have attempted, but how could Simon assume he’d succeed? How could he suppose there would be no consequences?
The nobility was a tight-knit bunch. They didn’t take kindly to interlopers absconding with their daughters. There were laws to prevent such mischief. It was called kidnapping, and a titled lord like Charles Pendleton had enormous power. He could have vicious punishments inflicted on Simon, and Libby couldn’t bear to envision what some of them might be.
“No, no, no,” she murmured, vigorously shaking her head. “You are not eloping with Penny Pendleton. I forbid it.”
Simon retorted as Fish had earlier, “It’s not any of your business, is it?”
“I’m making it my business.”
He laughed. “If Lady Penny throws her life and her dowry in my direction, why would you care? It doesn’t have an effect on you one way or the other—except that I’ll be rich and have the money to support you. You’ll never have to worry or struggle again. I’ll support Fish too. From this point on, you’ll both be safe. I’ll see to it.”
“You’re mad,” Fish said to him.
“I agree with Fish,” Libby said, “and we never should have come to Roland. We’re leaving in the morning, and I won’t argue about it.”
Fish sighed with exasperation. “I already told you I’m not going.”
Simon swiftly sided with Fish. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we’re not leaving. Not when everything is just falling into place.”
“You two listen to me,” Libby said. “I can’t have you imposing yourselves on Lord Roland or Lady Penny. I can’t, and here’s why!”
She’d thought she could blurt it out. Months had passed since she’d stumbled on the box of Harry’s old letters, and from the minute she’d read through them, she’d been biting her tongue.
Her tale was fantastical, like a plot in a novel, and she’d been so afraid that she wouldn’t be believed or, even worse, that she’d divulge the information and it wouldn’t change anything.
“Why are you in such a dither?” Fish nagged. “I’m not interested in departing Roland, so if you have some reason that will convince me, please get on with it.”
“This is hard,” Libby said. “I have no idea where to begin.”
Fish’s patience was exhausted. “Just tell us, Libby!”
“Yes, Libby,” Simon concurred. “Spit it out so we can figure out where we are.”
He poured himself a glass of liquor, then sat next to Fish. They glared at Libby, almost daring her to voice a remark they were determined not to like.
“After Uncle Harry died,” she tentatively started, “I found some letters.”
“And . . . ?” Fish pressed.
“They were from Harry’s brother, Kit Carstairs. I know who I am now. Harry lied to me about my identity. All these years, he lied.”
“That’s not a surprise,” Simon said. “He was always a liar.”
“So who are you?” Fish asked. “Weren’t your parents missionaries who were off to preach to the natives in the New World?”
“They weren’t missionaries,” Libby told them.
She felt as if she was running toward a high cliff and about to jump over. Where would she be when she landed at the bottom? She couldn’t imagine, but once she spoke the words aloud, there could be no retracting them.
“I am Little Henrietta, Lord Roland’s lost daughter.”
Fish and Simon froze and gaped at her, then Simon’s jaw dropped. “No bloody way! You’re joking!”
Fish simply studied Libby intently, as if checking for Pendleton features. Then cautiously, as if testing how the comment would sound, she said, “Harry had letters that claim you’re Little Henrietta?”
“They don’t claim it, Fish,” Libby said. “They prove it.”
“This is so brilliant!” Simon practically crowed. “I can’t believe you thought of it!”
“It’s the truth,” Libby insisted.
“We can make a fortune off this story!” he said.
“We will not make money off it,” Libby sternly replied. “I merely need the two of you to tell me how to proceed.”
“I know how we’ll proceed,” Simon said. “Is this a ploy to snag Lord Barrett?”
Libby scowled. “What?”
“He would never wed you because of your low status, but if you’re an earl’s daughter, you’re perfect for him.” Simon clucked his tongue like an annoying hen. “It’s so cunning! If you’re Roland’s long-lost daughter, think of how we can use it to ingratiate ourselves to him!”
“Simon!” Fish chided. “Calm down. We’re not scheming on Lord Roland.”
Simon, the craftier of the three of them, hurried over to the door and spun the key, locking them in again. Then he sat back down.
“I’m stunned that Libby concocted this before I did!” He turned to Libby. “Why didn’t you confer with me about the details? I could have rounded the edges so there aren’t any flaws.”
“Simon, hush!” Fish sharply snapped, and she shifted her attention to Libby. “Explain this to me,” Fish said. “I’m trying to understand.”
“My mother was Amanda Pendleton, Lord Roland’s runaway wife. The man with her when she perished at sea was Harry’s brother, Kit Carstairs.”
“When your ship sank in that storm,” Fish asked, “weren’t you bound for Jamaica? That’s what I always heard, but Amanda went to Europe. It’s an established fact, and Lord Pendleton had investigators search there.”
“She fled to Europe with her lover—when she first left the marriage—but he died in an accident in Rome. She was destitute, desperate, and alone, and she bumped into Kit Carstairs who was a university student on holiday. She begged him to save her, and it seems as if he was a young, gullible idiot. Harry warned him to stay away from her, but Kit was besotted, and he ignored his brother’s advice. They sailed for Jamaica, and they concealed their plans so Lord Roland could never find her.”
“Why would Harry hide that news?” Fish asked.
“Why did Harry do any insane thing?” Simon rhetorically responded.
Fish kept on. “If this is true, when you were returned to England, why didn’t Harry admit who you were? Why didn’t he give you back to your father?”
“My mother had regaled Kit Carstairs with dreadful stories about Lord Roland and how terrified she was of him. Mr. Carstairs presumed he was rescuing a damsel in distress from a violent ogre.”
Fish huffed with offense. “Charles Pendleton wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Fish scoffed with disgust. “So Harry—the confirmed bachelor and confidence artist—decided to secretly raise you, rather than hand you over to your rich, important family?” Fish’s incredulity was depressing. “I’m sorry, Libby, but you’re aware of what Harry was like. He didn’t have a benevolent bone in his body, and he wouldn’t have cared if your father was a fiend. He wouldn’t have aided you out of the goodness of his heart. If anything, he’d have sold you to your father.”
“When he took custody of me,” Libby said, “it wasn’t exactly altruistic, was it? I spent my life earning the income that supported us. I did all the work, and he collected all the benefits.”
Fish frowned. “Are you claiming that he figured out—from the very start—that he could fabricate your identity, then use you for his own financial purposes? Even for Harry, that’s too calculating. He couldn’t have invented a plot that devious. He wasn’t smart enough.”
On hearing the derogatory comment, Libby felt as if all her energy had drained out. She sank onto her chair and gripped the arms so she didn’t simply slide to the floor.
“You don’t believe me.”
“It’s just so far-fetched,” Fish said.
“You think I’d lie about it?” Libby asked.
Fish shook her head. “No, I don’t think you’d lie. Do you have the letters with you? Could I look at them?”
“They’re in London.”
“I want to read them. I want to see them for myself.”
“I’m happy to show them to you—the instant we’re in town again.”
After Simon’s initial outburst, he’d been silent. He’d been listening to Libby and Fish argue, turning to and fro as if watching a ball being swatted back and forth.
He jumped into the conversation. “Wait a minute. If Kit Carstairs wasn’t your father and if Lord Pendleton is, then you aren’t my cousin. Don’t tell me that. You’ve always been my cousin, and I refuse to let you state that you’re not.”
