by Cheryl Holt
He refused to envision any other conclusion.
“It ain’t right, Miss Carstairs! It just ain’t right!”
The complaint was voiced over and over as Libby and Fish crossed the courtyard at the prison. A guard had come to fetch them to the warden’s office, so something positive was about to happen. As she walked by the other inmates, they parted like the Red Sea to let her through.
Prisoners of all ages were crammed together, and they were reaching out to her—as if she could perform miracles. She nodded and waved, sauntering slowly, like a benevolent queen bestowing favors.
“Henrietta! Little Henrietta! Bless me, would ya?”
“Henrietta! Touch my boy! Touch my son!”
Men doffed their caps and bowed. Women curtsied and sighed. They were gazing as if she were a saint, as if she’d been raised from the dead, and in a way, she supposed she had been.
She and Fish had only been in the facility for a few days, and it hadn’t exactly been a horrid experience. Nor had she been mistreated. An important person wasn’t meant to suffer. She and Fish had each brought a trunk of clothes, plus plenty of money to pay bribes and purchase amenities.
In fact, as her identity had spread, they’d been moved to an even nicer apartment than the one that had originally been supplied. Jailers had constantly stopped by to ask if she was comfortable and if they could be of service.
She had no idea how the news about her being Henrietta had spread in the general population. She hadn’t spoken a word about it, but with the story disseminated, it was as if a dam had broken. People were absolutely agog.
“Do you hear that?” Fish leaned in and murmured.
“No, what?” Libby asked.
Then the noise hit her. A crowd had gathered outside the walls, and a chant of, Let her out! Let her out!, filled the air.
“You like being the center of attention,” Fish said, “so this is the perfect conclusion.”
“Would you rather no one knew who I was? We’d have been common prisoners with common privileges.”
“Gad, no.” Fish scoffed. “I’m content to grab onto your coattails and stay tightly attached.”
“Our bail must have been posted,” Libby said. “Who do you figure managed it?”
“I’m betting on Simon. I can’t imagine who else would have bothered. It wouldn’t have been that philandering dog, Lord Barrett, or that treacherous fiend, Lord Roland.”
“Neither of them would dare show their sorry faces in our presence.”
“I like to think they wouldn’t,” Fish said, “but they’re both so arrogant. They probably assume we’d be glad to see them.”
“I wish our jailers would have allowed me to keep my pistol,” Libby told her. “If it’s one of them, I’d be delighted to use it to indicate how glad I am.”
They were being guided to the main office located near the front entrance. The inmates they’d passed surged forward, anxious for a final glimpse of her.
“We’re on your side, Miss Carstairs!” they cried repeatedly.
“Lord Roland is a monster!” others added. “Don’t forgive him for this! We certainly won’t!”
She hadn’t mentioned Lord Roland having her arrested, but there must have been gossip about it. She was terribly hurt by his tactic, and she received enormous consolation from learning that others were outraged on her behalf. His ploy to lock her away hadn’t worked. Evidently, the rumor about her being Henrietta had circulated far and wide, so his attempt to silence her had been pointless.
She wondered if he regretted his decision. Or—now that his first scheme had imploded—would he implement a different penalty? How desperate was he to prove that she wasn’t Henrietta? What other methods might he employ to thwart her? Would she always have to look over her shoulder?
She hoped he’d simply leave her alone. His message had been loud and clear. He didn’t believe she was Henrietta, and he had no desire to welcome her into the family. Since he was obviously opposed to any reconciliation, she wouldn’t push herself at him. She was a very proud woman, and she wouldn’t put herself in a position where he could spurn her ever again.
From the moment she’d opened the box of Harry’s letters, she’d comprehended how hard it would be to have Lord Roland accept her. It was why she’d shut her mouth for so many months, but she wasn’t a glutton for punishment, so she intended to continue shutting it.
They were led into the warden’s office. It was a small, unadorned room, with a desk, three chairs, and some filing cabinets along the wall. He was seated at the desk, and he stood and smiled a fake smile. He came over to her, his hands extended in greeting as if they were old friends.
“Ah, Miss Carstairs!” he said. “There you are! May I call you Libby? Or should I call you Henrietta? Which would you prefer?”
“You may call me Miss Carstairs,” she imperiously replied.
Apparently, he’d presumed she’d be grateful to have been summoned, so he was taken aback by her haughty tone. His smile slipped, but he pasted it on again. “I’ve seen you on the stage several times, and we’ve been so honored to have you lodged in our establishment.”
Libby was afraid she might slap him, but Fish saved her by asking, “Why were we brought to you? Has our bail been posted? Is that it?”
“Yes.” His cheeks flushed as if he was embarrassed. “We apologize for the delay, but there was an issue over the amount and who would pay it. The problem has been rectified though.”
“How?” Fish caustically inquired. “Did someone browbeat Lord Roland until he stopped acting like an ass?”
The warden scowled. “Let’s not disparage our betters, shall we?”
“Are we free to leave?” Libby asked, too impatient to endure their bickering.
“Yes, you’re free,” he said. “We’re just waiting for your escort. There’s such a crowd on the street that it was difficult to maneuver your carriage up to the gate.”
