by Cheryl Holt
“You’ve been stuck on a navy ship for years,” she said, “so you’ve been surrounded by men. You’re finding your land legs and having to mingle with females again. You’ll get your conversations up to speed in no time at all.”
“I’m completely bowled over by you, but I can’t figure out why. I’m behaving like an idiot.”
“I think you’re very sweet.”
“Sweet! Gad. I really must be out of practice with my seduction skills.”
She reached out and laid a palm on his cheek. It was a brazen, shameless gesture, but she was anxious to touch him just once. By declining his invitation, she was suffering from the oddest perception that she was making a huge mistake.
If Harry could speak from the grave, he’d tell her to leap in with both feet. He’d tell her Luke was precisely the kind of man to bring her whatever she required, but she and Harry had never shared the same view about romance. She simply wasn’t the person Harry had always hoped, just as she couldn’t be the person Luke would ultimately demand she be.
“Are your eyes blue?” she asked.
“Yes. Are yours?”
“Yes.” She pulled away and stood. “Are you ready to head back to the party? Will you walk with me?”
“Would you be terribly upset if I admit I can’t return just yet? I’d like to tarry a while longer. I feel better when I can look out at the water.”
“You sailor, you.” She smiled, an enormous wave of affection rocking her. “Nothing much ever upsets me, and I’m not a trembling girl in need of an escort. I’m totally capable of walking to the house on my own.”
“Do you imagine we’ll ever see each other again?”
“It’s entirely possible—if you keep attending these over-crowded, tedious parties.”
She nearly invited him to her performance at the theater the following night, but she managed to bite her tongue. If she encouraged him in the least, he’d badger her about an illicit liaison. It was madness to contemplate it for a single second.
He was still seated on the bench, not rising as was appropriate after she’d stood. He clasped her hand and linked their fingers as if they were adolescent sweethearts.
“I’ll miss you after you leave,” he absurdly said.
“I will convince myself that’s true.”
“I don’t suppose you’d tell me where you live.”
“It’s not a good idea.”
“Why must we have good ideas? I find them dreadfully boring myself.”
“I don’t.”
“Then how about if you give me some hint of how to contact you?”
“It’s not a good idea either.”
“I’ve stated my opinion about good ideas. Let’s do something wild.”
“My whole life has been wild, so I make it a specific point to never have any out-of-the-ordinary events happen. I seek tedium at all costs.”
His torrid gaze swept down her torso. “I don’t believe you.”
She drew away, realizing if she didn’t extricate herself, she’d never escape. He certainly wasn’t about to end the encounter.
“I’ll be in London for the next week,” he said.
“You mention it like a threat.”
“I’ll be watching for you everywhere. You could have mercy on me and simply tell me where you’ll be tomorrow evening. That way, I wouldn’t have to wade through every soiree in the city in order to stumble on you.”
“I don’t go out much in the evenings.” If she was out after dark, it was because she was working. “Tonight was an exception.”
He studied her, then scoffed. “You’re lying about so many topics. Why?”
“Why would you think I’m lying?”
“You have the most expressive face I’ve ever seen. I can read every emotion that’s written there.”
“Your comment alarms me. I constantly cultivate an air of mystery, and I deem myself to be completely enigmatic.”
“You have no secrets from me.”
“Then I will have to create some.”
She winked and sauntered away, figuring he’d jump up and escort her after all, but he wasn’t the type to chase after any woman. The more likely scenario was that women chased him and probably always had.
He was handsome, landed, and maybe even titled, so he’d expect to be fawned over as his absolute due. She’d never been a sycophant though, so clearly, she was wrong for him in every way.
She’d enjoyed meeting him though, and she’d spend weeks, replaying every word they’d spoken so she could consider what might have been. She lived every moment, wondering what might have been.
What if her mother hadn’t been deranged? What if she hadn’t sailed for the Caribbean with Libby? What if she hadn’t drowned in that violent storm? What if Libby hadn’t been rescued on that deserted island? What if Harry hadn’t claimed her when she’d been brought back to London? What if he hadn’t taught her to sing, dance, and spew sad stories?
What sort of woman might she have become instead?
Luke was one more intriguing character, added to a long list of them, who’d drifted by. She was adept at reflecting on the roads that could have been taken, but it never changed anything.
“I’ve agreed to one more week.”
“Why just one? Isn’t he happy with me?”
Libby scowled at her cousin, Simon Carstairs, who used the stage name of Simon Falcon.
He was Harry’s bastard son and looked exactly like him: blond hair, blue eyes, handsome, slender, and fit. He was flamboyant like Harry, smart like Harry, cunning like Harry. He’d just turned twenty, but he could read people and situations better than anyone.
He had Harry’s knack for feigned empathy and insincere flattery, but for chicanery and vice too. He could talk to a person for a minute, and he’d have deduced all sorts of secrets he oughtn’t to have discovered. Because he had no scruples and possessed convoluted morals, others befriended him at their peril.