Suddenly, they heard many men approaching, as if it would require a phalanx of guards to whisk her out to her vehicle. Then Simon burst into the room, which she was thrilled to observe, but when she realized who had accompanied him, she grimaced with distaste.
“Lord Barrett?” she said to Luke. “Why are you here?”
“Are you all right?” He looked frantic and concerned. “I’ve been worried sick.”
His expression was warm and fond, as if they hadn’t quarreled, as if he hadn’t mocked and grievously wounded her. Had he forgotten their prior conversation? Could he assume she had forgotten it?
He reached out as if he’d hug her, and she scooted behind Fish so Fish could be a barrier. He frowned, appearing confused and upset, but Libby couldn’t care less about his precious feelings.
“Are we going?” she asked Simon.
“Yes, but there’s a mob out there. It’s insane!”
“I don’t understand this ruckus,” she said. “Why is everyone outside? Why are they clamoring for my release?”
“It was in the newspapers about your being Little Henrietta!” Simon said. “That reporter, Howard Periwinkle, who was pestering you learned of it somehow. The whole country is buzzing!”
Fish muttered, “The entire kingdom has gone mad.”
“We’ll get you out,” Simon said, “if we can guide you through the protesters.”
“I’m not scared of my admirers,” Libby said. “They’ll permit us to pass unmolested.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Simon gestured toward the door, and the guards leapt to attention and started down the hall. She swept out after them.
For an instant, Lord Barrett moved forward as if he expected her to take his arm and allow him to walk her out, but she had no intention of letting him.
During her incarceration, she’d had many hours to engage in some soul searching. Gradually, it ha
d dawned on her that she had to separate herself from him. She’d recognized that situation before she’d traveled to Roland, and she grasped it even better now.
With her father disavowing her, she’d been painfully reminded that she didn’t belong in the sphere occupied by the likes of Charles Pendleton and Lucas Watson. She might have initially been born into it, but as a child, she’d plunged from her lofty spot, and there was no way to reclaim it.
She was too tarnished, too notorious, to demand a position in their snobbish, aristocratic world. And why would she yearn to have a position there?
Her life was grand. The streets were packed with people shouting her name and wanting only what was best for her. That was enough.
For a few brief months, she’d wondered if she required more than that to be happy, but she didn’t. As Fish had wisely counseled, it was pointless to love a man who couldn’t love her back. When she was around him, she acted like a ninny who couldn’t control her emotions. But she was Libby Carstairs, was Little Henrietta Pendleton, and she’d always controlled them.
Lord Barrett had made her forget how strong she was, but her short stint in the prison had her vividly recollecting an important truth about herself: She was fine just as she was, and she didn’t need a waffling, disinterested beau in order to feel complete.
She scowled at Lord Barrett as if he was a stranger who’d wandered in by accident, then she took Simon’s arm instead. Fish took his other arm, and the three of them—her real family—strolled out together. She supposed Lord Barrett trailed after them, but she didn’t glance back to find out.
They were marched to the gate. More guards were there, and they yanked it open so her retinue could clear a route to her carriage. It was parked very close, but they would have to push through the horde to reach it.
The nearest spectators saw her, and a cheer went up. Libby! Libby! Libby! There were also assorted cries of, Henrietta! Still more of, Let her out! Let her out! and Shame on Lord Roland!
She was curious how Charles Pendleton—a man who detested scandal and strife—would fare with his reputation in tatters. He wouldn’t like to be so thoroughly disparaged, and she smiled with a grim satisfaction, thinking it served him right for being so horrid, not just to her, but to Fish who had fallen in love with him again and who was suffering from the betrayals he’d inflicted.
Then they were at the carriage. The door was jerked open, and she, Simon, and Fish were lifted in, then it was slammed shut again. Their driver cracked the whip, the horses snorted and complained, then the vehicle lurched away, sending her audience dashing away to avoid being run over. In a quick minute, they were rolling down quieter streets to her rented house.
Lord Barrett hadn’t been lifted in with them. He hadn’t been permitted to sequester himself with her, so she was snuggled between the only two people who mattered to her at all.
If she’d been a sillier female, she might have mourned that fact, but she was glad they’d left without him. She was glad! And she wouldn’t pretend otherwise.
Caroline Grey stood in the milling throng outside the prison. She was a petite woman, so it was difficult to discern what was happening around her.
Once she’d read in the newspaper that Libby had been wrongfully arrested, she’d visited the facility on several occasions. It had been a fool’s errand, but she’d asked to be admitted so she could talk to Libby, but the jailers had jeered and told her that dozens of purported acquaintances had been claiming a connection to Libby and demanding to speak with her, so Caroline’s attempts had been soundly rebuffed.
Rumors were rampant that Libby was finally going to be released, and Caroline was making her way toward the front. Up ahead, a carriage was parked, and the gate came into view. Suddenly, it swung open, and the spectators surged forward. She was whisked off her feet and carried with them.
There was no opportunity to worry that she might be crushed in the melee; it occurred too fast to fret. A line of guards rushed into the bystanders, and they began shoving and hitting with fists and clubs, clearing a path for someone approaching behind them.