“He’s very happy,” Simon said, “and with you on the poster out front, the house is filling up every night, but he’s not willing to shell out what it’s worth to have you here.”
They were discussing the theater manager. He was a wily cretin she couldn’t abide.
“It won’t kill me to accept a bit less,” she said.
“It might kill me,” Simon retorted. “I won’t let him take advantage of you. He’s a brute who doesn’t deserve to have you gracing his establishment.”
“It’s kind of you to put your foot down, but we have to pay our bills.”
“We’re paying them.”
They were in a changing room at the rear of the theater. She was seated at the dressing table, and he leaned over and dropped a bag of coins onto it. He’d negotiated a deal whereby she could keep half the coins tossed to her by the crowd during her act, and she had no idea how he’d arranged it.
The actors didn’t usually get to keep any of the money thrown at them, but then, they didn’t ever generate the level of applause or weeping Libby induced.
“It was a grand night,” Simon said, and he kissed her on the cheek. “You were particularly sorrowful.”
She snorted with amusement. “I try my best.”
“Even the men were bawling into their sleeves.”
“What if they tire of me someday? They’ve been listening to my pathetic narrative for twenty years. What if some other unlucky female suffers a tragedy, then bursts forward and steals my thunder?”
“I would never allow that to happen.”
She hoped he wouldn’t.
She supported him and Fish. It was her talent and drive that kept them clothed, housed, and fed. If she somehow lost her ability to tantalize, she couldn’t imagine what would become of them. Simon would probably join a circus and perform dazzling magic tricks. Fish was a skilled seamstress
and costumer, and she could work at a theater until her fingers and eyes gave out.
But what would Libby do?
“Besides,” he added, “who could be as mesmerizing as you? No one can spin a yarn like you.”
Harry had crafted hundreds of vignettes where she wove story and song to entice spectators with her baffling history. All these years later, the tale still riveted.
Little Lost Libby . . . Mystery Girl of the Caribbean!
Who was she? Who had her parents been? How and why had her ship sunk? How had she reached the deserted island where she’d been found? How long had she been stranded? How had she and her two companions survived?
She had few answers to any of those questions. Her memories were sparse and sprinkled with tidbits Harry had wedged into her mind, so she wasn’t clear on what was true and what was fiction. When she was younger, she’d had vivid recollections of her mother, but those had faded with time until she recalled nothing that she would consider valid.
Harry had been adamant that her parents were Kit and Maude Carstairs. Kit Carstairs was his brother, and they’d been missionaries, sailing to Jamaica to settle and preach. Libby had swallowed that lie for two decades. It was only recently, after Harry had died, that she’d stumbled on a box of old letters that he’d hidden from her. With his being dead, she couldn’t ask him why he’d deceived her.
She, Caroline, and Joanna had created an enormous stir when they’d first arrived back in England. They’d scarcely known their names and could furnish no details about their families. An article, along with a drawing of the three of them, had been printed in the newspapers, and Libby still had a tattered copy of it. Occasionally—when she was feeling lonely or nostalgic—she’d pull it out and study it.
On the island, they’d been living like feral wolf pups, and the authorities had been determined to reunite them with responsible kin. Numerous people had stepped forward, and they’d been swiftly separated and whisked off to different destinations without being given a chance to say goodbye to each other.
She remained haunted by that separation. Who had claimed Caroline and Joanna? Where had they gone? Harry had always insisted he had no information and couldn’t find out, but as with so much of what Harry had shared, she was certain it was false.
She had thrived in the world Harry had handed to her. What about them?
It was the twentieth anniversary of their being rescued, and she caught herself thinking about them constantly. Could she locate them? Might someone at the navy be able to help her? Should she purchase an advertisement in the newspaper? Might it be that easy?
Unfortunately, any publicity would fuel the flames of speculation. A reporter was already sniffing around, anxious to interview her for a retrospective, but she’d been avoiding him. What purpose would be served by dragging it all up again?
She thought there might be dangerous secrets lurking beneath the surface. Whenever she was distressed, they tried to break out, but she kept them tamped down. With her having read Harry’s letters and discovering her real father’s identity—it definitely hadn’t been Kit Carstairs—she couldn’t bear to look too closely at the past.
She needed more time to decide how to proceed. She needed more time to figure out the best path.
Fish was with them, in the adjoining closet where she was fussing with Libby’s costume for the following evening. She peeked out and asked, “If Libby only performs for another week, what will we do after she’s finished?”
“We’ve been invited to a house party,” Simon told her.
“In the country?” Fish asked.
“No, in the middle of the ocean,” Simon facetiously replied. “Of course it’s in the country.”
Fish glanced at Libby. “What is your opinion? Would you enjoy it? Or would you rather stay in town?”
Libby shrugged. She loved loafing in fancy houses, being waited on hand and foot and treated like a princess. She was so comfortable in posh surroundings that she’d always assumed, and Harry had always teased, that she must have had many gallons of blue blood running in her veins.