Then . . . ? There she was! Dear Libby! Her oldest friend. Libby, the fearless companion who had haunted her dreams for two decades. Libby, the lone female in all the world who would comprehend the challenging life Caroline had led after their terrible ordeal in the Caribbean.
Caroline recalled Libby being very pretty, but she was even more beautiful now. Her adult years had added drama and elegance to her gorgeous face so she could have been a princess or maybe an angel who would have been painted on a church ceiling.
She was being hustled along, intent on reaching the safety of the carriage, so she wasn’t focused on any of the unruly bystanders. She didn’t so much as peek at Caroline, and why would she have? Caroline was filthy, her palms scraped raw, her skirt torn and in need of washing. With her hand extended in Libby’s direction, she was aware that she appeared to be a beggar, pleading for alms.
“Libby!” she shouted, but it was impossible to be heard over the noise. “Libby! It’s me! It’s Caroline Grey! Do you remember me? You can’t have forgotten!”
But Libby was hustled into the vehicle, and she vanished so swiftly she might never have been there.
Upon her departure, the clamor and bellowing ceased. The protesters circled about, still filled with the energy that had been generated on Libby’s behalf. Their shared outrage had proved effective. Hadn’t it? She’d been set free, but they weren’t sure of how to act now that she’d left. They chatted in groups, their expressions beatific, as if they’d witnessed a miracle.
“I didn’t see her!” a woman complained. “I’m not tall enough! Did you see her?”
Another said, “Yes! She stared right at me! Imagine that!”
Yet another said, “The Mystery Girl of the Caribbean—she was right in front of me!”
Caroline snorted with disgust and yearned to reply, I’m a Lost Girl too. I was with her when we were found on that stupid island, but when Libby was such a glorious celebrity, who would listen? Who would believe her? Who would care?
She wondered where Libby lived and whether she could find out. If she knocked on Libby’s door, would Libby even recognize her? When Libby’s life had proceeded down such a grand and important road, why would she recollect a few frightening months she’d passed with Caroline when they were five?
No doubt Caroline and Joanna—and their sojourn on the island—were but a distant memory. How could Caroline have hoped for any other ending?
Her shoulders slumped with defeat, and she staggered away.
Luke dawdled like a dunce in the middle of the boisterous horde, watching as Libby’s carriage vanished around a corner. Her exit had been hectic and brutal, with guards shoving and whacking spectators with clubs. He’d gotten separated from her and hadn’t been able to catch up.
It was obvious she didn’t notice and wasn’t concerned. She hadn’t bothered to glance back to be certain he’d followed her, and at the realization, he couldn’t decide if he was hurt, surprised, or insulted. He figured it was a mixture of all three.
He and Simon had galloped to town together, and with very little effort, they’d arranged for Libby’s release. There had been no arguing or attempts to block him. As news of her arrest had spread, as the mob outside had swelled to an uncontrollable size, prison authorities couldn’t manage it. They’d been glad to be shed of her.
He was so vain. He’d convinced himself that she’d be thrilled to see him. He’d assumed they’d snuggle in her carriage as they hurried to her rented house. He would have profusely apologized, received her forgiveness, then he’d have had her pack a bag so they could travel on to Barrett and spend several splendid days locked in his bedchamber.
Evidently, the prospect had never occurred to her.
How had he so thoroughly misjudged her mood and feelings? He’d thought it would be
easy to begin again. He’d thought she’d understand how sorry he was, but she’d been rude and dismissive.
How was he to respond? Was he supposed to chase after her? He was an arrogant prig, so she had to grasp that he wouldn’t chase after her. He wouldn’t plead with any woman.
So . . . to hell with her!
For once, he’d attached himself to a female, and look where he’d wound up! He’d let himself grow besotted, but why had he? Was he mad? Very likely yes.
She was an actress! She played on people’s sympathies so they’d give her money for a ridiculous incident that had happened when she was a tiny child. It was bizarre to carry on in that manner. She also seemed to believe she was Charles’s lost daughter, but if she was, her blue blood had been so diluted by circumstances that it had to have been totally washed away.
Yet if her claim to be Henrietta was a deception, then she was a terrible liar, so why was he mooning over her? Didn’t he have better sense? His horse was down the street, a boy holding the reins until he returned. He could dash to it, mount, and trot after her, but why would he?
If he showed up at her door, he was positive she’d be just as dismissive as she’d been in the jail. Why would he put himself through such a humiliating ordeal?
His temper flared. He never permitted anyone to treat him as she’d treated him. He didn’t have to. It was clear she was over him, that their affair hadn’t meant to her what it had meant to him, so why prostrate himself?
She could wallow in her pathetic life, with her dubious acquaintances. He had chores to attend at Barrett. He had an heiress to marry and a dowry to stick in his bank account so he could make the necessary repairs at the estate.
What he didn’t need was a snooty, beautiful shrew driving him crazy.
He spun to stomp off when a woman stepped in his way. She was pretty, but apparently, had fallen on hard times. Her dress was torn and her palms scraped as if she’d tripped or had been pushed to the cobbles by the rowdy crowd. Her face was smudged, and she could have used a bath.