She asked Simon, “Where’s the party?”
“It’s at Lord Roland’s estate. Roland Manor?”
Libby could barely keep from sucking in a sharp breath, but she managed to refrain. She’d been desperately plotting to devise a reason to visit Roland. Was this Fate providing a sign? Or was Fate tricking her? If she forged ahead, would it all collapse in a huge morass?
“He’s showing off his daughter,” Simon said. “The mansion will be open, the liquor will flow, and the guests will be elegant and wealthy. In other words, Libby, it will be right up your alley.”
Fish scoffed and said to Simon, “How on earth have you wrangled an invitation from Charles Pendleton?”
“Who is Charles Pendleton?”
“Lord Roland,” Fish said, and when Libby and Simon glared at her, demanding she clarify her familiarity, she explained, “He and I are old friends, and he’d never welcome a measly crew like us, so please tell me how you finagled this.”
“I met a Pendleton cousin.”
“Gambling?”
“Yes, and he absolutely adores Libby,” Simon said. “He thinks I’m a grand fellow too.”
“Then he’s obviously an idiot.”
Fish rolled her eyes and whipped into the closet.
Simon was a magician who was adept at slight-of-hand. If he was gambling, he was cheating. Libby and Fish were terrified—if his nefarious tendencies were ever unmasked—he’d get himself killed.
“Shall I accept or not?” Simon asked Libby.
Libby called to Fish, “What’s your preference, Fish? Shall we spend a week at an ostentatious mansion and let ourselves be spoiled rotten? Or would you like to dawdle in town and trudge along in the rut where we’re currently stuck?”
Fish called back, “I guess we can go. It’ll be a nice change.”
“We heartily agree,” Libby said to Simon.
He grinned and strutted out. He was as proficient at manipulating them as Harry had been, and they always wound up following his suggestions. The fact that he usually had ulterior motives never seemed to prevent them from latching onto any proposal.
Once the door shut behind him, Fish emerged. She was forty, a short, plump, pretty woman with auburn hair and emerald eyes who’d never wed. Instead, she’d wasted her life trailing after charismatic, debauched men like Harry. She liked the freedom of the theater and traveling troupes, and she had a stellar reputation as a seamstress and costumer.
She’d been Harry’s mistress off and on for years and was a kind of substitute mother to Libby. Or maybe an older sister with loose morals and a pragmatic view of the world. She never lectured or scolded, and she felt that females labored under too many unfair restrictions.
She constantly advised Libby to shuck off her prim inclinations and enjoy herself a bit more, but Libby had had all the excitement she could abide by staggering after Harry for two decades.
“Will we really go to Roland?” Fish asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I declare that it will be very fun, and who can predict what might happen? Perhaps we’ll both meet handsome scoundrels and make fools of ourselves over them.”
“You are the consummate optimist, Fish.”
“Someone should be. If you grew anymore dour, your face would crack from all your frowning.”
“I miss Harry,” Libby said. “I didn’t think I would, but I do. Don’t you miss him too?”
“I miss him, but I’m not surprised by how he left us. He was destined for a bad end. If he could have picked his own conclusion, he’d have relished the chance to be shot climbing out a paramour’s window. It was precisely the type of mischief I’d have expected to lay him low.”
“You were sort of his wife. Didn’t his philandering upset you?”
“I’d rather wash and relax in private. Fetch me when the curtain falls. We’ll walk home together.”
“Simon might have arranged a party for you to attend.”
“He’ll have to go without me. I’m fatigued tonight.”
“I’ll see you in a bit then,” Fish said.
“If my gushing admirers inquire about me, tell them I’ve already departed.”
“I shall be a veritable castle wall that succeeds in keeping them away.”
Fish marched out, and Libby chuckled, listening as her strides faded, then it was very quiet. She could hear the hum of actors’ voices in the front of the building, but she was very much alone, which she never liked.
From the day Harry had claimed her, her life had been filled with people and activity. She carried on in a very public way, on stages scattered throughout the kingdom. She hadn’t had much practice at being by herself.
She stared into the mirror, wondering what path she’d wind up traveling next. She always felt as if she was on a raft and rushing down a raging river, powerless to control the route or the speed. With Harry deceased, the sense of floating free had increased in intensity.
“I’m going to Roland!” she murmured to her reflection. “Fancy that!”
During her performances, she wore her hair in a simple style, tied back with a ribbon. She yanked it away so the curly locks swirled around her shoulders, then she headed into the closet to get dressed. Fish had removed her costume, so she was attired in just chemise and drawers, a silky robe over top.
As she reached for her gown, the door in the outer room opened and shut.
“Fish,” she said, “is that you? Will you help me with my corset?”
There was no answer, and she peeked out, curious as to who had arrived, and she hoped it wasn’t a man from the audience. Usually, they were courteous enough to wait until the show was over, and by then—if she wasn’t in the mood for socializing—she’d have sneaked off.